30

REALPOLITIK

Summit Hotel, Kupondole Height, Kathmandu, Nepal

Sir Jack Graham was at their usual table on the dining terrace that overlooked the Summit Hotel’s luscious gardens, the heavy leaves below thicker and greener than any salad it served. To Henrietta’s disappointment he was not alone. Anthony Green was also there, talking loudly into his cellphone, a copy of the Kathmandu Post in front of him. Her heart sank a little at the sight. There were things she had wanted to discuss only with Jack.

Sir Jack got up and saw her to her chair, mumbling “Sorry about this” under his breath. Henrietta sat, momentarily feeling a shiver of loneliness, and with it, recognizing properly, for the first time, the cold danger of her situation. Green didn’t move but when he stopped his call, he did pointedly change a setting on his phone to demonstrate that he was going to give Henrietta his full attention. “Ms. Richards, I hope you don’t mind me gate-crashing your little lunch with Sir Jack, but it seems I need a lesson on what is going on here somewhat sooner than I expected.”

Henrietta knew she should have answered, “Not at all,” but lying was not her strong point. Instead she busied herself with her napkin as Green pressed on regardless. “Last night turned out to be a veritable diplomatic shower.”

“It was something more than just that,” Henrietta immediately interjected. “It was both a tragedy and a horror.”

“The Chinese delegation was indeed horrified,” Green continued. “I had a number of commercial meetings with them scheduled for this morning. All canceled. Extremely disappointing.”

“I’m so sorry to hear that,” Henrietta replied swallowing her sarcasm to add, “But it is a sad and complex situation.”

“Yes, and one that we need to sort out. Obviously, I can sympathize with any peoples that have a grievance over their land and freedoms but after sixty years surely it is time for the Tibetans to accept the reality and move on?” He drummed his finger on a picture of the Dalai Lama on the front page of the newspaper. “In my book it doesn’t help matters that everyone still treats this fellow like some sort of celebrity guru. It just muddies the waters.”

Henrietta looked momentarily at Sir Jack as if in advance apology then spoke again. “Time might well hide history but it does not erase it. May I remind you that not much more than ten years before the Chinese marched into Tibet, Hitler was studying Britain through a pair of field glasses from the coast of France. What if he had crossed? What if his successors were still there? How would you feel about it seventy years later? Would you be speaking English or German?” Henrietta was pretty sure she could answer the last question herself as Green just replied, “But I’m not sure we’re talking about the same thing in any language, Ms. Richards.”

“Tibet was invaded, the land stolen, the people decimated. Sounds somewhat similar to me.”

Sir Jack, beginning to fidget in his chair, jumped on the arrival of a smiling waiter to ask if they could order, more plea for calm than question.

A silence followed as they chose. That done, Sir Jack quickly spoke again before Green could reopen his mouth.

“Henrietta, why don’t you tell Anthony something of your background and a bit about the recent history of this region to get us all on the same page?”

Slowly, begrudgingly, Henrietta began to talk, telling how she had also been to Oxford University then came to Kathmandu in 1969 as a junior in the Foreign Office to help the British ambassador of the time deal with the influx of hippie travelers—many of them English—who were coming unstuck in the city from drugs or illness or lack of funds. Her other task at the embassy had been as an analyst assembling the information coming out of Tibet about Mao’s China, of which, at that time, relatively little was known. That task had continued and grown after her work with the hippie tide receded. As the food arrived, she continued to explain how she had become fascinated with the region, becoming an expert on its many complexities for her career, and the leading record keeper of Himalayan climbing for her own interest.

When Green asked her which mountains she had climbed—as many did—and she replied none, he questioned why she was so interested in them.

“After the indulgence and wastefulness of the hippies I was constantly having to nanny, I found the climbers more interesting,” she replied. “Also, in a region with so many dimensions to everything—the religions: Hinduism, Buddhism, the Jain, the Bon; the peoples: be it tribes, castes, migrants, refugees, rich, poor; the politics: monarchy, democracy, theocracy, communism; the external influences: China, India, America, England, Pakistan, Russia, Japan, all furiously playing the field—life for a diplomat was complicated. You must understand that Kathmandu is to the Himalayan frontiers what West Berlin was to the Cold War, Dubai now is to the Middle East; a natural ‘neutral zone’ where many factors of suspicion intersect. Amidst all this I liked to retire at the end of the day into the simple truth of whether someone really made it to the top of a mountain. I found it therapeutic, an escape into black-and-white truth from so many shades of gray.”

Green eyed Henrietta coldly. “But all your mountains have been climbed, Ms. Richards. The monarchy is gone. The Maoist guerrillas have come in from the hills to democracy. Above all, China is now the dominant power in the region—perhaps soon the whole world, whatever everyone else might try to pretend. Surely we should just be practical and accept it? I can’t help thinking that what we saw last night just prolongs the agony.”

