The Prisoner's Gold

45

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

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

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

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10,000 painted scrolls, and numerous objects of gold and silver, as well as a large collection of sutras and important historical documents.

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

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

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

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

Despite the effects of low oxygen, Cobb soldiered on.

The team would have to suck it up … literally.

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

And Cobb and Sarah were too tired to ask.

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

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

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

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

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

Cobb rolled his eyes. ‘Ladies, if you don’t mind …’

‘Jealous?’ Sarah teased.

Cobb started walking. ‘Behind schedule.’

As they mounted the steps and began the long climb toward the main entrance, Cobb admired the lower white walls of the fortress. The top five stories made up the actual palace while the lower eight stories were built with defense in mind. The walls themselves were little more than stacked stones, but they were sixteen feet thick in some places. The bottom was wider and thicker than the top, so it could support the weight of the smaller red palace.

Despite the altitude, Cobb and Maggie had no problems scaling the gentle staircases. Meanwhile Sarah, who was in far better shape than anyone else on the team, was breathing heavily before they made it halfway up the incline.

‘Altitude affects everyone differently,’ Maggie said.

‘Maybe so, but this is depressing,’ Sarah croaked.

Cobb glanced back at her. ‘Wheezing isn’t sexy.’

‘Yeah, well, neither is … shit! I can’t think of anything.’

Cobb and Maggie both laughed; but not for long.

The second half of the journey wiped them out, too.

When they finally reached the main doorway, they could see that it was covered by a beautiful tapestry embroidered with symbols of good fortune and luck. A lone monk swept the threshold with a broom. His complexion was naturally darker than Maggie’s, and it possessed a quality that Cobb and Sarah had rarely seen before. Having worked outdoors in high altitudes for nearly his entire life, his skin looked like the brown leather of a WWII bomber jacket: thick and rough, with plenty of creases.

His face erupted into a smile when he saw the khata draped over their necks.

Before the man had a chance to address them, Maggie raised her hands and pressed them together, as if in prayer. Though she didn’t speak much Tibetan, she knew the traditional greeting that loosely translated to ‘blessings and good luck’.

‘Tashi delek,’ she offered.

Cobb and Sarah quickly followed her lead.

The monk’s smile widened. He returned the greeting before speaking to them in English. ‘You have come early to see the palace.’

‘The palace is stunning,’ Maggie said. ‘But we did not come to see it.’

The monk examined them again. His smile stayed in place, but the wattage dimmed slightly. ‘Then why have you come?’

His English was excellent, with hardly a hint of an accent. Cobb suspected that the monk had been tasked with meeting the tourists who wandered up the mountain without a tour group. Cobb realized that the sweeping might have been just an act; the three of them surely would have been spotted and heard long before they got this far.

‘We have come to give you these khata,’ Maggie said with a bow. Then she lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘And to talk of times long past.’

Cobb smiled at the precision of her answer.

He knew it was a calculated response.

Maggie had explained that most Tibetans would gladly speak to foreigners about the old days as long as there were no Chinese soldiers around to listen. He also knew that there were informers on both sides of the turmoil: Chinese in league with the Tibetans and discontented monks who simply wanted the struggle to end so that they might find peace.

The monk paused, considering her request.

Then he turned quietly and opened the door. ‘Come in, please.’