|
No-one heard
the helicopters. Which is funny, really, because they make an ungodly
amount of noise and it's not like anything else was going on. This
wasn't some bustling metropolis clamoring with cars, trucks, grinding
machinery and angry citizens. It wasn't a place ringed by factories
or thumping commerce.
It was Tibet.
And it was extremely quiet. Sunday quiet. The kind of quiet you
only get around snow. The heavy, thick quiet that soaks up sensation
and lies on you like a particularly thick duvet. If the drunken
tourist in the Pepper Café on the main square had dropped the toothpick
from his martini, yak herders on the next-but-one mountain would
have heard it.
Really quiet.
But afterwards,
no-one could remember hearing the helicopters. They just remembered
them landing. Kissing down on the bare earth not far from the monastery.
They were big and black and bristled with complicated appendages
that ordinary citizens would really rather not know about, thank
you very much.
Except in
this case they didn't have much choice. Black clad people streamed
out of the bellies of the beasts, with a purpose and discipline
usually only seen in movies. They ran to their allotted areas, guns
cocked and at the ready. They signaled to each other with much pumping
of fists and grim-faced resolution. Then, when they were ready,
she got out.
No-one in
the tiny village had ever seen her, of course. But they knew danger
when they clapped eyes on it. If the helicopters had aroused curiosity,
the appearance of Carolyn Bast inspired discretion. Mothers vanished
into their homes, hauling open-mouthed children after them. Fathers
retired into the dark recesses of hostelries and ordered another
drink. Whatever these helicopter people wanted, it wasn't good.
And no-one wanted to be a red-shirt in the movie of someone else's
life.
It wasn't
that she was ugly, quite the opposite. Carolyn was tall and lithe,
with dark hair that shone like patent leather and hard eyes that
gleamed like black glass. Her skin was far too white and her muscles
snaked around her frame like rope. She moved with the easy grace
of someone who has never been told "no." Or has never paid any attention.
She glanced at the man to her right and set off for the monastery.
The path was
wide and smooth, leveled by the knees of suppliant pilgrims. The
earth was hard and grey and Carolyn strode along it, oblivious to
the lack of oxygen in the air. The man with her was scarred and
muscular and biomechanical prostheses patched his body. He wore
a heavy coat and sturdy boots, and his eyes seemed to gaze steadily
ahead at the monastery, but in reality they darted everywhere, watching
everything, alert for anything.
Inside, the
monks were sweeping the great chamber. A few were praying, chanting
in dark corners where incense curled up towards the shadowy ceiling.
Deep red paint covered the pillars that corkscrewed upward, and
ancient gold leaf was peeling from convoluted carvings and warped
doors. At one end of the chamber was a long, low table that served
as an altar. A gold threaded damask cloth covered it and its surface
was littered with offerings: books, brooches, simple plaster statuettes,
chains made from seeds or painted wooden beads, earthenware urns,
jewel encrusted vases, old Palm Pilots, an Apple II, boxes of dried
spices and herbs, drawings, paintings, curling photographs, anything
and everything that had ever held value for any of the thousand
thousand pilgrims who had made their way up the mountainside.
But Carolyn
wasn't after any of these, and when the great doors crashed open
and the uniformed men in black ran in with their guns and pumping
hand-signals, the head priest knew exactly what she was after. He
didn't know how she'd found out it was there, but there was no doubt
that she knew exactly where it was. He made an effort, he had to
really, and picked up a small wooden box. It didn't look like anything
much, just a piece of sandalwood with a carving of an elk etched
out with a laser. Chipped paint on the lid limned the words, "A
Gift from Lodi."
Carolyn saw
it and strode across the chamber, Setzen at her heels.
Two young
priests, saffron robes aflutter, leaped in front of her.
"Stop!" one
of them cried, "This is a holy place!"
Carolyn hesitated,
amusement curled one side of her mouth, "For you, maybe."
She glanced
back at her men. The priests looked, too, and seemed to suddenly
notice. Carolyn looked at the head priest, his knuckles turning
white as he gripped the box.
"Looks like
you haven't been praying hard enough, eh, boys? We've come for the
casket. But you knew that."
Her voice
was calm. There was no hardness to it; she didn't shout or command.
It had a smoky, silky quality and was used to being obeyed without
question. The young priests had led a sheltered life, though, and
didn't recognize danger when they heard it. They were used to being
honored and revered and they drew themselves to their full height
and used the tone of voice they reserved for recalcitrant villagers.
"We will die
before we let you profane these offerings!"
"Fine."
She pulled
a gun and shot them both, then stepped over the bodies and walked
to the head priest. He was frozen. She ran a black gloved finger
across the lid of the box.
"Easy or hard?"
The head priest
looked at her, trying to muster every inner strength he'd spent
a lifetime developing. His eyes flickered. He handed over the box.
Carolyn Bast
took it and turned to go, stepping over the bodies of the young
priests. As she did so, one moved and groaned. She looked down and
sighed with annoyance.
"Some people
just don't know when their chips have been cashed. I bet you were
always the last to leave parties, too," she glanced back at the
head priest, then headed for the doors, "Kill them, Setzen. Kill
them all."
The man in
the black coat delivered the coup de grace to the fallen priests,
then stepped towards their teacher.
"But…but…she
said…"
Setzen almost
smiled. He killed the man, took one last careful look around, then
followed his commander out.
The incense
continued to curl towards the ceiling and the silence settled once
more. After a few moments, there was a distant roar as the helicopters
lifted off and left, then a curtain on the far side of the great
chamber trembled and an old priest shuffled out. Tears stained his
face and his gnarled hands clutched at his faded robes, grabbing
pieces of cloth and letting go, only to grasp again. It seemed more
than he could bear, but he stepped purposefully across the room
to the body of the head priest. Kneeling, he prayed briefly, then
unfastened the robes of the man who had been the spiritual leader
of so many for so long. A fine gold chain encircled his neck. The
old priest grabbed it, carefully unfastened the clasp and drew it
out.
The chain
twisted around his fingers, trembling in his terrified hands. At
the end swung a small key.
|
