High Priestess

Sitting in the copilot's seat, the minister of state security watched the unending pastureland roll by. It made him uneasy. All that barrenness. To go down in it was to face days, if not weeks, of cruel trekking to civilization, assuming one survived.

Ahead the horizon was a haze of mountain ranges. As forbidding as the eastern reaches were, the mountains would be infinitely worse. He dreaded the landing at Lhasa's Gonggar Airport so much that he could not bear to look at the mountains from a distance. To land at Gonggar, the pilot would have to ride a knifeblade channel between towering peaks in thin air that would test the turboprop engines.

Back in the passenger area, the Tashi squatted in the middle of the aisle, dwarfed by his retinue. He looked tiny, more like a creature out of superstitious mythology than a human being, as he spun the solid-gold prayer wheel that the minister of state security had presented to him as a reward for making the difficult flight to Lhasa. An altogether too pitiful figure on which to place the future of China's claim to Tibet.

In ten, twenty years, after the proper training and indoctrination, yes. It was conceivable. But rulers-even puppet rulers-were not selected and installed overnight. The advent of the Bunji Lama had changed all that. The minister of state security only hoped the Tashi was equal to the Bunji.

But not as much as he hoped that they would survive the landing at Gonggar.

THE BUNJI LAMA, it was recorded, assumed the Lion Throne without fanfare, notice or pomp, as befitted one who came to the sacred Potala in the dead of night on the selfless task of freeing Tibet from sorrow and slavery.

This was done in the early hours of the last morning of the second month of the Iron Dog Year, with no eyes but those of the all-seeing gods to witness the auspicious moment.

SQUIRRELLY CHICANE was still sleepy. Her brain felt like it had been soaked in ether. It was not a half-bad feeling, actually. She rather liked it. At least it was better than the pounder the high altitude had given her.

Looking around, she wondered where she was. The walls were painted with Buddhas, bodhisattvas and other mythic creatures. The ceiling was arched and high. The furniture was exquisite, especially the ornate gilt chair off in one corner. There were Chinese dragons or dogs or something decorating it.

Since there wasn't any place more inviting, she went over and sat down.

"Comfy," she said approvingly. Right then and there she decided that her awakening scene would be filmed on location. If the budget allowed. If not, it could probably be recreated on a soundstage in Burbank.

She wondered where she was. Her foggy brain failed to summon up the memory of how she had gotten to this place-wherever she was. Dimly she heard music-brassy, discordant, martial music. It seemed very loud, yet far away.

Squirrelly made a mental note to have the music replaced with a John Williams score-unless she ended up doing a musical. In which case she might take a fling at writing the music herself. After all, who was going to tell her no. She was the Bunji Lama now.

Footsteps came toward the closed wooden door. She arranged her robes about her crossed legs in case it was that dried-up Tibetan Peeping Tom, who had barged in while she was on the john.

"Bunji! Bunji!" It was Kula. The big Mongol barged in as if his mohair pants were on inside out.

He took one look and stopped, the alarm going out of his eyes.

Then he got down on hands and knees and began bumping his forehead on the floor. "This is a very great scam," he sobbed in English.

"What is?" Squirrelly said.

"You have assumed the Lion Throne."

"I have? I mean, I have! Where?"

"Your precious bottom sits upon it, Bunji.' "

Squirrelly leapt up. "This is the Lion Throne! Really? You're kidding me. You've got to be. Tell me you're kidding."

"I kid thee not, Bunji. The hour Tibet has awaited has come."

Squirrelly dropped tack onto the golden seat. "Wow! The Lion Throne. I'm sitting on the Lion Throne. What a moment. I can just feel myself vibrating at a higher cosmic frequency. What should I give as my first decree? Oh, I hate these unscripted moments."

"Protectoress, cause the Chinese who are pounding at the Potala gates to shrivel up into sheep dung."

"What Chinese?"

"We have been betrayed, Bunji."

"We have?"

"The, stinking abbot who gave us sanctuary has betrayed us to the hated Han."

"It's karma," cried Squirrelly, leaping to her feet.

Kula got up, too. "What have we done to reap such bad karma?"

"No. No. It's good karma. This is perfect! This is great."

"What is?"

Squirrelly spread her hands wide as if to conjure up the scene. "It's the end of the second act. No, wait, the beginning of the third act. The Bunji Lama awakens as if from a dream, instinctively taking her throne. And at her moment of perfect triumph, she is betrayed by one of her subjects. A notorious Peeping Tom, I'll have you know. In bursts her faithful Mongol servant-that's you-with the bad news."

"But you said it was good karma," Kula countered.

Squirrelly began pacing the floor. "It's bad in real life but great cinema. Don't interrupt your Bunji. Now where was I? Oh, yeah. Now she knows she has to take the yak by the horns and win the day." Squirrelly, popped her hands together. "The audience will eat this up like popcorn!"

Kula glanced toward the door. "Why are you saying all this, Bunji, when our very lives are in danger?"

"It's a plot point. We have to slip them into the script from time to time."

Kula looked blank.

Squirrelly paced the floor. "Okay, now I gotta turn the tables. But how? How?"

From beyond the door came a great crashing.

Squirrelly stopped in midpace. "What was that?"

"The gates have fallen to the enemies of the faith," said Kula.

"Perfect!" Squirrelly crowed.

"They will flood in like ants," Kula added.

"Fantastic! We're outnumbered a hundred to one. The audience will be on the edges of their seats. Perfect! I love it! I love it! I just love being the Bunji Lama!"

At that moment the Master of Sinanju flew in. "We must flee!" he said.

"Flee? Not on your life. I'm in costume, I have my Lion Throne, and I'm keeping it!"

"The Chinese will overrun us. We cannot fight them all."

"The way is blocked," said Lobsang from the door. "The Bunji must make her stand here."

"She will die," Chiun said firmly.

"If she dies," Lobsang intoned calmly, "it is the will of the gods. The people will hear of this and rise up,"

"The Bunji is under the protection of the House of Sinanju. Her death would bring shame upon my house. I will not have it."

Kula stepped up to Lobsang and laid the edge of a dagger against his throat. "We will do as the Master of Sinanju bids."

Squirrelly stamped a bare foot. "Don't I get some say here?"

"You are the Bunji," said Kula, bowing his head in Squirrelly's direction. "Of course we will obey your merest whim."

"Fine. My whim is that we-"

The Master of Sinanju slipped up and touched the back of Squirrelly Chicane's neck. Her mouth kept moving, but no words issued forth. She tried coughing. It only made her throat raw. Not a syllable came out.

My voice! Squirrelly thought with mounting panic. I've lost my voice!

Then she was unceremoniously thrown over Kula's hamlike shoulders and began bouncing with his every rolling step.

"This way!" hissed Chiun.

"This way leads to a cul-de-sac," Lobsang said unhappily. "We will be trapped."

"You may go another way, Priest," Kula said, his voice contemptuous.

At the end of a corridor there was a big brass Buddha, too heavy to be carried away by the Chinese who'd stripped the Potala. The Buddha sat on a wooden dais with his open palms cupped upward. In his palms rested a lotus flower.

Chiun seized it, wrenched it right, then left and finally all the way around. The Buddha began to sink into the floor of its own weight, dais and all, accompanied by a soft gritty hissing.

As the smiling head began dropping, Chiun motioned for the others to mount on the dais. Kula clambered aboard, one hand clapping a struggling Squirrelly Chicane to his shoulder. Lobsang followed, his thin face baffled. They rode the dais down into a cool yawning space as if it were a great freight elevator.

Down below it was very dark. Lobsang lit a yak butter candle, and its mellow light showed a dripping passage leading toward a clot of crepuscular shadow.

"Follow the passage to its end and await me there," Chiun instructed. "I must restore the Buddha in order to baffle the Chinese. Make haste!"

They complied, moving down the passage enveloped in a halo of malodorous light.

The Master of Sinanju examined the Buddha. It now sat on a pile of soft sand. The turning of the lotus had released catches that supported the idol. Its weight had caused the sand pile to spread outward and the Buddha to slip below the level of the floor. It was a secret a previous Master had learned and duly recorded in the histories of the house. He had not shown how to restore the Buddha, however.