“Actually it is a product of it.”

“Well, it needs to stop. I’m not here to play spy versus spy but to do business for our nation. It’s plain and simple. Qualities you profess to admire.” Green looked at Sir Jack as if for support. “China is the future, am I not right, Sir Jack? Think of the Silk Road Economic Belt from Xinjiang to Europe, the China–Pakistan Economic Corridor, the Asian Infrastructure Investment Bank, I could go on. Each one in itself is a colossal opportunity that Team UK should seize. We must be pragmatic and not assist anything that might hinder this, particularly some bankrupt Tibetan exiles”—his eyes narrowed a little—“still intent on trouble after all these years.”

“I wouldn’t call it trouble,” Henrietta answered.

“Well, Ms. Richards, you can call it what you want but your Tibet of Lost Horizon flew in 1959 alongside the Dalai Lama. The Chinese are just waiting for him to go—how old is he now? Eighty? Eighty-five? It won’t be long and then they can move on. I think it’s time for you to move on also, to leave the theatricals of the Free Tibet charade to the Hollywood luvvies and embrace the realpolitik. It doesn’t suit someone with your intelligence.”

“Well, it suits my sense of propriety,” Henrietta replied. She knew Green was going to speak German sooner or later.

Beth Waterman sat across the table in Temba’s office sipping a glass of water.

“I am sorry, Mrs. Waterman, that you had to see that,” Chering said, “but Wangdu Palsang said you were looking for an important story after the cancellation of your article about His Holiness. Now you have two. Bhoudhanath has been our place in Kathmandu ever since the first Tibetan traders arrived here from the east over a thousand years ago. Today our hosts are pressured and bribed by the Chinese to reject that history and treat us like criminals. As for the burned man, you must be the witness he wanted you to be. He knew he was at the end of his road and wanted his last act to be a statement to the whole world. Please use your words and photographs to honor his last wish.”

“Who was he?”

“Just a simple wandering monk, that’s all.”

“But it is not that simple. Why did he display the moth symbol on his sign?” Beth asked directly.

Temba Chering’s look hardened as he replied, “Wangdu warned me that you would come looking for stories of missing lamas and mountain myths but, Mrs. Waterman, I urge you to deal with what you saw outside in the plaza and inside the monastery. A journalist of your reputation should focus on these realities. Those are your stories right there. Surely they are enough?”

One of Temba’s staff came in and said something in his ear. “Detective Thanel, did you say?” he asked and instantly stood up.

“Yes,” the staff member replied.

“Okay, I’m coming.”

Chering took his leave of Beth. “Would you please give me a moment, as I have the police waiting for me downstairs. I think we should change where you are staying. Things are clearly going to remain difficult around here for some time. I own another place called the Khumbu Hotel in the Thamel district. It’s popular with Western tourists and climbers and you’ll be more at home there. I’ll see that it is organized.”

Temba exited quickly with the staff member leaving Beth in his office. While she sat waiting alone once again, she looked at the wall behind his desk covered with framed certificates and photographs of her host. Some were recent shots of him with dignitaries and politicians but the older ones were taken in the mountains, either in summit shots or standing with other climbers. Those pictures were getting old, the colors faded, the paper rippled. Beth got up from her chair to look at them all more closely.

Something caught her eye in one framed photo of a younger, thinner faced Temba arm in arm with a group of climbers in bulky old-fashioned down clothes. Their wild hair and heavily tanned faces, panda-eyed from ski masks, suggested they had just finished a big climb together, the elation in their eyes that it had been successful.

She pulled her face close to be sure of what she was seeing, then quickly took her own photograph of the picture. Hearing Temba return she let her camera fall on its strap even if she continued to look at the pictures as he reentered the room. “Wangdu said you were once a Sherpa, Temba?”

“The Sherpa are a tribe, Mrs. Waterman. It is not a temporary condition even if the term has become a byword for anyone who works on the highest mountains. I am actually what is known as a Bhotia, a Tibetan. I escaped to the Khumbu Valley as a youth and grew up working the same mountains I had to cross to get away. First, I was a porter on the valley trails, little more than a human yak, but then I began to carry onto the mountains assisting climbers. It was hard and dangerous, but I survived to invest the money I earned and do everything in my power to ensure that my children would not have to do as I had done. My eldest son is now a doctor, the younger, a pilot, and I remain grateful to the mountains, to Kathmandu also for permitting that. You will need to go now.”

“Temba, did you ever climb Mount Ga San?”

“There is no such mountain here, Mrs. Waterman.”

Chering gave Beth a long look and wondered whether Dharamsala might have underestimated the American journalist but, then again, if she had met His Holiness that was unlikely, quite the opposite in fact.

