“And if we can’t get in, no one else can either,” said Muller. “We’re chasing a myth about an inaccessible place, I think. That’s why Tibetans could invent stories about it. A valley with no entry? Why not pretend a secret kingdom lies within? Who will contradict you?”
“Wait,” said Raeder. His binoculars aimed at the canyon. “There’s a path, maybe, or at least a ledge. Here, take a look.” He handed the binoculars to their geophysicist.
“You can’t be serious,” said Muller, focusing. “What path?”
“There’s a ledge in that canyon twenty feet above that rushing stream. Too narrow for most animals, I’m guessing, and maybe too narrow for us. If we fall into the water and don’t drown, we go straight over the falls. It looks ludicrous, and yet it doesn’t appear to end. The ledge goes on into the shadows, as if it were hewn.”
“You want us to follow that?” Kranz said, taking his turn through the binoculars. “It’s suicide, I think. That is a trap.”
“Or a test,” said Raeder. “If Shambhala was easy, it would have been found long ago, no? We need to at least get up there and see if it’s really a trail, and what might lie on the other side.”
“And then what?”
“We leave our extra equipment and sidle our way in there. If we fall, we die. But if we turn back now-if we return to the Reichsfuhrer and say yes, we saw something promising, something that fit the legends, but prudently turned back-then I think we die anyway.”
Eckells nodded. “The Fatherland does not permit failure.”
23
Summer Palace, Lhasa, Tibet
October 2, 1938
S o much for Agent Hale’s diplomatic letters of introduction. Since his arrival in Lhasa, Benjamin Hood had been kept prisoner in a gilded cage, a meditation pavilion with a pagoda roof. His jail was a serene retreat built on a stone island in a rectangular pond on the summer palace grounds of the Dalai Lama. No one could approach his flowery Eden without permission, nor could he could leave it. Soldiers guarded the bridge. It was a claustrophobic paradise, the terrace girded with a carved stone railing. Ducks and swans floated in the green pool, and trees turning golden with the fading year showered the water with leaves the color of bright coins.
Hood had demanded an audience with the Reting Rinpoche and been denied. He’d demanded release and been ignored. He’d demanded an explanation and been met with the Buddhist chant: Om mani padme hum. It was a mantra open to endless interpretation, but in general called its practitioner to the correct path. Which path was that?
From one corner of his little island he could see past the trees to the winter palace called the Potala on its spectacular hill, its golden roofs as remote as heaven. Was Kurt Raeder up there, laughing at him? What had happened to Beth Calloway? Flown the coop, he assumed. Did his museum or government even care where he was? The lack of all communication was maddening.
So it was with cautious relief that he heard the thump of drums and the guttural moan of the dugchen, the Tibetan long trumpets, so huge that they had to be rested on the ground. It was like a growl from the bowels of the earth. Some kind of monkish procession was coming toward him, a ribbon of scarlet and purple.
From another direction a file of Tibetan soldiers trotted up, rifles ready, and took up position around the perimeter of the lagoon where Hood was kept. They wore pith helmets and British field uniforms with puttees. Another file of ceremonial archers in long robes drew up on either side of the gravel path that led to the stone bridge, as handsome and taut as their bows. Between their ranks came the aristocracy of Lhasa, stately as a wedding procession.
A single robed figure with high peaked cap detached himself from the column and walked forward, the soldiers snapping to attention. He brought no escort, carried no weapon, and seemed to have no fear of the American. So why was Hood being held?
The man approached slowly, as if not to spook a wary animal. In his hands was a white silk scarf, a khata, of greeting.
“I am the Reting Rinpoche, the regent of Tibet, who rules in the name of the Dalai Lama before His Holiness comes of age,” the man said. He bowed, and held forth the scarf. “I welcome you to our kingdom.”
Alerted to this custom by Beth, Hood dipped his head to take the cloth. He offered his own flying scarf to the regent. It was smudged, but Reting took no notice.
“It’s a pleasure to at last make your acquaintance,” Hood said carefully.
“I apologize for your incarceration, but I’m afraid it’s necessary. Events needed time to occur before we could have this meeting. We’ve made you as comfortable as possible.”
“Comfortable but anxious. I’m Benjamin Hood of the American Museum of Natural History, and I’ve come here to warn you.”
“Yes, we’ve been expecting you.”
“Expecting me?”
“The scarves signify peace.” Reting gestured toward the pavilion. “Should we sit and enjoy it?”
Clearly, Tibetans preferred to take their time. The two men retreated to rest in the shade. The small, brilliantly colored army on the other side of the pond waited stiffly.
“You’ve come very far,” the Reting began.
“I’ve been sent by my government on a diplomatic mission…”
“I know all about your mission, Dr. Hood.”
“But how? I haven’t been able to speak to anyone.”
“Word of your approach came to the British legation from their counterparts in Hong Kong two days before you arrived. I myself spoke to the English authorities on a wireless set that a German delegation thoughtfully gave me as a present. As you might imagine, what the British had to say about you, and the Germans, differed a great deal from what Herr Kurt Raeder, Untersturmfuhrer of the SS, told me.”
Hood was taken aback. The Tibet he’d seen in his previous travels had been technologically backward and preoccupied with religion. He’d expected complacency and lassitude in the Potala, not a wireless. Yet the young regent seemed calm and knowledgeable, not a naive potentate easily manipulated by the West.
“You know about Kurt Raeder?”
“I’ve conferred with him.”
“Where is he?”
“Searching, I presume, for the ancient powers of Shambhala in the Kunlun Mountains, far to the north and west. He’s promised to share anything he finds with my government.” The Reting smiled, as if he’d made a joke.
“Do you know what kind of a man Raeder is?”
“More than you think. I’ve had the remarkable counsel of a young nun who knows about Shambhala, Raeder, and you.”
“Me?”
“Her name is Keyuri Lin.” He waited for the American’s reaction.
My God, what’s going on here? Hood made no attempt to mask his confusion. “She’s alive?”
“Very much so.”
“She serves you?”
“She serves her religion. But, yes, she’s a patriot of Tibet.”
“Is she why I’m being held captive?”
“Oh no. She’s why you’re going to be let go.”
“I can see her?”
“Not unless you can find Kurt Raeder.”
“What do you mean?”
“Keyuri is with him.”
Hood’s face fell. “Not again.”