Distantly there were shouts and the heavy fall of rushing feet. Searching PLA cadres. If they discovered the sunken Buddha, all would be lost.

Chiun, understanding that restoring the Buddha would be the work of hours, and not having hours, decided that it would be more efficacious to eradicate all evidence of the secret passage.

The passageway was constructed of mortarless blocks, in the fashion of architecture in Tibet. He retreated to the junction where the passage turned and looked for a keystone. It sat in its niche, fixed and immobile.

The Master of Sinanju laid the flat palm of his hand against it, feeling the ancient stone for cracked or weak points. When the sensitive flesh of his palms told his mind that such a place existed, he made fists of his bony hands.

He struck the spot with one fist, pulled back and struck with the other. Strike. Return. Strike. Return. The stone retreated into its niche with each shock. Finally, it reached the point of no retreat, and the blows of his fists, hard and resolute, began to chip away at the block's innate integrity.

The fists of the Master left no mark on the stone. Then abruptly, without warning, the stone broke apart.

The surrounding blocks began to groan.

Chiun flew down the passage, pipe-stem feet churning, fists pumping, head back.

There had been sufficient time for the others to have reached the egress of the passage, Chiun knew. If the gods were with him, there would be time for him to join them before disaster struck.

The rumble began far back and chased the Master of Sinanju down the passage.

He thanked the gods Remo had not come with them. For surely his clod-footed pupil would now be two or three paces behind, his thick head in imminent danger of being crushed by the falling blocks that now came down in a merciless rain.

Chapter 35

By early morning the caravan that had formed behind the truck carrying Remo Williams to Lhasa was half a mile long.

It was the perfect target for Chinese helicopter gunships or short-range artillery.

They rode through a sleepy hill town unchecked, picking up more trucks and leaving in their wake burning buildings.

"Once word travels, the Chinese are going to be all over us like hair on a yak," Remo said unhappily as he scanned the bright blue morning skies.

Bumba Fun grunted unconcernedly. "They fear Gonpo Jigme. They fear the Dreadnought. They will give back before us. You will see."

"Don't count on it."

A line of gunships appeared on the western horizon. They were moving north.

"Here they come," Remo warned.

But they didn't come. They kept traveling north. Then Remo realized they were headed toward Lhasa.

"Something's up."

"Yes. The Chinese are too frightened to strike at Gonpo the Dreadnought."

"Is there a radio in this thing?" Remo asked, reaching for the dash knobs. He got a radio station. A excitable voice came from the speaker, speaking Tibetan or Chinese. Remo couldn't tell.

"What's he saying?" Remo wanted to know.

"It is Radio Lhasa," said Bumba Fun. "They have declared martial law."

"And..."

"That is all they say. All Tibetans have been ordered indoors. Perhaps word of Gonpo Jigme's nearness has reached them, and they cower in fear of your coming."

"Maybe the Bunji Lama's stirred the place up," Remo countered.

"Oh, yes, the Chinese announcer mentioned the Bunji Lama also."

"What'd he say?"

"The Bunji has been taken to Drapchi Prison."

"That's probably good," Remo decided.

"But he has escaped."

"That's not good."

"Why is that not good, Gonpo?"

"You don't know the Bunji Lama like I know the Bunji Lama."

"I do not know the Bunji Lama at all," Bumba Fun admitted.

Another flight of helicopters appeared and made a beeline for the daunting mountains surrounding Lhasa.

"They must think we're the Chinese cavalry coming to the rescue," Remo said, watching the gunships rattle over a ridge.

Bumba Fun grinned. "We will blow into Lhasa like the end of the world."

"That's what I'm afraid of," said Remo, wondering how he was going to get out of Tibet alive, alone or not, with the entire country being mobilized.

SQUIRRELLY CHICANE WAS royally pissed.

She couldn't vent her holy pissedness. That was the part that pissed her off the most. It was bad enough to be packed around like a side of beef, but not having a say in the matter was just too much.

Beating on Kula's broad back only hurt her fists. Besides, Squirrelly didn't want to break her Oscar.

She was being saved. In all the movies she had ever done, being saved by males annoyed her most. She was over forty before she had been allowed to save her own cinematic behind.

Now, invested as the pontiff of Tibet, for Buddha's sake, and here she was reduced to being saved again. It was a major step backward, image- and career-wise. If only she could speak. She'd give them all a piece of her Bunji mind.

After what seemed like forever they emerged from the dank passage into a cool cavern of some sort. Fresh air blew in steadily. Squirrelly had only a moment to drink in the invigorating air when there came a low rumble from the passage.

And the Master of Sinanju flashed out of the maw, saying, "Make haste! The ceiling may fall at this end."

What is that sound? Squirrelly wondered as she was carried away from the spot. An earthquake?

From the mouth of the passage came another rumble, and the ground under their running feet shook. Out of the stone passage came a breath of fetid air mixed with dust and grit. It met with the incoming fresh air, mixed-and the fetid air won out.

The passage had collapsed. Squirrelly didn't know how. But it meant that the Chinese wouldn't be chasing them.

Nice plot twist, but where could the story go from here? A breakneck chase would have been better.

Otherwise, the ceiling held. The danger was over.

Kula set her on her feet, and she made a point of inflicting the blue lasers of her best on-screen glare at each of them in turn. Kula looked abashed. Lobsang actually flinched. But the Master of Sinanju pointedly ignored her.

Squirrelly hated that. But she was more interested in taking stock of her surroundings. This cavern was amazing. Every corner was a set unto itself. There were stone statuaries cut into the cave walls and great brass tubs of yak butter in which lit wicks floated and burned with a buttery yellow light.

A bank of prayer wheels stood like vertical press rollers, and Squirrelly gave them a spin, mentally praying for her voice to come back. It didn't happen. She wondered if praying to herself had been a mistake.

Carefully they crept toward the fresh air. The clear light of early morning filtered in a little from the near mouth of the cave.

At the entrance-the cavern was some kind of temple cut into the side of a great hill-they stood looking across at the Potala. Its multistoried white levels, like some Hare Khrishna's idea of a condominium, were busy with greenuniformed soldiers. They swarmed along the many-leveled roofs with its golden lions. Smoke and dust boiled out of a cluster of windows.

"A jeep comes," hissed Kula, pointing to the road below.

Instantly everyone squatted down to get out of sight. Except Squirrelly. A hand reached up and yanked her flat.

The jeep passed without incident.

Squirrelly lay on her stomach and tried to make sounds come out of her mouth. She pointed to her mouth angrily. More jeeps whirled by. Tanks clanked, taking up defensive positions. Canvas-backed trucks laden with hard-faced PLA cadres rolled back and forth.

Lobsang hissed, "There are too many Chinese even for a Master of Sinanju and one Mongol."

Squirrelly glowered at them. What was she-chopped yak liver?

From his crouching position, Chiun searched the busy street with his eyes. "Escape will be difficult," he admitted, his hazel eyes narrowing to slits.

"Then we will make our stand here," vowed Kula. "Prepared to die if need be in the service of the Buddha-Sent One."

Die? thought Squirrelly. I can't die. I'm the heroine.

She tried to communicate that, but the three were too busy arguing among themselves to pay her attention. Typical supporting actors.

"Any fool can die," Chiun was saying. "We must seek out a place of true refuge in order to plan our strategy."

His eyes went to a ring of snowcapped peaks that seemed so close but could not be reached on foot without incurring great risk.

Kula followed the Master of Sinanju's gaze. "Yes, the mountains would be a good place."

"But how to reach them," said Lobsang.

Kula checked his AK-47 and said, "I will find us a worthy steed." Without another word, he clambered down the mountainside.

THE NEXT HOUR was one of the most boring yet nervous in Squirrelly Chicane's sixty years on earth. It was worse than waiting for the director to set up a shot.

They withdrew to the cool shadows of the temple cavern and waited. The sounds of motorized infantry, helicopters and the unintelligible shoutings of Chinese commanders came and went. More than once the loudspeakers distributed throughout Lhasa blared shouts and exhortations.

"They are calling upon us to surrender," Chiun said.

"We will never surrender," Lobsang said, stiff-voiced.

Squirrelly said nothing. She spun the prayer wheels furiously, imploring the Buddhas of the Past, Present and Future to give her back her voice. They must have been on another cosmic line, because all she managed were some hoarse gasps.