At the door of the restaurant Temba Chering spoke to one of the many policemen that was surrounding the now empty plaza. He returned to Beth to say, “I have told him you are a frightened American tourist who was having coffee at our restaurant when the riot broke out. He is going to escort you back to the Tibet Guest House. Keep your camera out of sight. A room awaits you at the Khumbu.”

Back at the hotel Beth checked out and got a taxi to Thamel. Only when she was safely in the back of the cab did she get out her camera again. She scrolled the photographs to one she had taken in Temba’s office. She enlarged it to show the embroidered badges affixed to the jacket of one of the climbers.

I am right, Beth thought.

Retrieving her broken phone, she searched for “Mount Ga San.”

Immediately she was redirected to a “Mount Gassan.”

Temba is also right.

Mount Gassan was not in the Himalayas. It was in Japan. Not a particularly high mountain, but still a famous one in its own way. Beth read as much as she could find about it before returning to the photograph on her camera and studying the Japanese flag amongst the other badges on that jacket and then the youthful, happy face above.

Green’s phrase “Team UK” was stuck in Henrietta’s craw as the taxi’s radio rattled with news of a major riot and police roundup at Bhoudhanath Stupa. Henrietta knew damn well who was behind it, but as she lifted the key to the front door of her apartment she tried to settle with the thought that she was home—a good cup of tea beckoned—and had at least achieved the principle objective of her trip out; she better understood the playing field. Now she needed to see Neil Quinn. She was hoping that Sangeev would have left her news of his return and got a message to him. If not, the card she had marked at Pashi’s should do the trick.

About to slot her door-key home, she did a double take. Her heavy apartment door was already slightly ajar. Cautiously, she gave it a push with the tip of her still outstretched key, inquiring as she did so, “Sangeev?”

The door swung back to reveal a scene of devastation.

Her beloved apartment had been ransacked. Torn books, emptied loose-leaf files, ripped papers were strewn everywhere. Plates, glasses, teacups, potpourri dishes, pictures, even her potted plants lay splintered and smashed. A smell of dry lavender and wet earth hung over the wanton destruction—in the middle of which lay Sangeev Gupta, facedown on the floor, her cat curled in the small of his back.

A horrific thought struck Henrietta. She knelt beside her assistant to find his pulse. Bodleian woke with a start and darted away, but Gupta was alive. With some difficulty Henrietta turned him over. The side of his face was swollen with deep bruising, the skin of his cheek broken and bloody. She gently shook him and Sangeev seemed to surface from a great dark depth. She helped him sit forward and waited for him to recover his senses.

“I’m sorry, Miss Richards,” he eventually mumbled.

“Don’t be. Just tell me what happened.”

“I was on the computer when there was an attack . . . Lucky Cat.”

Henrietta took a look at Bodleian who had now returned to patrol the damage, long legs delicately placing his paws between the debris as if it was a minefield.

“Oh, don’t worry about him. He’s fine.”

“No, Miss Richards, ‘Lucky Cat,’ the Chinese computer virus. You know it. The virus took over my laptop when I tried to access news of last night’s horrible event. I was dealing with the matter when there was a knock at the door. I was thinking perhaps you needed something but instead the door just slammed me. Then I’m gone and dreaming. Now everything is ruined.”

“I’ll get you some water. Stay there.”

While Henrietta searched for an intact glass in the kitchen she remembered the two other Asian men at the café below. They must have remained when the other set off after her that morning. She had shaken that one off so easily she hadn’t given the matter further thought other than later reconciling the surveillance with Pashi’s comment that the Chinese were asking after her.

She returned to help Sangeev into a chair, administering small sips of water. “Did you notice anything about your attacker?” she asked.

“No. Nothing. I’m sorry.”

“When did this happen?”

“Not so long after you left.” Sangeev’s eyes watered as he considered the destruction. “I am so very sorry for this mess.”

His apology caused Henrietta to also look around at her life’s work, shredded and scattered. She had a feeling she too should cry but it just didn’t come. Instead all she heard was Green saying, “But all your mountains have been climbed, Ms. Richards.” A rare fury spiked inside her, sharp and high like the peaks she studied. “Shouldn’t we call the police?” Sangeev asked.

Henrietta looked to the sideboard where the apartment telephone normally sat. The phone had been ripped from the wall, the receiver smashed to pieces.

“Did you plug in my cellphone?” she asked.

“Yes.”

Sangeev looked over at his small work area but there was no laptop or cellphone to be seen.

“It has been taken. Everything has been taken.”

Henrietta instantly left the Indian to return to her kitchen. Stepping over more broken crockery and scattered cutlery she stiffly bent down in front of her oven. On the tiled floor before it she saw the moth from the night before, stamped to death. She quickly opened the oven and looked into its black mouth. At the back remained her equally black tin chest and, on top of it, the Makalu file. She breathed a sigh of relief when she opened the tin to also see the prayer wheel and the mala beads.