The Genghis Tomb Page 12

  “Are you suggesting we use it to fly to Lhasa?”

  “Oh, not at all, Professor. However, if you’re willing—and I sincerely hope all of you—what I’m proposing is that the four of you skirt western Chinese airspace completely and fly directly to India. It can be done quickly and secretly, without any need to file a flight plan with Chinese authorities.”

  “India?”

  “More specifically, to Dharamsala, a Himalayan town in northern India near to the Tibet and Nepal borders.”

  An appreciative smile crossed David’s face.

  “Which, unless I’m mistaken,” he said, “also happens to be the residence of the 14th Dalai Lama and his government-in-exile.”

  “Exactly, Professor. But what you may not know is that during his fifty odd years there, he and his followers have set up a mini-Tibet, complete with monasteries, teaching and study centers—even their own elected government and constitution.”

  “Would anyone there know anything pertinent to our investigation?”

  “Well, that’s for the four of you to find out, isn’t it? On our side is the fact that since the beginning of his exile he’s been followed by literally thousands of Tibetan scholars, monks, monastery abbots—many of them smuggling out sacred manuscripts and ancient records going back centuries.”

  The president paused before continuing.

  “Quite frankly, it’s bothered me that up until this point I’ve provided little toward our investigation of the horn map. Perhaps now I can finally contribute something of value. Considering what’s at stake, I sincerely hope so. My question to you is, are you all willing to make this final effort? If so, I’ll begin scheduling the necessary flight arrangements—plus contact our Indian embassy in Delhi to help pave the way for you on your arrival. With any luck, we can have you sitting across from His Holiness sometime within the next few days.”

  Thirty-seven hours later at 2:15am the sleek Challenger 300 lifted off from the military runway outside Ulan Bator, climbing swiftly into the western night sky until finally leveling out at its assigned cruising altitude of 30,000 feet. The early timing of its departure was necessary, intended to allow the four passengers aboard optimum daylight hours when arriving in India.

  By 4:40am the corporate jet flew over Tajikistan’s capital city of Bishkek and made a gradual swing to the southeast, skirting Tibetan airspace as it headed down toward its eventual destination. With a cruising range of 3100 standard miles, scheduled refueling wouldn’t be required for their return flight to Ulan Bator until after reaching Delhi.

  Both Vlad and Zayaa remained asleep during this mid-flight correction. The latter due to an understandable exhaustion, for it had largely fallen to her to formulate and prepare all the diplomatic paperwork needed to meet with the Dalai Lama—plus co-ordinate their collecting the Mongolian Ambassador in Delhi whose job it would be to make the actual presentation on their behalf.

  Elizabeth occasionally dozed in her seat beside David, but was otherwise too animated to fully succumb. Like him, she eventually found herself reading through the packet of information Zayaa had brought aboard to familiarize them with the Dalai Lama’s dramatic and harrowing escape from Tibet in March of 1959. When finished, she set it aside and enfolded David’s hand in her own.

  “Quite an amazing feat,” she said in appreciation. “It’s difficult to even imagine the hardships he and his followers must’ve endured during those weeks of trekking and hiding in the Himalayas—all of them short of food, proper drinking water, fighting freezing cold, exhaustion, dysentery. Sounds little short of miraculous that they eventually made it to the Indian border.”

  David had reached much the same conclusion.

  No longer racing the morning sun westward, the jet’s left side windows now provided him his first view of the trailing edge of the Himalayas far below. Only in the past few minutes had the ragged, snow-covered peaks begun to glow a faint pink with the approaching dawn. The panoramic scale of it struck him as both beautiful and distinctly ominous. Elizabeth’s choice of the word miraculous was definitely no exaggeration.

  While silently contemplating what lay ahead of them, he realized she’d continued to speak and he not been listening.

  “Sorry, hon,” he apologized. “What did you say?”

  She gave him a patient smile.

  “Nothing profound. I was only wondering aloud what the odds are anything positive will come out of this. Let’s face it, President Dashiin is going to incredible expense chasing something he himself admits is, at best, a problematical long-shot.”

  He agreed. “It only further emphasizes how important he believes this is for the future of Mongolia. But I’m afraid what we’re going to need is one more miracle.”

  Late March in the year 1959, seven miles southeast of Lagoe Pass.

  Despite the bitter cold and continuous agony in his abdomen, Lobsang smiled as he awoke to the distinctive high-pitched scream of a Mig21 flying low over the tiny scattering of huts made of stone and thatch. He actually took its sudden appearance as a propitious sign. By its very presence, it indicated that the Dalai Lama’s group still hadn’t been located—for why else, he reasoned, would the Chinese Air Force continue with their relentless hunt?

  This rationale pleased the old man, for above all, it was paramount to him that their spiritual leader’s group make it through. If the handful of others did not—Lobsang’s small band included—then so be it.

  He waited; counting off the brief seconds before he knew a second jet—and possibly even a third—would closely follow. It was a tactic the Chinese had routinely followed over the previous days and weeks. Whenever encountering similar abandoned mountain shelters of any kind, a lone pilot was always sent in first at extreme high speed. Meant to frighten and flush out anyone attempting to hide inside, the plane would then immediately peal off, leaving the way clear for strafing runs on those foolish enough to panic and fall for the ploy.