The whup-whup-whup of the helicopter at first sounded like any other. Then it drew alarmingly close. Then its earsplitting racket filled the cavern.

Squirrelly's blue eyes went to the cave mouth. A helicopter bubble hovered just outside like the clear, all-seeing eye of a great dragonfly. Kicked-up dust obscured everything.

Lobsang had possession of one of Kula's AK-47s. He snapped it to his shoulder and aimed toward the pilot.

A hand swept out and relieved the Tibetan of the weapon, and the voice of the Master of Sinanju squeaked, "It is Kula. He has brought us the steed by which we will make our escape."

Squirrelly looked past the helicopter windshield. Sure enough, there sat the big, lovable Mongol. Kula was grinning and pointing upward. Then the helicopter lifted from sight.

After that it was just a matter of climbing to the hilltop to join him under the whirling rotor blades.

"We will escape from right under the noses of the Chinese enemies of the faith," he boasted.

"You can fly this unholy machine safely?" Lobsang asked doubtfully.

"If we die, it was meant to be," laughed Kula.

"If we die," said Chiun, gathering up his skirts to step aboard, "I will hold you personally accountable throughout all your lives to come."

They lifted off and went rattling toward the snowcaps surrounding Lhasa Valley so smoothly that right on the spot Squirrelly decided the scene was too good not to use. She'd just have to rewrite it so she commandeered the helicopter. Why not? It was her movie. If anyone questioned it, she'd invoke the old dramatic-license chestnut.

Chapter 36

There were fires burning to the south as the CAAC turboprop bearing the minister of state security fought the terrific downdrafts above Gonggar Airport, eighty miles to the south of Lhasa.

Tibet was in revolt. The radio reports verified it. Chushi Gangdruk guerrillas were committing depredations in towns and cities strung all along the Friendship Highway.

There was no doubt that this was the doing of the meddlesome Bunji Lama. The minister of state security prayed to whatever gods still smiled upon China in these unsuperstitious days that the Tashi, chanting mantras in his seat and spinning his golden prayer wheel, would be recognized as a greater power than the white-eyes lama from the other side of the world. If not, the minister of state security was prepared to take measures not sanctioned by Beijing.

He would not lose Tibet. To lose Tibet would be to lose face . . . if not his head.

The turboprop dropped with sickening suddenness, and the minister forgot all about the Bunji Lama, Tibet and possible loss of face or head.

As he held the paper sack to his pale lips, all he cared about was holding in his breakfast.

WHEN THEY CAME within sight of the town of Gonggar, Remo Williams told his Khampas, "I want this place left the way we found it."

Bumba Fun shrank behind the driver's seat of the truck as if deflated. "No burning?"

"No nothing. We're making good time."

"But why, O Gonpo?"

"You burn the town, and you'll wreck the airport. I'm going to need the airport to get the Bunji the hell out of Tibet."

"That is a strange reason," Bumba Fun muttered.

"It'll be good practice for when we reach Lhasa."

"But we would not burn Lhasa. It is sacred to Tibet. We would burn only Chinese and their profane buildings."

"We've had enough burning. When we hit Lhasa, I want it done quietly."

"We will hit Lhasa as quietly as Khampas are able," promised Bumba Fun.

"Do better," said Remo. "After I haul the Bunji Lama's butt out of town, it's your show."

Perking up, Bumba Fun bore down on the accelerator like a Khampa possessed.

THE PLA HELICOPTER settled onto the mountain summit, kicking up a cloud of stinging flakes. The skids sank a foot into pristine snow cover.

"We are safe here," grunted Kula as he shut down the rotors.

The Master of Sinanju stepped out onto the frozen snowcap. The air was thin and very bitter to inhale. But it smelled of freedom, and so it was good.

He surveyed the valley below.

Lhasa's fantastical roofs shone in the harsh light of day. But other than the tiny figures in green, no people were about in the streets. Martial law had clamped down upon the ancient city cupped in the eternal mountains. And because the people of Lhasa accepted whatever befell them as preordained from the beginning of time, and the Chinese were many and possessed deadly weapons in plenty, there was no resistance. Mostly it was the latter.

Someone would have to rouse the people to the Bunji's presence in their midst. Only then would they come out of their homes and their hovels and retake the streets.

Only a Master of Sinanju was fit for such a dangerous task, thought Chiun. So be it. When darkness came and the Chinese slept exhausted in their barracks, he would venture down into the city to awaken the people of Tibet from their long nightmare of sleep.

Until then the Master of Sinanju could only wait and hope that no People's Liberation Army helicopter ventured over this particular peak.

AN F-70-CT HELICOPTER stood waiting at the end of the Gonggar Airport runway when the turboprop whined to a safe stop.

The minister of state security spit the last bitter taste of bile and his morning rice into the paper sack and rushed to the exit door. He waved toward the helicopter pilot, then made a circling motion over his head. The pilot engaged the main rotor. The droopy blades began to revolve to the accompaniment of a rising whine.

As he went back to prepare the Tashi for the short hop to Lhasa, the minister of state security thought to himself that the worst was over. He had made Gonggar without injury. And the helicopter was a variation of the Sikorsky Blackhawk specially equipped for high-altitude flying. The pilot would be the best the PLA had to offer.

It was just a matter of introducing the presence of the Tashi into the volatile situation in Lhasa now.

He stood at the foot of the stairs as the Tashi was helped down by his personal servants. The Tashi looked serene. His movements were graceful, delicate, almost sweet. He spun the gold prayer wheel in his left hand with a studied intent.

"The hour of your ascendancy draws near," the minister of state security told his charge when the Tashi's sandals at last stood on Tibetan soil for the first time.

Closing his small eyes, the Tashi merely nodded.

"In honor of this momentous event, I am pleased to present to you a gift worthy of your station," the security minister said, snapping his fingers once.

Out of the aircraft, a cadre came, bearing a prayer wheel almost as tall as himself.

The Tashi's attendants gasped at the sight of it. Turning, the Tashi himself went wide of eye.

It stood over four feet tall, the mahogany shaft as thick around as a shepherd's staff. Surmounting it was a prayer wheel the size and shape of a snare drum. It was made of rare woods, inlaid with silver, gold, jade and semiprecious stones.

The Tashi took it. Planting the staff onto the tarmac, he shook it until the wheel hummed, its red and blue and green stones making streaks of varicolored light.

"It is an auspicious augury," the Tashi said, smiling.

Together they glided toward the waiting helicopter. The Tashi allowed one of his attendants to bear the prayer wheel that had been looted from the Potala in the early weeks of the annexation of Tibet, more than a generation ago. It was too heavy for his small-boned form to carry.

When they were over Gonggar, the minister of state security noticed a line of military trucks and vehicles speeding toward the airport town. PLA reinforcements, obviously.

He took comfort in the fact that by the time they reached Lhasa, the stubborn difficulty of the Bunji Lama would be resolved.

TWO T-72 HEAVY BATTLE tanks stood guard on the street called Yanhe Donglu at the south approach to Lhasa proper. They sat stern to stern, 125mm Smoothbore cannon pointed menacingly in the direction of Gonggar.

There was enough space between them for a yak to pass-if the yak wasn't pregnant.

"Slow down," Remo told Bumba Fun when they came to the tanks.

"Do you not mean stop?"

"Slow down first. Then stop."

The truck drew to a halt not ten yards from the yawning Smoothbore muzzles.

"What do we do, Gonpo Jigme?" Bumba Fun asked uncertainly. "Those tanks block our path."

"Give me a minute," said Remo, stepping out.

"To do what?"

"Break the tanks," said Remo.

PLA TANK COMMANDER Yun Ting narrowed his eyes at the lone Khampa who stepped out of the lead truck of the unauthorized convoy. He watched the man approach, apparently unarmed. The way the Khampa walked was too casual to suggest a threat. Still, Yun Ting, seated up in the turret hatch, tripped the lever that controlled the turret's revolutions. The turret jerked left, the better to fix the Khampa with the terrifying maw of its cannon. It was a very intimidating action, designed to promote compliance.

The trouble was the Khampa with the silver-fox turban looked not at all intimidated. Not even when Yun's counterpart in the other tank adjusted his Smoothbore so that the Khampa was fixed in an annihilating cross fire.

