guide us until we ensure we’re in control.”
“A nun?” asked Muller. “I’d think she’d be the one person we could trust. A nun or a monk. What’s wrong with that?”
“She wasn’t a nun when I knew her,” Raeder said.
“What was she, then?”
“A widow. She worked on the Benjamin Hood expedition, her husband died, and I consoled her. Eventually we had a falling-out.”
“What the hell does that mean? What’s going on here, Kurt?”
Raeder hesitated. “I’m afraid she fell in love with me. Of course I had to leave her behind. The gap between our cultures was too great.”
“My God. And this is who Reting chooses to guide us? Does the regent know?”
“I’m not sure what that Oriental bastard knows or doesn’t know, or exactly what kind of help or interference he’s offering. You can’t tell what Asians are thinking.”
“But why this woman?”
“She became a student of the same mysteries I was curious about. I suppose I inspired her. Perhaps becoming a nun gave her access to secret records. Who knows? Reting Rinpoche is probably a simple man and simply thinks her knowledgeable-and expendable-if things go wrong.” He had to be careful his companions didn’t learn the full truth.
“Did she recognize you?”
“Of course. You saw us talk.”
“Do you think she’s still in love with you?”
“I’ve no idea. Well, yes. Probably. She may be hurt, or jealous, which is why we must tread carefully here.” The question of love was irrelevant, he believed. Raeder had bound her to have fun, out of earshot of the other scientists. She’d protested, which he ignored, and then begged, which he’d enjoyed. Then she’d surprised him by daring to crawl to Hood to complain, and the American had interfered. The expedition had broken up, Raeder hastily claiming he was the loser in a love triangle. Hood had agreed not to tell the truth, barely, in return for the German letting her go without a violent showdown that would have destroyed their reputations.
I should have killed them all.
But no, everyone’s scientific status was salvaged. And now, was there to be surprising reward from his mercy? Would Keyuri Lin be useful after all?
Raeder still remembered how ripe she’d looked. Women could pretend they didn’t enjoy his appetites, but he knew better. That hatred when she suspected he’d killed her husband was also a form of respect, he believed, obeisance to the victor. It was foolish to feel shame for being human. Why did he have to be embarrassed by what was natural? Himmler was right. Religious commandments were a plot to emasculate the strong. He’d assumed the bitch Keyuri would disappear into some Tibetan marriage, and yet here she was in Potala Palace. A nun? A scholar of Shambhala? Was God laughing?
No. This was luck that could be turned to his advantage.
“I’ve paid one of our guides to follow where she goes,” he said. “She’ll try to betray me like Judas betrayed Jesus, so we have to move first.”
What if he could not just use her but have her back?
What if he could gain not just Shambhala but her submission?
He was flushed, feverish, at the possibilities. Muller looked at him warily, and Raeder decided he didn’t like the geophysicist anymore. Julius was too judgmental. He wasn’t loyal. He wasn’t trustworthy.
Their Tibetan guide Lokesh was loyal. At dusk he brought back word that Keyuri Lin had visited the British legation. Reader had expected that. Now they must get a move ahead of their opponents.
“Lokesh, how would you like my black SS uniform?”
The man’s eyes brightened. The costume was very stirring.
T hat night a column of Tibetan soldiers silently surrounded the hostel of the German visitors. After listening to Keyuri Lin, the British consul had warned the Reting Rinpoche that the Nazis represented not aid but subversion. He’d obtained from the Potala a writ for the Germans’ arrest and interrogation, in joint action with Tibetan police. Ever since getting wireless warnings from Calcutta, British authorities had wondered what Raeder’s approaching party was up to. Now Lin had told them. A search for ancient powers? When the Nazis had no business being in southern Asia at all? Absurd. The sheer cheek of Himmler and his fellow bandits was breathtaking. It was time to teach the Hun a lesson.
A full company of one hundred and fifty Tibetan soldiers, under the advisement of Captain Derrick Hoyle, readied to charge. An old artillery piece from Younghusband’s 1904 expedition was positioned opposite the hostel’s front door. One of the army’s two heavy machine guns was set up at the rear.
The Germans could be seen moving through the small, dim windows.
Finally a shrill whistle was blown and the British led the charge. Doors were smashed, entry forced. Hoyle shouted in German that Raeder was under arrest!
No shots had to be fired. Their quarry meekly raised their hands.
The soldiers took into custody five Tibetan porters attired in the full-dress uniform of Himmler’s SS.
Raeder’s own men, equipment, and weapons were gone.
Captain Hoyle snapped his swagger stick in frustration.
S everal miles away, a British motorcar and heavy truck with a squad of English soldiers were racing north from Lhasa, winding up a dirt road to a pass that led to the broader plateau. Far to the north, the remote and mysterious Kunlun Mountains waited.
A young Tibetan woman was guiding from the front seat of the lead car, having assured the English that they represented a more logical alliance in the hunt for ancient secrets than the restless Germans. The British legation thought this choice made perfect sense. If war was coming, the British Empire and nearby India would surely prevail. England was Tibet’s natural ally. The British truck towed a trailer loaded with extra fuel, food, explosives, and climbing gear. The vehicles wouldn’t get over the final worst terrain, but caravan trails would get the hastily organized expedition close enough to make a forced march feasible before winter descended.
With luck, the Nazis who’d escaped India were already interned in Lhasa.
And in return for Keyuri’s help, the English had sworn to turn over whatever they found to the Potala. Reting had nodded gravely at their offer, not believing it for a moment.
The moon was up, the mountains silver, and the plume of dust from the hurrying vehicles was pewter in the gloom.
Then a dark blockage loomed. The British driver of the lead car slammed on the brakes.
A shaggy yak stood tethered in the roadway. Boulders prevented the vehicles from going around either side.
“What the devil?” said Major Howard Southampton. He bounded out to investigate.
Four men dressed in the yak-hair robes of Tibetan herdsmen materialized from the gloom. Bandits! Before the English could reach for their own weapons, the muzzles of German weapons were pressed to their ears.
“Careful,” said Eckells in English. “I’m an Olympic shot.”
“Hello, Keyuri,” the lead herdsman greeted, holding a Luger. “So convenient that you’ve gotten us an early start to Shambhala.”
It was Kurt Raeder, his yak-wool cloak giving him the look of a shaggy bear.
“It’s them!” she cried. “It’s him!”
But the British were already disarmed.
“Thanks for delivery of the motorcars,” Raeder said. “Fortunately for you, it’s a downhill walk back to Lhasa.”
“This is not just theft,” Southampton sputtered. “It’s an act of war!”
“It’s an act of expediency forced by your own malfeasance in trying to interfere with Reich research and to benefit from Reich discoveries. It’s your attempt to arrest us that is an act of war.” Jabber, jabber, the currency of diplomacy. Hitler was right. Guns made the point more strongly.
The Germans began loading their own expedition’s equipment into the car, truck, and trailer.
“You’ll have to come back this way,” the major warned. “The whole Tibetan army will be waiting for you.”
