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“That’s Zen,” I explain.
“Really? Whatever.”
“And what about the gas bottles?”
“You weren’t supposed to take that literally, dummy. The gas bottles are you: pressurized gas, that’s all any of us is who has not reached the Far Shore.” He scratches his head, apparently genuinely perplexed. “I can’t understand how anyone could get that wrong.”
He stands up, comes intimidatingly close, and whispers in my ear, “Whatever little mind pictures you’ve got of me by now, kid, you better dump them. I don’t have an ego. Those Chinese burned every tiny little bit of it out of me, every root, every fiber with their cute little cattle prods-in the end I was secretly urging them on. I knew even then there was no way I was going to spend the next sixty years dragging a bleeding, damaged, heartbroken, resentful, miserable stump of ego around. If I had, I would have gotten sick and died thirty years ago. But I didn’t.” He lets a few beats pass while he assesses me. “You need to grow up. That great pile of black karma you’re so worried about, that huge Chomolungma of guilt that’s looming up in your mind and crippling your judgment-forget it. The people who will use this stuff are already dead, can’t you understand? They are stuck in their diabolic continuum because they trafficked in previous lifetimes. Whether they buy from us or someone else has no significance, because buy they must and buy they will-don’t you know that Clive himself is out there somewhere, shooting up in some squalid backroom above a supermarket in Shropshire, just another deadbeat with tattoos, paralyzed by the weight of his karma, helpless without his little brown servants and whores, the classic Caucasian male basket case of modern times? This isn’t my personal payback, this is world dharma we’re talking about. The earth itself is making this happen, otherwise we would never have gotten the stuff past customs.” He pauses for breath. “For my part, you know what I’m going to do? I’m going to suck it all up and transform every last lost life into positive energy using the power of Tantra. And do you know how I acquired the means to do that? I’m not a Buddha, Detective; I’m not a bodhisattva; I’m not even a doctor of Buddhism, only of Tibetan history, and I’m not a monk. Detective, I have to tell you, I am one hell of a lot better than all of those things. I am a man, and I want my country back.”
He stops for a moment, as if deciding whether or not to speak his full mind. Finally, he leans closer so I can feel his breath on my ear.
“I am a mystery to you because I am psychically invisible. I show up on no one’s i
When he sees I am on the verge of obeying, he adds, “There’s someone at home waiting for you.”
I’m about ten paces away already when he calls out, “And don’t forget to watch CNN exactly one week from today.”
But leaving, it turns out, is easier said than done. I’m on the way to my car when I see that it is guarded by some of Zi
Vikorn has turned gray and is shaking slightly. When I examine him more closely, I see it is one of those near-epileptic rages that has taken possession of him. I am deeply saddened that he has been double-crossed and defeated; there is nothing to stop the General from simply taking all the smack from under Vikorn’s nose. Zi
“Looks like it,” Vikorn says with a groan.
Zi
“That’s true,” Vikorn says, nodding. “That’s very true.” He pauses, utters the single word “except,” and gives the tiniest little nuance of a nod toward the nearest ship to his right. Zi
While Zi
Zi
Vikorn nods gravely. “You have men on the street, but my men have cordoned off the whole area. I also have a communications van down the road. If you open fire, the whole country will be alerted that you are staging a coup. I do hope you warned your superiors that they are going to be ru
Everyone is watching Zi
“I most humbly beg your pardon,” Vikorn says with a glorious smile. “My mistake. Shall we get on with moving the smack, half to your warehouse, half to mine?”
Zi
Confused is probably the best word to describe my state of mind; very confused. It occurs to me that Tietsin has finally shown me something that should have been obvious all along: he’s not human. Not like you and me, farang; his brain systems are of a totally different order, and my most basic mental images of him seem to be dissolving even as I drive home. Who understands Tibetans? Maybe he is a reincarnation of Milarepa.
But I won’t deny it, I’m human all the way through, blade wheels or not. Sure, the idea of someone waiting for me at home sweetens the bitter pill quite a lot, and once I’m settled into a good, hot, late-night traffic jam I cool my fevered brain with imaginations of Tara and me romping in the high Himal, chucking handfuls of freezing spring water at each other, arguing and fighting all the way to Shambhala. To say I’m all eagerness when I reach the door is downplaying it: I’m sort of shuddering with gratitude when I burst in.