Beautiful Ghosts (46 page)

The old professor was lost for a moment in the thankga, taking it from Shan, holding it close to his eyes, grinning like a boy. “You found this in Tibet, where the amban hid.”

Shan and Yao exchanged a glance. “How did you know that?” Yao asked.

“After the fresco was stolen, when Jiang was lying here injured he had me go back for the letters in the altar room, because he said the thieves may come back looking for them. Two letters, in Tibetan, were on the floor of the dining chamber, where the fresco was stolen. We had not bothered to read even all the altar letters before. There were other records, copies of letters, in the Qian Long archives. We collected all those involving the amban. When we finally assembled them all and read the ones in Chinese Jiang was transformed. He forgot all his pain, forgot he was dying even. He had a theory that gave him great joy.”

“What theory?” Shan asked.

The old man seemed not to hear. “He became sick. The amban. It was a secret, because they thought it would be seen as a sign of weakness. Three letters came, saying the amban’s trip home had to be delayed. It was a difficult time for the Qian Long, who had decided to step down from the throne. It was a homage he paid to his grandfather. He said he would not serve on the throne longer than his grandfather, so he would step down after sixty years. It made for great intrigue in the court, for the Qian Long was trying to decide which of the great princes to elevate to the Heavenly Throne. There were spies everywhere, assassinations even. The world was going to change based on one word of the emperor.” The old man’s voice drifted away as he joyfully gazed at the thangka again.

“For a year the amban and emperor exchanged letters, urgent letters, carried in the imperial post,” he said, referring to the highly organized network of riders and way stations established to carry messages throughout the empire. “The amban had all his letters taken to the post in Lhasa, so as not to reveal his location. The emperor urgently wanted the amban back; that we know from the Chinese replies we found in the altar room. The emperor kept a copy of each letter he sent. The emperor said it was vital that the amban return, that there was no need for the treasures, the greatest treasure would be the return of the prince himself. After a few months all the letters switched to Tibetan.” He paused and looked at Shan. “You live in Tibet, you said?”

When Shan confirmed that he spoke Tibetan the old man rose and ventured into the shadows, returning with a bundle of ten scrolls, tied with strands of purple silk, their sequence noted by dates on the outside of the scroll.

Shan scanned the Tibetan letters quickly. A copy, from the Qian Long to the amban, describing the Qian Long’s pleasure over the new lama adviser the amban had sent to him, saying a new lama temple was to be built in the amban’s city of birth. The next was a letter from the amban describing the most joyful development of his life, his donning of a monk’s robe. He was living with the artist monks who had been crafting the treasures for the emperor, learning their skills, learning how to impart a deity to a painting. The letter included much of the kind of exchange Yao and Shan had seen in those on Ming’s computer discs, though they were more personal, even intimate, in tone. The amban began to describe his decline in health, and reported he was consulting the best of the famed Tibetan healers. The emperor confirmed he understood that the second half of the thangka would tell where to find the treasure, then complained of intrigue in the court, and how difficult it was to find the right heir to the throne. The amban wished him serenity and expressed confidence in his uncle’s wisdom. The amban’s health grew worse. The emperor offered to send doctors, to send an army to retrieve him if necessary. The amban declined, and said he was feeling much better.

Shan opened the next to the last scroll quickly. It was a long letter, from the emperor, in which the Qian Long expounded his criteria for a good emperor, and his concerns that the empire had become too complacent, too materialistic during his reign, not focused enough on the most important things. When he reached the last paragraph Shan gasped.

“What is it?” Yao demanded.

Shan read the passage again to be certain he understood. “The emperor apologizes for doing this in a letter but circumstances require it. The Qian Long is asking the Stone Dragon Lama, his nephew, to become his successor.”

The old man gave a gleeful cry and clapped his hands. “You were right, Jiang!” he exclaimed.

Shan slowly unwrapped the last of the scrolls, the amban’s reply. He examined it a long time, then studied his companions. “He announces he is too ill to travel. He declines the offer.”

“Impossible!” Yao gasped.

“But true,” Shan declared. He saw the inquiry in their eyes but said no more.

After a moment Shan realized that all of them were staring into the candle flame.