  To Lobsang’s relief, two more Mig21s now swept over without firing a shot. This could only mean that the other men in his small group were following his strict admonition to remain hunkered down inside. Too, he knew the jets were unlikely to return. It was coming up on sunset, the continuous snowfall doubtless making it difficult for them to identify potential targets.

  He now turned to a slight movement beside him, looking into the troubled face of the young monk sprawled close beside him for shared warmth on the cold ground. Not yet twenty, Tenzin’s reddened eyes were those of someone much older, a man close to the breaking point of physical exhaustion.

  “Is—is it time for us to again move on, Master?” asked the youth through parched lips. “If so, I’ll begin preparing the—”

  Lobsang shook his head.

  “Not yet. It’s only the steady snowfall that darkens the sky. True nightfall is still another full hour away. Best use the time given us to sleep.”

  Tenzin required no further encouragement.

  But Lobsang made no effort to follow his own advice. Instead, he found himself thinking back to the beginning of their flight, and of the ceaseless provocation from the Chinese that made it all so necessary.

  As the seated Abbot of Drepung Monastery, Lobsang was privy to far more information than others within Tibet’s struggling hierarchy. Also, he early on anticipated and began to plan for what his own reaction must be if and when the young Dalai Lama chose to eventually flee.

  In the grim years following China’s invasion in 1950, he witnessed firsthand the growing aggression and religious suppression taking place inside Tibet, sorrowing to see the slow destruction of many monasteries—plus, of course, the brutal killing or imprisonment of any monk who chose the path of resistance. There were growing episodes of open revolt throughout the country, which were always followed by violent reprisals.

  A time of national crises was fast approaching.

  By mid-March of 1959, it came to a head when the 23-year-old Dalai Lama was forced to leave Lhasa and move his residence int
o the summer palace at Norbulingka. There he and a vast gathering of loyal Tibetans soon found themselves facing 30,000 Chinese soldiers prepared to move against him. The only foreseeable result was certain to be a bloodbath of epic proportions. To avoid this calamity from befalling his people—and fearing to be kidnapped, imprisoned, or even killed—he concluded there was no viable option left but to flee into exile.

  As did scores of other prominent scholars and monks, Lobsang committed himself to doing the same.

  Of the several groups making this attempt, all took separate routes to better confuse and hinder their Chinese pursuers. And thus it was that Lobsang led a dozen monks and a like number of sturdy pack horses across the Kyichi River, then down the fast flowing Brahmaputra until eventually working their way up into the Himalayas on what they hoped were seldom used foot-trails.

  Traveling only under the cover of night, their twelve-day trek over high mountain passes and across rock-strewn valleys had gradually proven little short of a physical nightmare. Not only did their supplies run low, but also encounters with the Chinese Air Force came with ever increasing regularity. Up to this point they’d been fortunate to suffer no losses. However, yesterday their luck had changed dramatically with the advent of an unexpected snowstorm that developed only hours after traversing Lagoe Pass.

  Delayed by the lack of visibility, the group was late in locating adequate shelter when a single Mig21 made a full strafing run down the entire length of a snow-filled valley. Though it was unlikely the pilot had any visual reason to do this other than an instinctive need to use the weapons at his command, the damage he blindly inflicted was substantial. One of their local guides and an elderly monk were instantly killed, neither one given the time or opportunity to even crouch behind the many boulders for protection.

  And there was more.

  In addition to this tragedy, Lobsang then received the wound to his abdomen that he now stoically accepted would ultimately prove lethal, though he didn’t immediately recognize it as such when it occurred. Curiously, at the moment of impact it felt no more damaging than a shallow cut. And as the bleeding was negligible, he kept the wound to himself, making no mention of it to anyone, not even to young Tenzin who had lately become his acknowledged second-in-command. Whether it was the result of a ricocheting bullet—or sharp fragment of shattered stone—it mattered little, for the internal harm inflicted by the projectile was substantial.

  He knew his fate was sealed.

  As difficult as this was, however, what troubled him even more was the need to now inform the young monk beside him that their journey must continue without him. In the past few hours alone, the pain had become excruciating, to the point where his legs were no longer within his ability to control. Nor did he envision any possibility of his surviving more than a few days. Perhaps even less.

  Before wakening Tenzin, the old man carefully considered what he would say, his intention being to counter any argument the young monk might present against leaving his master behind. Only when he’d done this to his satisfaction did he nudge the young monk with his hand.

  As Lobsang fully expected, Tenzin was both shocked and unconvinced of the need to do his master’s bidding in this matter. If anything, he appeared on the verge of panic, emotionally unwilling to accept the abbot’s fatalistic self-diagnosis concerning his injury. If nothing else, he asked, why couldn’t Lobsang be carried by one of the horses rather than be left behind to die alone and untended?

  The old man sighed before responding.

