The Prisoner's Gold (The Hunters 3) (27 page)

Russia’s Bear was in hibernation, perhaps for good.

All that would remain was China, and a new age of the Dragon.

The funny thing was that no one saw it coming. People talked about China as a rising economic giant and a potentially thorny political power, but no one grasped the truth. Most Chinese were culturally indoctrinated to believe that China was superior to everything and everywhere else. Feng laughed when he read articles speculating on Chinese expansion.

It would never happen.

We’re happy right where we are.

We just want you bastards out
.

The lights of the city twinkled brightly now, the sun having set in a spray of purple and pink across the sky like a Jackson Pollock painting.

Lim Bao rushed into the room, his face full of trepidation. Feng knew the man was incredibly devoted to the Fists’ ideals. He was easy to read. He had news, but it wouldn’t be good.

‘Tell me, brother,’ Feng encouraged him.

Lim bowed his head. ‘We have news of the foreigners. They were foolish enough to return to China. This time they flew into Beijing. After refueling, they continued on toward Lhasa.’

‘Lhasa?’ Feng blurted. ‘What are they doing now?’

‘They’re still in the air. They won’t land for another hour.’

‘What about our customs agents? I thought we had men at all the major airports looking for these people.’

‘Yes, brother. An agent at the airport in Beijing just phoned me.’

‘Now? After they’ve already continued on?’

‘I’m afraid so. But our people to the west are being proactive. I’ve already sent a group ahead.’ Lim presented this information – a small accomplishment, but a vital one – with pride. He recognized that the Fists held all the cards now. ‘We can capture them there.’

‘Don’t capture them.
Follow
them. I want to know what they are doing as they do it. Who’s running things in Tibet?’

‘Chen,’ Lim said.

‘The same man from Xinjiang?’ Feng asked, surprised.

Lim nodded. ‘I took the initiative of sending him to Lhasa. He’s quite determined to make up for his failures at the mine.’

‘I bet he is,’ Feng hissed. ‘Tell Chen to keep a close eye on them. If it seems like they are about to damage anything of cultural value, I want them stopped immediately. But if they are only collecting information, I want to know what they find. As soon as we have a location for the treasure they’re seeking, we won’t need them anymore. That’s when I want them brought to me.’

Lhasa, Tibet

A forty-minute drive through the Yarlung Tsangpo River valley took the team from the airport to the city of Lhasa. At an elevation of nearly 11,000 feet, the city was so high up the Tibetan Plateau that pilots had to be specially trained in high-altitude maneuvers before they were allowed to fly planes into or out of the airport. Luckily, the weather had been extremely pleasant for early April, and the team had flown in on the private Gulfstream without incident.

Before leaving Tokyo, Sarah had dyed her hair dark brown and cut it much shorter. The effect was a stark change in appearance. She looked older and more serene, but still just as lovely. She heightened the change with dark eye shadow and loose-fitting clothes.

Garcia had shaved his head completely, which helped him blend in with the Buddhist monks that filled the area. Maggie had cut her hair short and spiky, and dressed in the jeans and T-shirt of a Taiwanese tourist. She had informed everyone on the team that she was using a Taiwanese accent as well, but to their untrained ears, she sounded just the same.

McNutt had cut his beard and trimmed his hair to a reasonable length, but he had avoided cutting it too short. He had suggested that if their unknown enemies had identified him, they might have done so from his Marine photos, so he didn’t want to be shorn too closely. Cobb had trimmed his week’s worth of stubble into a goatee. It wasn’t much of a change, but it was enough to give a stranger pause – and sometimes that was all that was necessary.

Papineau had made minimal changes to his appearance too. Cobb was fairly certain the Frenchman wouldn’t be on the radar of their unknown pursuers because he hadn’t been in the field at all. Still, a different part to his perfectly coiffed hair and an outfit of khakis and a golf shirt changed his look enough to deflect average scrutiny.

Unfortunately, the new clothes did nothing to improve Papineau’s mood.

