secure telephone. The last call from Hanley had placed the Gulfstream G550 on final approach to Da Nang airfield. Cabrillo was nodding at Gunderson’s comment when his telephone buzzed again.
“The Gulfstream’s on the ground and refueled,” Hanley told him. “The pilot is setting the course now. I contacted General Siphondon in Laos and received permission for you to cross through their airspace.”
“How is the general?” Cabrillo asked.
“His usual self,” Hanley said. “Dropping hints about a classic car he’d like.”
“At least he’s upfront about his wants,” Cabrillo said. “And an old-car fetish I can understand. What is it he’s after?”
“Hemi Roadrunner convertible,” Hanley said. “Apparently some Air America pilot had one shipped over to use during the war. The general was only a kid then, but it stuck in his mind.”
“Any around?”
“I’ve got Keith Lowden in Colorado checking out the market,” Hanley said. “He’ll get back to us when he knows what’s available.”
“Excellent,” Cabrillo said. “Now what about Thailand and Myanmar?”
“All cleared,” Hanley said, “so it’ll be a straight shot to India.”
“C-130?”
“She’s due to leave Bhutan and touch down in Da Nang just after eight P.M.”
“Do you have the team ready?” Cabrillo asked.
“They’ll be ready by the time the
“This is a tight timetable,” Cabrillo said, “and we only have one shot at this.”
“No do-overs,” Hanley said quietly.
“No do-overs,” Cabrillo agreed.
IN northern India at Little Lhasa, the oracle was deep in a trance. The Dalai Lama sat to one side as the man spun and danced. From time to time the oracle would race over to a sheet of rice paper and scribble notes furiously, then return to his ritualistic motions. A strange animal-like sound seeped from his vocal cords and drops of sweat flew through the air.
At last he collapsed in a heap on the floor and his helpers removed the headpiece and robes.
The Dalai Lama picked up a wooden bowl filled with water, dampened a sheep’s skin, then stepped over, bent down, and began to wash the sweat from the aging man.
“You did well,” he said in a soothing voice. “There is much information written on the sheets.”
The oracle allowed the Dalai Lama to drip some water into his mouth. He swished it around and spit it to the side. “I saw bloodshed and fighting,” he said quietly. “Much bloodshed.”
“Let us pray not,” the Dalai Lama said.
“But there was a second way,” the oracle said. “I think that is what I wrote.”
“Bring some tea and tsampa,” the Dalai Lama ordered an aide, who rushed out of the room.
Twelve minutes later, the oracle and the Dalai Lama were sitting around a table in the great room. The Tibetan tea, flavored with salt and butter, as well as the tsampa, roasted barley flour usually mixed with milk or yogurt, had brought the color back to the oracle’s cheeks. Where only moments before he had seemed aged and weak, he now appeared animated and in control.
“Your Holiness,” he said eagerly, “shall we see what I received?”
“Please,” the Dalai Lama said.
The oracle stared at the sheets of rice paper. The letters were in an ancient script only he and a few others could read. He read them through twice, then smiled at the Dalai Lama.
“Is someone from the west coming to see you?” the oracle asked.
“Yes,” the Dalai Lama said, “later this evening.”
“Here is what you tell him,” the oracle said.
Thirty minutes later, the Dalai Lama nodded and smiled at the oracle.
“I will have my aides prepare notes to buttress our argument,” he said, “and thank you.”
Rising from the chair, the oracle walked unsteadily from the room.
LANGSTON Overholt was using a borrowed office in a far corner of the compound at Little Lhasa. He was speaking on a secure line to the director of Central Intelligence in hushed tones.
“I didn’t order that,” he said. “I simply don’t have the apparatus in China to pull it off.”
“The estimates from our people on the ground place the number at five hundred and growing,” the DCI noted.
“I’ll ask the contractor,” Overholt said, “but it may just be a lucky break.”
“Whatever the case,” the DCI said, “reports say the Chinese are paying close attention to the protests.”
“What about the Mongolians?” Overholt asked.
“I had a secret meeting with their ambassador,” the DCI said. “They’ll play it either way.”
“What did that cost?” Overholt asked.