The Khampa walked right up to the point where the cannon barrels were within easy reach. Ignoring Yun's shouted demand that he identify himself, the Khampa reached up with casual hands and cupped the lower rims of both barrels in his palms, like some brainless peasant ready to milk the teats of a giant goat.

He used his fingers to feel the hard steel, and Yun noticed they were too white to belong to a true Khampa.

The sound came like a thunderclap. For the rest of his days, Yun thought the sound came first. But he also clearly remembered, in the military prison where they threw him for dereliction of duty, seeing the hands withdraw and snap back in unison. The edges of the twin palms struck the hard rim of the Smoothbore together. And at once the long barrels cracked and split for the entire length.

The thunderous crack that jerked Yun Ting up in his hard seat came then. Not before. His shocked nerves only remembered it the other way.

The twin Smoothbores each fell to the hard asphalt in two sections, perfectly halved.

It was impossible. Unbelievable. And most of all, the insolent Khampa who had destroyed the peoples' property simply stood there in the middle of the road blowing on his fingers and polishing his white knuckles on the breast of his native costume.

His eyes, staring at Yun Ting, were insolent and mocking. They as much as said "I dare you to shoot me now."

It was a dare PLA Tank Commander Yun Ting elected not to take. He called for retreat. There was a machine gun mounted on his turret, it was true, but in his quailing heart, Yun knew it would be of no value against a being who could split the finest steel forged in China with what looked like a casual kung fu chop of each hand.

The T -72s belched noise and smelly exhaust as they jockeyed around, pointed their noseless turrets north and retreated into the city.

To the shamed ears of Yun Ting came the exultant shouts of the Khampas who now had a clear path into the city.

"Gonpo!" they cried. "Gonpo Jigme! Lha gyalo! De tamche pham!"

He did not know who or what Gonpo Jigme was. The rest was perfectly understandable Tibetan. "The Gods are victorious," the Khampas were saying. "The demons are defeated."

Yun Ting did not like being referred to as a demon, but he could not argue with the rest of it. Not when he was in full retreat before a single unarmed being who, for all he knew, was one of the long-banished gods of ancient Tibet returned.

Chapter 37

The last mountain peak shot away from under the PLA helicopter's skids, and the Lhasa Valley opened up like a great jewel box. Its grandeur, its roofs and the winding River Lhasa, dominated by the gargantuan Potala Palace, was almost enough to take the minister of state security's breath away had he not been busy with radio contact with the main PLA garrison in the city below.

The situation was strange. The Bunji Lama remained at large, although the city was being scoured to locate this personage. All Tibetans had been ordered to remain indoors. But the Bunji could not be found.

"There may be no need to find the Bunji," the minister of state security informed the ground. "For once the people of Lhasa know that the Tashi is in their midst, the influence of the Bunji clique will have been crushed."

As they were clearing him to land at the Dragon King Pool behind the Potala, the minister spotted the PLA helicopter resting atop a peak on the other side of the valley. He took a pair of field glasses from a door pocket and brought them to his eyes.

After a moment he spoke into his throat mike. "I have found the Bunji," he said without excitement.

There was no need for excitement. The Bunji and her clique of reactionaries were obviously stranded on the mountaintop. There would be no escape for them.

They had reached endgame.

THE MASTER of Sinanju watched Lhasa from his windy vantage point on the mountaintop, his hands tucked in the warm tunnel of his joined kimono sleeves, his parchment features troubled.

Below, the foolish dragonflies of the People's Liberation Army crisscrossed the city, flying low. They searched in vain, he knew.

Still, he considered, they were not the only ones afflicted with excessive vanity. He glanced toward the resting helicopter where the Bunji Lama sat fuming. It was good that he had taken her voice, for in the long hours that lay between this calm hour and darkness her shrill complaints and lamentations would surely have been unendurable. The Bunji grew impatient with every passing minute, and only the Master of Sinanju understood that to wrest control of Lhasa from the Han Chinese was a task possibly without a satisfactory end.

Abruptly a solitary helicopter breasted the mountains to the south. It dropped toward the city below. Just when it seemed that it would alight without causing difficulties, it rose again and climbed toward them.

Like male dragonflies scenting a female, the crisscrossing helicopters whirled up from their rooftop patrols and climbed after the solitary PLA ship.

Every helicopter bore on an unerring course toward their mountaintop position.

As he turned to warn the others, the Master of Sinanju understood that the odds of their taking the day had grown infinitely worse.

"BEHOLD THE CRIMINAL skyboats of the Chinese!" Bumba Fun shouted, pointing toward the northern horizon. "See how they flee the approach of Gonpo Jigme! They fear the dreadnought that has come down from Mt. Kailas to expel them from our holy land."

"I never heard of Mt. Kailas," said Remo, watching the helicopters strain toward the rarefied air of the mountains. Up ahead a security checkpoint was being abandoned as PLA cadres piled into jeeps and headed north.

"Lhasa is ours!" Bumba Fun exulted.

"Don't count your yaks until you have them by the horns," Remo warned, thinking that this was too easy. They were barreling up Dousen Galu, past the Working People's Cultural Palace, and no one had tried to stop them since he had maimed those two tanks.

Whatever was going on, he had a hunch that Chiun was somehow involved.

Along the way Bumba Fun and his Khampas called upon the citizens of Lhasa to turn out in support of their own liberation. Dull bronze faces appeared at windows like beaten gongs. But that was all. No one ventured out of doors. And when they began encountering pockets of PLA resistance, they were on their own.

"Buddhists," muttered Remo.

NO SOONER HAD the Master of Sinanju broken the dire news to the Bunji Lama and the others than the air was full of flying machines. They zipped back and forth in the thin air, rotors buzzing. There was no escape from them, except downward.

"We cannot remain here," Chiun said tightly.

"We will fight," said Kula. Lifting both AK-47s in his big hands, he peppered any helicopter that dared stray too close.

One, mortally wounded, spiraled down to blossom into a fiery flower far below. Another fired back, shattering the cockpit of their own helicopter. Kula directed his fire toward that ship. The twin streams of lead chewed off the tad rotor. It, too, fell from the sky, a wounded thing of complaining metal.

The Master of Sinanju allowed Kula his sport. When both clips ran empty, the big Mongol dropped his rifles in disgust and drew his silver dagger as if to reach out and snare a passing helicopter for gutting.

In the end they started down off the mountain, plowing through waist-high snow that concealed treacherous boulders.

Cadres in PLA green began rappeling down from their helicopters to places of ambush below the snow line. They crouched in waiting, weapons ready, hard eyes cruel.

Cadres below, helicopters above. And across the pastureland that separated Lhasa proper from the mountain on which they stood came column after column of tanks and jeeps and trucks.

Holding his black skirts before him like a plow, Chiun blazed a trail through the snow sufficient for the Bunji Lama, Kula and Lobsang Drom to follow safely. He grew grim of visage. It was possible to steal past the lurking cadres, possible also for one of his consummate skill to reach the relative safety of Lhasa and be spirited out of Tibet by guile and cunning. But to lead his charges to safety was another matter. Some would die. Perhaps all. All except for the Master of Sinanju himself, of course. He would refuse to die.

Surrender was the only reasonable option. Surrender, and then perhaps the advantage could be regained and the tables turned.

He turned to break the harsh truth to those who had put their trust in him.

Squirrelly Chicane couldn't believe her ears.

Surrender? she shouted. Except no words came out.

"I will never surrender to the Han," vowed Kula.

Attaboy! Squirrelly thought.

"I will surrender if it is ordained that I surrender," added Lobsang in a doleful voice.

You're a big help, Squirrelly thought.

"We must surrender if we are to leave this mountain alive," Chiun insisted.

Never! Squirrelly screamed mentally. This was awful. The whole storyline is failing apart. I've got to get them back on track. They need inspiration. If only I could say something or sing a song. That's it! A song! I need an uplifting song. Their spirits will soar, and all this defeatist talk will end up on the cutting-room floor, where it belongs.

Squirrelly bustled up to the Master of Sinanju and tried to get his attention. She pointed to her mouth, made faces, did everything she could think of except kick him in the shin.

"The Bunji wishes to speak," Kula pointed out.