They were all seated in a long minibus provided for transport into town. With no other arrivals at the tiny airport they had the vehicle to themselves, aside from the driver. It had not escaped Cobb’s notice that Papineau had not let him out of sight since Tokyo, except in their hotel rooms at night. He had even sat next to Cobb on the flight into Tibet, and then again on the bus. He had been waiting for Cobb to open the conversation, but Cobb hadn’t said a word to him the entire time. As the pristine blue water of the snaking river ran by outside the windows of the bus, the Frenchman could wait no longer.

‘Why did you bring me along?’ Papineau whispered to Cobb. ‘Seriously, what was the point? And when were you going to tell me about the incident in Xinjiang? Am I that untrustworthy? Haven’t I given you everything you asked for?’

Cobb often studied the way people talked with one another. He’d heard communication described as two monologues clashing, with each person waiting for their turn to speak instead of actively listening. He knew all of Papineau’s complaints before the man voiced them, but he still allowed the man to spew, getting the anger out of his system, until he was ready to listen.

Finally Papineau fell silent, his face reddened.

Cobb waited an extra few seconds just to be sure. ‘I didn’t tell you about the rekky because I wasn’t sure it was worth telling you about. As it was, the trip accomplished nothing other than arousing the wrath of the mine’s security forces. And we still don’t know if that was connected to the attack in Guangzhou. Could be two separate groups.’

Cobb spoke softly with an even tone, the pace of his response not leaving an opening for Papineau to object. ‘And honestly, I didn’t fully trust you. You’ve held things back from the team in the past. You’ve spied on us. You’ve been … difficult. But you’re here now, and that counts for a lot. You’ve shown your willingness to get your hands dirty.’

Cobb knew the small compliment would go a long way toward disarming Papineau’s indignant rage. ‘Not everyone needs to know the whole plan. Compartmentalization helps if things turn south, and, as you’ve seen, that happens more often than we’d like. Sometimes I leave things out for Josh or Sarah, too.’

Papineau glanced at them, but they weren’t listening.

Cobb continued. ‘I’ve treated you as an equal member of this team since we got to Hong Kong. I understand why you might have been upset at being left out of things back in Florida, but I think maybe you’ve been letting your emotions cloud your viewpoint since Tokyo. I trust you now. We all do. We’ve just stopped treating you like our boss. After all, we’re all wealthy now. We’re not here for the money anymore – if any of us ever were.’

Cobb turned at last to face the Frenchman, and he saw his explanation had had the desired effect. Papineau was not only defused, but genuinely surprised, and maybe a bit honored to be treated as a member of the team. His face registered a variety of emotions, but anger was no longer one of them.

‘And let’s face it,’ Cobb whispered. ‘You were smart enough to hire us all for those things that drive us. You knew we weren’t here for the money alone.’

Cobb had no idea whether his last statement was true or not, but it was an additional compliment that helped to further bury Papineau’s anger.

‘I don’t know what to—’ the Frenchman began, but his words died on his lips as the bus rounded the curve in the road and the picturesque valley of Lhasa opened up before them.

The second most populated city on the Tibetan Plateau at over half a million people, Lhasa’s name literally meant ‘place of the gods’.

The entire team could see why.

The city sits in a flat river valley, surrounded by 8,000-foot mountains. At this time of year, the snow had melted off parts of the slopes, revealing lush greenery. It looked like swirls of mint up the white hillsides. Below those slopes, but still raised above the city, was the white and brick-red Potala Palace.

As the bus continued around the bend, a ray of golden sunlight pierced the clouds overhead, illuminating the palace like a spotlight. The gilded canopies on the rooftop glittered in the light like diamonds. It was truly a sight to behold.

The rest of the city spread out below the palace looked dull by comparison, full of plain Chinese Communist architecture. The distinction between the stunning view of the mountains, the illuminated palace, and the drab city beneath it was a remarkable study of contrasts.

‘It’s amazing,’ Sarah gasped.

‘It is,’ Maggie agreed. ‘Let’s try not to destroy it.’

Thursday, April
10
th

Though construction of the Potala Palace did not begin until 1645 AD, it was built upon the remnants of an ancient temple that was more than a thousand years older.