  “Knowing the increased pain this must surely inflict upon me, to what end would you torture me needlessly? It would be no kindness, my son. And even if this was possible, which of our horses can be spared to bear me through this ordeal? Those not carrying our meager supplies are already greatly overburdened—for remember what it is that all those precious crates contain. As always, our primary duty to His Holiness is to see them preserved and safely delivered into his hands. All else pales in importance, does it not?”

  Only marginally swayed, the young monk’s conflicted face was streaked with tears.

  “Then at least let us stay here with you until—”

  Once again Lobsang shook his weary head.

  “And have you further risk the lives of those loyal men now in your care? No, Tenzin. This you cannot do. Your responsibility is now as much to them as it is to the success of our mission.”

  It was with grim satisfaction that he saw the young monk finally nod his acceptance, and he held the youth’s hand a last time.

  “Do as I bid you without delay—and go with my blessing.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Dharasala, India. The Present.

  At precisely 10am the five of them—which now included the senior Mongolian diplomat in India—sat patiently in the outer offices of the Photang, the official residence of the Dalai Lama in exile within the Buddhist temple complex called Tsuglagkhang. Twenty minutes had elapsed since Ambassador Ganbataar had formally presented the packet to the rather somber chamberlain of His Holiness.

  Now they waited.

  Even the ambassador was unsure what to expect. As he’d cautioned them when earlier boarding their plane in Delhi for the short flight to Gaggal Airport outside Dharamsala, it was his experience that face-to-face meetings with the Dalai Lama were very rarely—if ever—granted on such short notice. Put simply, the Dalai Lama’s daily spiritual duties and government obligations allowed almost no time for private audiences unless otherwise scheduled many weeks in advance.

  When the chamberlain finally returned, David thought his expression was somewhat more amenable as he strode briskly toward them in his maroon colored robe. He gave the distinct impression that perhaps even he was somewhat surprised by the message he bore.

  “Though His Holiness is extremely busy preparing his address to an upcoming conference, he wishes to see all of you—if very briefly—in his library annex.” The chamberlain paused to smile. “I believe whatever your packet contained, Ambassador, it has apparently captured his interest. If you will please follow me . . .”

  He ushered them down a long hall and into what was obviously the Dalai Lama’s spacious work area. Sitting alone behind a wide table at the farther end—one so strewn with books and papers as to make Vlad proud—His Holiness rose and pleasantly greeted each in turn. Dressed casually in light, traditional garb, he regarded them with keen interest from behind his trademark thick spectacles. Now in his late-seventies, he still appeared as vital and engaged as the world had long known him to be.

  To Ganbataar, he said in his soft-spoken voice, “An unexpected pleasure, Ambassador. I’m pleased to see you again. I trust you and your family are well?”

  “Indeed, sir. Very kind of you to ask.”

  “I regret not having the time to properly receive you, but please relay my best wishes to President Dashiin at your earliest opportunity.” He paused, gesturing to the open packet on his table. “I must admit, I find myself somewhat intrigued by the unusual nature of his request. Am I correct in assuming it is a matter of considerable importance and urgency to him?”

  “It is, sir.”

  “Then I would be remiss in not giving him whatever assistance I can provide—and I can think of but one place to begin.” He then handed the packet over to his chamberlain, allowing the younger man time to quickly scan its contents. “If the information you seek truly exists,” he continued, “I suspect it can only be located through the efforts of Venerable Tenzin. He has managed our extensive repository of artifacts and manuscripts since the time of our arrival, his main task being the translation into English of the many thousands of manuscripts smuggled out of Tibet.”

  He again glanced at his chamberlain. “Are we in agreement on this?”

  “Yes, Your Holiness. I’ll see to it immediately.”

  “Then it’s settled. Go with my blessing—and I pray your long journey here on President Dashiin’s behalf wasn’t in vain.”

  His mission now complete
, Ambassador Ganbataar bid them farewell and returned to Gaggal Airport. There the pilots of the Challenger 300 were instructed to fly him back to Delhi at his convenience.

  At the request of the chamberlain, only David was to attend the initial visit with Venerable Tenzin, the elderly supervisor of the nearby Library of Tibetan Works and Archives. As he explained, it might prove a bit unsettling to the old scholar to have so many unexpectedly descend upon him. By his description, Tenzin was a rather shy and reclusive figure. Though he tirelessly performed his duties for the Dalai Lama over the past many years, he always did so at his own pace, and well outside the public eye.

  David accepted the wisdom of this, agreeing to meet up with the others around noon at the nearby Oms Hotel. Unsure what the eventual duration of their stay in Dharamsala might be, Zayaa had taken the wise precaution of pre-booking all four of them into the conveniently located establishment.

  Once checked in, they would await his return.

  The chamberlain knew precisely where to locate Venerable Tenzin, for it was apparent the elderly scholar’s daily work habits varied little from one day to the next. Leading David up into a third-floor hall above the separate library’s main public exhibits, he spoke briefly to a frail, robed figure who was surrounded by a dozen or more other monks. All but one of them sat at adjoining tables, each individually toiling over an old manuscript written in colorful Tibetan script, which David now knew from Vlad had changed little in literally hundreds of years. Based on the writing system of the ancient Sanskrit language of India, it had been used in its present form since the early 9th century.