"She should be heard," Lobsang agreed.

So, reluctantly Chiun reached up to release her vocal cords.

"You may speak," he said.

"It's about time you did that!" Squirrelly complained. "I have a plan."

"The Bunji has a plan," Kula said excitedly.

"Tell us this plan," Chiun said suspiciously.

"Just watch!' And without another word, Squirrelly clambered up on a snowy crag within full view of the cadres below, the helicopters above and the tanks and military vehicles assembling at the base of the mountain and burst into song:

"I am the Buddha;

The Buddha is me.

I got my start

Beneath the bodhi tree.

I am the Bunji;

The Bunji is me.

Here I come,

To set Tibet freeeee!"

Squirrelly Chicane's voice lifted to heights never before reached on stage, screen or in real life. Her top note soared, held and soared even higher to unearthly realms of sound.

Every living thing on the mountain from man to snow leopard froze. They looked up toward the source of the arresting note.

And when she felt all the full and undivided attention of her audience, Squirrelly Chicane launched into the chorus.

Unfortunately no one heard a single note of the rest of her performance. They were too busy running from the rumble of sound that started way up above the snow line, grew to a roar and started cascading down the mountain, pushing before it tons of snow, ice and hard, punishing rocks.

Avalanche!

The word exploded in a hundred minds at once.

The Master of Sinanju leapt from his spot and yanked Squirrelly Chicane off the crag. She came unwillingly, but she came.

"Seek shelter!" he cried to the others.

Tons of snow and rocks roared down in a fury of sliding ice and tumbling rock. There was no time to do anything except crouch under substantial stone and pray to whatever gods could hear above the deafening roar of the mountaintop that raced down, gathering speed and substance and destruction.

When it ended, the clear, cold air rang with the sound of no sound.

A bald yellow head streaked with black popped up from the snow. The Master of Sinanju peered about narrowly. He reached down. He pulled Squirrelly Chicane up by her saffron-tinted hair.

"I did it! I did it! Didn't I do it?" she said happily.

Kula and Lobsang emerged next, shaking the snow off like bears coming out of long hibernation.

Below, the base of the mountain had been filled in. A handful of tanks had survived the onslaught. They were racing away.

Above, the helicopters had scattered like so many frightened crows.

"I did it! I did it! I conquered the wicked Chinese!" Squirrelly exulted.

"We are not free yet," intoned Chiun, looking up at the helicopters, already regathering like brazen vultures over a notquite-dead living thing.

After a few minutes all but one stood off at some distance. The remaining helicopter, Chiun saw, was the one that had led the pack and brought this calamity about.

From a belly-mounted loudspeaker came an authoritative voice, speaking perfect Mandarin. "I offer safe passage to Gonggar Airport. Will you accept this generous offer?"

"Never!" Squirrelly shrieked, shaking her fist at the helicopter. "Isn't that right, men?"

When there was no answer, she said again, "I said, 'Isn't that right, men?'"

They regarded her with doubtful eyes.

"Don't you see! This is the climax. The Bunji Lama calls down a mountaintop onto the bad guys with her magnificent Bunji voice. This will really play! I'd like to see Spielberg top this! Why, I'll bet they're dancing in the streets right now, rejoicing that the bad guys finally got their comeuppance."

All eyes went to Lhasa. There was no question that many who heard the sound of the avalanche had seen the forces of the People's Liberation Army crushed into oblivion.

"They should be pouring into the streets any time now," Squirrelly said breathlessly.

But Lhasa remained quiet.

"What's with them? Don't they understand they've been liberated?"

When it became clear that the answer was no, Squirrelly cupped her hands before her mouth and tried to shout the joyous news across the Lhasa Valley.

The top of the mountain gave a brief warning rumble.

A quick hand touched her throat, and Squirrelly found herself squeaking like an excited mouse, and then nothing came out of her mouth at all.

You're all just jealous because a woman saved you! she tried to shout. They were talking among themselves as if she were a mere extra.

"I have come to set the Bunji Lama on the Lion Throne," the Master of Sinanju said slowly. "This I have done."

"It is true," Kula admitted readily.

"The Bunji Lama is now ruler of Tibet-by all rights."

Forget the exposition, you morons! Squirrelly screamed mentally. My public awaits!

"Perhaps," continued Chiun, "it has been ordained from the start of time that this Bunji Lama is not in truth the Bunji who is destined to liberate Tibet."

Everyone looked at Squirrelly as if she had blown her lines, big-time.

"It is possible," Kula admitted. "After all, she is a white eyes. And female."

"If it is to be, it is to be," said Lobsang. "For who among us can arrest the mighty Wheel of the Inexorable?"

Chiun said, "It is decided, then. We have done all we could. We must flee in order to await a truer hour and a more fortuitous time."

Like hell we are! Squirrelly screamed mentally.

But they had made up their minds. Squirrelly found herself gathered up in Kula's big treacherous arms, and down they went again.

It just couldn't get any worse if she were being forced to play opposite animals or, God forbid, a child actor.

Chapter 38

At the base of the mountain, the followers of the Bunji Lama took possession of an abandoned jeep. They discovered the driver as they drove off. He had been hiding under the chassis, and they left him lying on his stomach with his tongue and the contents of his stomach extruded from his dead, open mouth.

Kula drove. They were not followed into the city, not even by the PLA helicopter that had promised them safe passage. Curiously, it rattled in the direction of Gonggar Airport.

And in Lhasa the rattle of automatic-weapons fire came now and again. Here and there the black smoke lifted to the blue sky.

"The Chinese are fighting," Kula muttered.

"But who are they fighting?" Chiun wondered aloud.

"They are fighting Tibetans," Lobsang said proudly. "The people of Lhasa, knowing that the Bunji is among them, are in open revolt."

"Tibetans do not fight," Kula said contemptuously.

But as they approached the city, the sounds of combat escalated.

The fighting seemed centered around the Public Security Bureau headquarters. Kula swung around it, taking Aefong Beilu south to XingFu Donglu and cutting up and down empty streets whose windows framed frightened Tibetan faces until the road back to Gonggar came within sight.

Turning a corner, they avoided a head-on collision with a military truck by a margin so narrow that both vehicles exchanged paint samples.

"Khampa drivers!" Kula grumbled. "They are the worst."

"Khampas are fighters," Lobsang said.

"Khampas are bandits and sissies," Kula growled. But something in his rearview mirror brought him up in his seat. The truck was pulling a screeching U-turn and careering after them at high speed.

Kula pressed the accelerator, saying, "I will show them!"

The jeep sped ahead. The truck came roaring after it. Neck and neck they raced toward Gonggar. Every time the truck pulled alongside, Kula wrung more horsepower out of the jeep.

In the end the jeep seemed the clear winner until an annoyed voice lifted over the gunning engine sounds.

"Hey! Pullover! It's me!"

Chiun perked up in his seat. "Remo?"

"Who do you think?" Remo Williams shouted from behind the wheel.

Kula, eyes wide, said, "But you are dressed as a Khampa, White Tiger."

"It's a freaking disguise!" Remo shouted. "Now, pull over."

Kula started braking. A sandaled foot helped his foot stomp on the gas pedal, and a long-fingered hand took the wheel and inexorably steered the jeep to the shoulder of the road.

Remo jumped out of the truck, his silver-fox turban askew.

Chiun leapt out to meet him. "What are you doing in Tibet?" the Master of Sinanju demanded angrily.

"I've been trying to find you for hours," Remo complained. "You've really done it this time, you know. There's a huge international stink brewing."

"I am on sabbatical," Chiun snapped. "No shadow of what I do should properly fall upon America."

"Tell that to Beijing. Smith is having fits. The President is on his back because the First Lady is on his back. Look, we gotta get all of you out of Tibet fast."

"Who is this?" Kula asked of Remo, pointing to Bumba Fun.

Bumba Fun struck his chest, saying, "I am Bumba Fun, the strong right arm of Gonpo Jigme."

"Who is Gonpo Jigme?" asked Kula.

"I am," said Remo.

Chiun inserted himself in front of Remo. "You are Gonpo Jigme?"

"Yeah."

"But you sound like Remo."

"I am Remo."

"You just said that you are Gonpo Jigme."