Conceived as a seat of the Tibetan government, the purpose of the multi-leveled fortress has slowly transformed over the years. What used to be the home of the Dalai Lama, who abandoned the palace after the failed 1959 Tibetan Uprising, is now a museum, an archive, a monastery, and a cultural destination that caters to sixteen hundred visitors per day.

Tourists from around the world come to marvel at the functional decadence of the fortress that rises 384 feet above Red Mountain. They stare in awe at the gently sloping stairs, the multiple levels of wide, flat roofs, the expansive porticos, and rows upon rows of square windows, most of which are covered by fluttering drapes of embroidered tapestries.

Perched at a height of 12,000 feet above sea level, the complex spans a staggering 400 meters across the mountainside and includes thirteen stories of buildings containing over 1,000 rooms, 10,000 shrines, and 200,000 statues. The White Palace contains the main ceremonial hall with the throne of the Dalai Lama. His private rooms and audience hall are on the uppermost level. The palace contains 698 murals, almost 10,000 painted scrolls, and numerous objects of gold and silver, as well as a large collection of sutras and important historical documents.

The Red Palace lies to the west of the White Palace. Its main purpose is to house eight
stupa –
the entombed remains of prior Dalai Lamas – but it also serves as a center of religious study and prayer. It contains five distinct chapels, three galleries, and an expansive great hall. The interior of the palace is adorned with a variety of priceless gems, including one
mandala
, a geometric figure representing the universe that is made of nearly 200,000 pearls.

The sheer magnitude of the edifice was overwhelming. Massive stone walls dominated the landscape, each meticulously painted to match the color of its respective palace. The colossal temple climbed toward the heavens, its peaked, golden spires seemingly brushing against the clouds. The entire palace was simply a sight to behold.

Cobb looked at the structure in the distance and inhaled deeply, drawing in as much oxygen as he could. At their current altitude, he was breathing only sixty-eight percent of the oxygen he would have enjoyed in Florida, and his body knew it. They had stayed in a small, traditional Tibetan guesthouse instead of a hotel, and Cobb had woken several times throughout the night with his heart hammering in his chest from the rarefied atmosphere.

When he had seen the faces of the other team members at breakfast, he knew they had slept poorly as well. Maggie had bags under her eyes. Sarah had been extra irritable and distracted. Garcia had seemed to be half asleep – despite his four cups of coffee. Even Papineau had looked haggard. Only McNutt had looked alert and well rested, no doubt a result of his experience with high altitude in the mountains of Afghanistan.

Despite the effects of low oxygen, Cobb soldiered on.

The team would have to suck it up …
literally
.

It was a crisp morning with hardly any wind when Cobb, Sarah, and Maggie left their guesthouse on foot. Shops were just beginning to open on the winding streets and cobbled paths, but Maggie found one selling
khata
: small, white, ceremonial scarves that symbolized purity and compassion to the Tibetans. They bought several, including the most expensive ones available, which were made of white silk and embroidered with gold thread. Maggie explained that they would come in handy later with the monks, but she didn’t explain why.

And Cobb and Sarah were too tired to ask.

Cobb had no idea what they might find in the palace, if anything, but Maggie had suggested that if Polo had been to Lhasa, there would be records of his stay inside. The Potala contained dozens of libraries where they might find such records. Unfortunately, it would take them days, if not weeks, to find what they were looking for on their own, and Cobb knew they didn’t have that kind of time – not if their pursuers from Guangzhou were still on their trail.

‘So …’ Sarah said, pausing to suck in a breath as she looked up at the looming palace across the square. The image was broadcast to Garcia at the guesthouse via a pair of hi-tech glasses that used the same technology as Cobb’s sunglasses in Loulan. ‘Why are we taking a million stairs instead of driving to the top? I could’ve sworn you said something about a shuttle bus.’

‘Contrition,’ Maggie said as she glanced at the zigzagging staircases that made their way up the mountainside. ‘The building doesn’t officially open to tourists until later, but the monks will let us in early if we show respect. I’ve visited before with a distinguished Westerner.’

‘Richard Gere?’ Sarah asked. She knew of the actor’s fondness for Tibet.

‘It appears your definition of “distinguished” is quite different from mine,’ Maggie said with a smile. ‘Besides, if I was describing Richard Gere, I would have said “sexy”.’