"I am Gonpo Jigme. Look, this is starting to sound like one of those Bumba Fun conversations I keep having everywhere I go. Let's just get out of here, okay?"

Squirrelly Chicane presented herself to Remo at that moment. She made frantic motions at herself, at Chiun and at her unworking voice.

Remo restored her voice with a touch of a neck nerve.

"What's the idea of blowing in here and stealing my show?" Squirrelly demanded.

"Huh?"

"This is my movie, you-you scene-stealer! And you're way too late if you're here to costar. It's the third act already."

"What's she babbling about?" Remo asked Chiun.

"No one knows," said Chiun. "But we must get you out of Tibet with utmost dispatch."

"Get me out of Tibet! I came half way around the world to get you out of Tibet."

"I'm going nowhere!" Squirrelly protested. "I'm the Bunji Lamb and in Tibet the word of the Bunji Lamb is absolute law. Now, here's my plan. First, we-"

Remo and Chiun both stifled any further protest with warning gestures of their voice-deadening fingers, and they all climbed back into their respective vehicles and roared off in the direction of Gonggar Airport.

Chiun had joined Remo in the truck. Remo was driving, and Bumba Fun was hunkered down in the truck's bed.

Behind them, Lhasa quaked with explosions.

"I told those Khampas not to make a mess," Remo complained. "The minute they blew into town they couldn't wait to tear into the Chinese."

"When did you become a Khampa?" Chiun sniffed.

"I'm an honorary Khampa." Remo leaned over and whispered, "They think I'm this Gonpo Jigme character."

"And who do you think you are?" Chiun asked.

Remo threw his silver-fox turban out the window and slapped an itchy spot on the back of his head.

"A guy in serious need of a bath," said Remo. Then, noticing that the Master of Sinanju's bald head was streaked with black, he asked. "What's that on your head? It looks like you've been playing in a coal bin."

"It is a part of my disguise."

"Disguise?"

"You are in disguise. Am I not entitled to the same?"

"Well, whatever it is, it's coming off," Remo pointed out.

Checking himself in a side mirror, Chiun plucked from one sleeve a small aerosol can. He used this to liberally apply a black powdery substance to his streaked scalp.

Remo caught a glimpse of the label before the can disappeared back up the sleeve. It read Hair In A Can.

Remo rolled his eyes. Getting out of Tibet couldn't come soon enough for him.

THERE WAS a reception committee waiting for them when they wheeled into Gonggar Airport. Not soldiers, although there were a few of those present but they quickly retreated into the background.

Ordinary Tibetans lined the approach road and formed a semicircle on the tarmac. Prayer wheels, both plain and ornate, spun anxiously. All eyes followed them as they pulled up near a waiting turboprop aircraft.

"I don't like the looks of this," Remo said as he searched the crowd with his eyes.

"They will not interfere," said Chiun, but his eyes were concerned as he stepped from the truck.

"Don't be silly," Squirrelly said. "It's my adoring public." She began blowing kisses. "Yoo-hoo. It's me-the Bunji Lama."

The ranks of Tibetans regarded her without emotion.

"What's the matter with them? I've been gone sixty years. You'd think they'd be thrilled to see me."

A middle-aged Chinese in military uniform stepped from the crowd. "I am the one who offered you safe passage," he announced.

"And you will be the one to pay dearly if such passage is not granted," warned Chiun in the man's own language.

"As minister of state security for all of China, I have summoned the people of this area to see you off."

"They are welcome to behold the unhappy sight," said Chiun thinly.

"It is important that the people of Tibet see that the Bunji clique does not care for them and is willing to return to the soft comforts of the West," the security minister purred.

"We go because we chose to depart," said Chiun stiffly

"But the people of Tibet will not be left without spiritual leadership," the security minister continued smoothly, his words directed to the crowd. "For one has come to this land to offer guidance during these confusing times."

With that the Chinese minister of state security gestured to the east. "For the Tashi has returned to Tibet!" he said loudly.

"The Tashi!" Lobsang hissed.

The Tibetans took up the name, repeating it over and over in hushed reverent tones that gathered in volume to a chant.

"What's the Tashi?" wondered Remo, who had not been able to follow the conversation but noticed the word repeated over and over.

"The Tashi Lama," said Chiun tightly.

"There's another llama?" Squirrelly burst out.

"Also know as the Panchen Lama," Lobsang hissed. "He is and always has been a tool of the Chinese."

"Is he very powerful?"

"He is the reincarnation of Opame, Buddha of Boundless Light."

Squirrelly's eyes went wide. "Boundless light! Is he a bigger star than me? Am I outranked? How big is his trailer? Oh God, on top of everything else, I'm being upstaged."

"The Tashi comes!" Kula growled.

"Oh my God, the Tashi Lama is coming and my hair's a mess! And look at these clothes! I have to change. Where's my dressing room?"

"Hush. This is a moment of great importance."

The crowd parted, and a quartet of abbots in red-and-gold vestments glided into view. They approached with stately steps.

"Which one is the Tashi?" Squirrelly whispered.

As if on cue, the abbots separated, revealing a tiny figure in golden robes padding along, face soft and serene beneath his miter, eyes possessing an innocence and beauty that were beyond words.

"It's just a kid," Remo said.

It was. The Tashi Lama could not have been older than eight. His tiny face was suffused with glowing pride.

Squirrelly gasped. "But look at the size of that prayer wheel. It's humongous! And all I have is this crummy Oscar."

"That's the biz, sweetheart," said Remo.

The Tashi Lama padded up to Squirrelly Chicane with serene purpose. His guileless eyes never left her face, and he carried his great prayer wheel high, although with difficulty.

"What do I say?" Squirrelly asked nervously of Lobsang.

"Do not kneel!" Lobsang counseled.

"Is an air-kiss okay? He's so cute."

"Let him bow to you, Buddha Sent," Kula urged.

Squirrelly drew herself up to her full height and patted her hair into some semblance of order.

The Tashi stepped directly in front of her. He stood looking up with a face that was like a jewel made of perfect flesh. His eyes were unreadable. Squirrelly swallowed. She had never been very good with kids.

She hoisted her Oscar high so the crowd could see it. There was no reaction. What was wrong with these yokels? she wondered. Don't they know glamour when they see it?

Squirrelly closed her eyes and steeled herself. I'm not going to bow. No matter what. I can take this little squirt, even if I do look like a wreck. He probably wears rubber underpants. I can handle this. I know I can.

Minutes dragged past. The Tashi and the Bunji stood face-to-face at one end of the runway, surrounded by anxious-faced Tibetans, under a sky of impossible blue.

In this encounter, everyone knew, would be decided the question of the true spiritual leader of Tibet and the future of Tibet itself.

"How long does this go on?" Remo whispered to Chiun at one point.

"Until one acknowledges the other's karmic superiority."

"We could be here all day," grumbled Remo, his eyes sweeping the crowd. He noticed the minister of state security melting back into the crowd. He was walking backward, his eyes riveted on the tableau, wriggling behind a literal wall of oblivious Tibetans.

Something about that struck Remo as wrong.

Then he saw the man reach into a pocket and lift something small and black, and when he pressed it with his thumb, there was a nearly inaudible click.

THE SCRIPTURES RECORDED that on the momentous day when the Bunji Lama and the Tashi Lama met, their combined karma met, mingled and struggled in realms unknown to men. Their indomitable wills refused to relent. There could be no victory, no defeat and no outcome but stalemate.

There being no other possible outcome, the Bunji and the tulku simply winked out of existence, each knowing that they would return in the round of existence to vie with one another in their next life.

It was reported by all witnesses that after the two winked out of existence, there were great lamentations, and to appease their disappointed followers, a bright light was left in their place as a promise that they would one day return.

And miracle of miracles, strangely colored rain fell from a clear sky.

THE GIANT PRAYER WHEEL in the Tashi Lama's tiny fist detonated with a sound like near thunder. The concussion blew every witness back at least thirty yards in a tangle of human limbs. The flare of light burned a lingering afterimage into every retina.

Remo was the only one who saw it coming. Even then there was no way to stop it. The click of the radio detonator gave him time enough to shout "Bomb!" on the run, and then he, like everyone else, was thrown off his feet and slammed backward by a hot wall of moving air.

Airborne, Remo forced his body to relax. Dropping his heels, he created drag. When he was in control of his trajectory, he cartwheeled twice and snapped to a sudden stop on his hands and knees, uninjured.

The Master of Sinanju, also thrown backward, grabbed a passing electrical pole, whipped himself around it twice and alighted on his feet, his face scarlet with rage.

"It was a trap!" Remo shouted. "That Chinese guy had a detonator."

"The Bunji!" Lobsang cried, flat on his back. "I do not see the Bunji!"

The cry was taken up by hundreds of anguished voices. Others called out for the Tashi Lama. Then the rain came. It was red, bright red and very warm as it pattered on human skin. It fell from a completely clear sky.

All around, Tibetans scrambled to capture drops of the bright red rain. In later years there would be arguments as to whose life drops had been captured-the Bunji's or the Tashi's.

In the end it did not matter. Both had been erased from the sensual world.

Remo moved among the fallen Tibetans, searching. It was Chiun who found the minister of state security, stunned and still clutching the incriminating detonator.

The man groaned in his confusion. He looked up, his eyes beginning to clear. "I have saved face," he gasped. "Tibet will belong to China forever."

"There is more than one way to lose face," retorted Chiun, and his long-nailed fingers swept down like tiger's claws. Up and down on the man's exposed face they worked. When they came away, the bone mask of his skull lay exposed to the sun amid the red ribbons that had been his lying features.

The minister of state security obviously realized something was amiss. He clapped his hands over his face and found smooth bone instead of flesh. His eyes widened in their white sockets, and his mouth opened to scream.

Remo's hard boot heel drove the unborn scream back into the shattered mask of bone that was now no longer face or skull, but was instead more like a bowl filled with white gravel.

"Better luck next life, pal," Remo said harshly.

"One who would sacrifice a child to reach his evil aims does not deserve a next life," Chiun spat out.

"Okay," said Remo. "Let's get out of here."

No one tried to stop them. The Tibetans were too busy chasing raindrops. But when they reached the turboprop plane, two PLA cadres made the mistake of lifting rifles to shoulders.

Remo and Chiun hit them in concert, driving the rifle butts into their shoulders and breaking both. After that the guards lost interest in everything.

"Can you fly one of these?" Remo asked Kula as he held the door open for Chiun.

"We will find out," said Kula, clambering aboard.

The next minute the pilot came flying out, the top of his skull in one hand and his brain exposed to the light.

Remo had wondered what the popping sound was.

The engines were already running, so it was just a matter of finding seats as Kula engaged the throttles. The turboprop lumbered along, swung around, and the engines roared.

Tibetans scattered before them as the turboprop gained the air and strained toward the nearby mountain ranges.

No one tried to stop them. Not even after they had put Lhasa Valley behind them and were over the endless mountains of Tibet. No jets or helicopters scrambled to challenge them.

When it looked like they were out of the woods, Kula turned from the controls and shouted back, "I will put you all off in India."

"What are you going to do?" Remo asked.

"Lobsang and I must seek out the Bunji."

"What?"

"In the exact moment of her death," Lobsang said hollowly, "the Bunji's spirit entered the body of a child. The child must be found. As the last of the Worshipful Nameless Ones in the Dark Who See the Light That is Coming, it is my responsibility to seek out the Bunji's new body and guide him to the Lion Throne."

"And I will help because Boldbator Khan has decreed that China will surrender Tibet," added Kula.

"I will help, too," offered Bumba Fun.

"I will not walk with a Khampa," vowed Kula.

"The Bunji will not be found by a mere horse Mongol," Bumba Fun insisted.

"Don't you guys ever give up?" muttered Remo.

"We are Buddhists," said Kula. "We have only to be in the right place at the ordained hour, and glory and merit will shower down upon us."

"Sounds like you all have a full calendar," said Remo. He left them to their planning to rejoin the Master of Sinanju in the rear of the aircraft.

"Smith is going to have a lot to say to you," Remo warned.

"I appoint you official explainer of the House of Sinanju," Chiun said dismissively. "You may tell him what you will."

"But I don't know anything," Remo protested.

"At least you admit your ignorance," Chiun sniffed.

They sat in silence as the endlessness of Tibet rolled under their wings.

"So," Remo asked after a while, "who the hell was Gonpo Jigme?"

Chiun turned his face to the window. "I will tell you after we have escaped Tibet. And not before."

"Why not now?"

"I will tell you that later, as well."

And for the rest of the flight, Remo couldn't get another word out of Chiun. It was very strange.

But not as strange as the landscape below. It looked very familiar. Especially one rounded snowcap they overflew near the Indian border. A long scar ran down its face. Remo couldn't take his eyes off it. It looked most familiar of all.

After it was lost to sight, Remo caught Chiun looking at him strangely. Abruptly the Master of Sinanju looked away.

Chapter 39

Three days later Remo Williams was speaking to Harold W Smith by telephone from his Massachusetts condominium.

"The President has calmed down," Smith was saying.

"You mean the First Lady has calmed down," Remo corrected.

"Whatever, the crisis appears to have blown over. The Chinese had been accusing Washington of having interventionist designs, but once the President pointed out that Squirrelly Chicane perished under suspicious circumstances while being technically a guest of Beijing, their blustering abated."

"So that's it?"

"Pockets of Tibetan agitation have been put down. There have been summary executions. I'm afraid one of those was our contact in Lhasa, Bumba Fun."

"There's plenty more where he came from."

"It is fortunate that this incident did not erupt into open revolt," said Smith.

"Never happen," Remo said. "The Tibetans don't believe in fighting. Until they get a new attitude, they're stuck with the Chinese."

"Did you ever find out why Chiun intervened in Tibet?"

"No, he's being very close-mouthed about it. And he's blaming me for wrecking everything."

"On the contrary," said Smith. "Your timely arrival may have forced the best outcome among the admittedly bad possible scenarios."

"Tell that to Squirrelly Chicane's survivors," Remo said flatly.

"I understand they have been hired as consultants for a new movie based on her rather, ah, colorful life," Smith said dryly.

"I'll wait for the video," said Remo. "Speaking of video, I found that episode of 'The Poopi Silverfish Show' that started all this on tape. It's an old episode. Looks to me like Chiun saw Lobsang coming." Changing the subject, Remo asked, "You find anything on your computers about that name I asked you about?"

"Gonpo Jigme?"

"Who else?"

"Unfortunately, no. It is Tibetan. My data base is curiously deficient in that language."

"Chiun promised me he'd explain what it meant, but so far he's avoiding the subject. What gets me is why Tibet seemed so familiar. I've never been there in my life."

"Deja vu," said Smith.

"Huh?"

"A common delusion. Persons happening upon a new person or place sometimes experience false feelings of recognition. Behavioral scientists have theorized certain smells or scents associated with a person's past trigger the phenomenon. The brain recalls the scent, but the mind believes it is recalling the place."

"Yeah, well, Tibet smelled like nothing I ever encountered before," said Remo glumly.

Down below he heard the door open and close.

"Chiun's back," Remo said quickly. "I gotta run."

Hanging up, Remo ran down the stairs to greet the Master of Sinanju at the door. Chiun carried a paper sack from which the unmistakable odor of fresh fish wafted.

"Cod?" asked Remo, taking the sack.

"There was no haddock," said Chiun, closing the door. "And it is your turn to cook"

"I cooked last time," Remo pointed out as they entered the kitchen together.

"You cooked badly last time. The duck was greasy and the rice undercooked. Therefore, you will cook tonight in atonement for your past errors. "

"Tell you what, you break down and answer my questions, and I'll cook gladly."

"I do not care whether or not you cook gladly so long as you cook well," sniffed Chiun.

"Deal."

"If the food turns out to my satisfaction," allowed Chiun.

AN HOUR LATER they were basking in the afterglow of full stomachs high in the meditation room with the dying light of day pouring in through its four great windows.

"Okay," said Remo, laying down his chopsticks. "Answer time. First tell me why you tore off to Tibet without me."

"Because I was obligated to do so," said Chiun, laying aside his rice.

"Not according to Boldbator Khan. He paid you to find the Bunji Lama, not to see her through all the way to Lhasa."

"In truth, my journey to Lhasa was repayment of an old debt."

"I'm listening," said Remo.

"I have told you the many stories of the House of Sinanju, its masters, its emperors and its clients. Of these, one state Sinanju rarely served was Tibet. Now, you would think that with its ambitious abbots and its intrigues, Sinanju would have found much gainful employment there. So it was thought by Master Pojji, who on his first contract went to Tibet at the behest of an abbot who was in truth Chinese, not Tibetan. Now, this abbot was a regent of a certain Dalai Lama who was proving recalcitrant. He would not obey his chela, which is another name for teacher. It was decided that this lama must be done away with quietly, and another, more compliant one found to take his place."

Chiun closed his eyes as if recalling the event from memory.

"Master Pojji received his instructions from this skulking abbot in the shadow of the Potala along with a bag of gold. In the dead of night, Pojji slipped into the mighty palace and followed the directions toward the lama's sleeping room. Stealing in, he came upon the Dalai asleep, his bedclothes drawn up over his head as if in fear. In his heart, Pojji was glad, for this made his task much easier. Creeping up on the bed, he crushed the head under the blanket with a single blow. And all was well. Or so Pojji thought.

"The next day, as the body of the dead Dalai lay in state, Master Pojji received the balance of his gold. Novice that he was, he foolishly tarried to see the dead face of his victim."

Chiun's eyes grew heavy with sorrow.

"I think I can see what's coming," Remo said softly.

"The face was that of a child, Remo. Pojji had murdered a child. This, as you know, is the greatest crime a master can commit. And although Pojji was blameless insofar as intent was concerned, still it was his hand that had robbed the sweet child of his life. In his anger, Pojji slew the abbot, who was a tool of China, which coveted Tibet even then. And in his shame, Pojji vowed to one day atone to Tibet for this crime. But the opportunity never came in his lifetime. And so the debt was handed down from master to master until a suitable opportunity arose. I chose to repay that debt by going to the rescue of the Bunji."

"But she died."

Chiun made a face. "That is not my fault. Nor is it the point. The debt has been repaid. Besides, the Bunji did not die. She merely passed on to a new, possibly more worthy body."

"You don't really believe that crap."

"I do not wish to discuss my beliefs," said Chiun aridly.

"Fine. let's discuss Gonpo Jigme."

Chiun nodded quietly. "You have told me you already know the meaning of the Tibetan name, Jigme," he said. "It means 'dreadnought'. A common name among Tibetans, strange as it may seem for such a peaceful race of men."

"Got it," Remo said impatiently. "What about Gonpo?"

Chiun eyed his pupil critically. "Can you not guess?"

"No."

"Not even after you told me that you found Tibet familiar to your eyes which have never before come to rest on its grandeur?"

"Deja vu."

Chiun stroked his beard. "I do not know that name."

"Smith explained it to me. It means a sense of having been someplace even though you'd never set foot there. I had an attack of deja vu. No mystery."

"No. No," Chiun said in exasperation. "Smith is wrong. Gonpo is a god known to the people of Tibet. He is also called Mahakala. "

"Seems to me I've heard that name before," Remo admitted.

"There is yet another name for Gonpo. One far better known. Can you not guess this name, Remo?"

"I'm not up on Tibetan gods."

"Forget Tibet! I am speaking of Gonpo, who is also known as the Dreadnought."

"Yeah?"

"What is another word for dreadnought, thick one?"

"Sue me. I don't know."

"Destroyer. Destroyer is another word for dreadnought. He is Gonpo the Destroyer."

Then it hit Remo. "You mean Gonpo is another name for Shiva?"

"I mean exactly that. It is believed that Shiva the Destroyer lives atop Mt. Kailas. That is one of the reasons why although many make pilgrimages to its peak, none dare climb to the summit. What do you think of that, Remo?"

"Well, it proves I'm not Shiva or a reincarnation of Shiva. I grew up in Newark. Never heard of Mt. Kailas. "

"No. No. It proves nothing of the kind. You were recognized as Gonpo by the Tibetans. And when you flew over Mt. Kailas, you could not tear your eyes from its awesome peak."

Remo frowned. "Was that that scarred mountain near India?"

Chiun nodded. "Does that not prove that Shiva's spirit rides you?"

"Rides? That's what that nomad girl said. 'The god rides you."

"Among Tibetans they have mystics called powos who go into trances and surrender their bodies to the spirits of certain gods who then speak through their mouths. No doubt this woman recognized the spirit of Shiva had manifested itself through you."

"Sounds like channeling. That's the kind of New Age bulldooky that Squirrelly Chicane believed in."

"Simply because a fool believes that the sun will rise each morn does not mean the sun will malinger simply to spite the fool," Chiun advised.

Remo folded his arms stubbornly. "Yeah? Well, I still don't buy any of it. Not reincarnation, Bunji Lamas, or Shiva or Gonpo or any of it."

"That is your privilege," snapped Chiun. "It was not I who pressed the matter but you. And now you castigate me for explaining it to you."

Remo was silent for a long time. In the lingering dusk, his hard face gradually softened. Chiun's did, as well. They relaxed.

"Maybe some day I'll climb Mt. Kailas and see if anything's really up there," Remo said thoughtfully. "Just to settle the question."

"Perhaps you will, my son," said Chiun slowly. "But before you do, consider this question-if Shiva truly dwells there, who will come down off Mt. Kailas wearing your flesh and bones?"

Remo had no answer to that. Instead, he said, "Well, one thing's for sure. Squirrelly Chicane wasn't the reincarnation of the Bunji Lama. She was just a starry-eyed dip with delusions of grandeur."

"You are very sure of yourself for one who professes belief in nothing other than his own stubbornness," said Chiun.

"If Squirrelly Chicane does come back," Remo said, "let her find us this time."

"Do not call down such unpleasant karma on our heads," warned Chiun. "One Squirrelly Chicane in one lifetime is too much."

And in the dying light of day, they both smiled.

EPILOGUE

On the very first day of the third month of the Tibetan Year of the Earth Dog, Dra Drang lay on a bed of clean straw in a cow byre in the town called Burang, grunting and grimacing in the joyous labor of giving birth to her first child.

At last, after much effort, the baby came, sliding out in a slippery flood of blood and amniotic fluids.

The midwife took up the child, spanked a short bleat of complaint from the tiny lungs and cut the umbilical cord with her teeth.

Enveloped in the yak wool wrap, the child, strangely serene of face and disposition, was handed over. Dra Drang took up the peaceful bundle to her gently heaving chest.

About to unwrap the cloth to see if she had just borne a boy or a girl, Dra Drang was astonished to see that there was hair on the tiny, throbbing head. And the hair was the red of rust.

She wondered what such a presentiment could signify.

NEVER. Never play opposite children or dogs. Thanks to that little snot, I have the biggest bomb since Heaven's Gate against my name, and I have to go around all over again. Just when I had the perfect incarnation and my third-reel climax, too!

The bitter thoughts echoed in the darkness of her mind where there was no thought, no fear, no pain. Only recriminations.

Suddenly she felt herself moving. Like a helpless cork, she was being violently expelled from the place of floating darkness. A sharp blow struck her bottom, and she breathed again. The air smelled like a stable.

Squirrelly Chicane opened her eyes and took note of her surroundings. She saw Tibetan faces. Good. This time she wouldn't have to wait sixty years to be found. This time she'd do it right. This time she would be the Bunji Lama first and then launch her glorious film career. It would be the comeback of all time.

She looked up into the broad face of her new mother. Not so good-pocked skin and teeth so rotted they couldn't be capped. Well, she wouldn't win any beauty contests but she had to be an improvement over the last one. And by the time they went to camera, a good Tibetan actress might happen along. But not too good. No one could be allowed to outshine Squirrelly Chicane, six minutes old and already sexellent.

The body warmth of her new mother was making Squirrelly sleepy, so sleepy, and the memories of her last body were already starting to slip away. But they'd come back, she knew. When the Wheel of Time clicked into the right karmic notch.

Just before the first slumber of her new life overtook her, Squirrelly felt her blanket being unwrapped. Curious, she looked down at herself and saw a tiny pink penis.

Yuck. I'm a boy again. My public isn't going to like it if I turn up in drag.

Still, there was one consolation. She had been born a Taurus again. And everyone knew they had the best karma.