“Have you found the Tibetan home of the prince?” the old man finally asked.

“We found his monastery.”

“Then take these there, where they will be safer,” he said, and handed Shan the bundle of scrolls.

As Yao stood he reached into his pocket and handed the old man several currency notes. “For Professor Jiang,” he said.

The janitor looked at the money. “I could light incense at the temple,” he said, gratitude heavy in his voice.

Yao handed him more money. “Light incense for a year,” he said, and quickly turned back into the dark corridor.

Shan and Yao were nearly outside, approaching the gate of wisteria when the old man caught up with them. He handed Shan one more scroll, a thin one that bore the marks of another letter. “The last one,” he said. “The last time the emperor spoke to the amban. The most powerful secret of all perhaps.” Shan placed it inside his shirt without reading it.

Yao followed Shan to the little garden behind the Qian Long’s cottage, the quiet place Shan had visited so often in his Beijing life. They sat in silence as if neither wanted to be the first to speak, until a policeman escorted Corbett into the garden and Yao quietly explained what they had learned.

When Corbett gave a small exclamation of victory Yao held up a hand. “It doesn’t mean anything,” the inspector said. “The word of an unrehabilitated class enemy. I could never use it at a trial.”

“What it means,” Corbett said, “is that we have no more doubt, that we know we are right and they are evil.” Shan looked up. The American was speaking like Lokesh. “That makes all the difference.” Corbett pulled a paper from his jacket pocket. “And now it’s on,” he said, and glanced at Yao. “You told him?” When Yao nodded Corbett explained the arrangements to Shan. They would buy Shan some clothes, and depart that night on a nonstop flight to Seattle, with Shan technically in Corbett’s custody.

Shan lifted a wisteria flower with a finger and stared at it. “Do I have a choice?”

“I guess,” Corbett said hesitantly.

“Then I choose to go, but I have conditions. First I take the torn thangka with me.”

“What’s the point?” Yao asked. “We still haven’t solved its puzzle.”

“Maybe I have,” Shan replied, and said no more.

The two men stared at him in silence, and first Yao, then Corbett, nodded.

“Second, Inspector Yao tells us where he went this morning.”

Yao frowned. “I told you. My office.”

“No. You had a Public Security escort. Not your office. Not visiting family.”

Yao winced, and looked into his hands. “I have no family but a niece. It was the Ministry of Justice.”

“The Ministry or the Minister?” Shan asked.

“The Minister demanded to see me. There have been calls for me to be removed. From the Minister of Culture and two others who are his friends.”

“Why?”

“Officially, no reason. He is not going to remove me. Unofficially, because they had calls themselves. From Mr. Dolan, in America.”

Shan studied Yao. “But the Minister of Justice doesn’t like the Minister of Culture,” he ventured.

“He suspects deliberate inattention to socialist priorities.” It was one of the political codes for corruption.

“Because of evidence you sent to him, previously,” Shan suggested.

Yao exchanged a long somber stare with Shan. They both knew it was how Shan had been destroyed and sent to the gulag.

“You never told us the reason for the audits of Ming’s museum,” Shan observed.

It was Yao’s turn to study a flower. After a moment he looked up, and spoke toward a sparrow on the opposite side of the courtyard. “I had promised to take my niece to one of those roasted duck restaurants for her birthday. A loud party jumped ahead of us in line, flashing business cards, handing out money. Several women. An American and a young Chinese in a suit, both wearing sunglasses. The American stopped and put his palm on my niece’s cheek, said she should join them. Before I left I found out who they were. Dolan and Ming. The next day I ordered the audit. I have the authority.” He looked back at Shan. “He put his hand on her cheek,” he repeated in a brittle voice.

“Holy Christ,” Corbett muttered. It had all started because of a chance encounter at a restaurant.

“What is the status of the audit?” Shan asked.

“The thermal imaging equipment has just arrived, on loan from England. We’re looking for an operator.”

“Where are the artifacts that are to be tested?”

“Still locked in their exhibits.”

“My third condition is that you get one of them.”

A sly smile rose on Yao’s face and he nodded. “Is that all?”

“No. You must go back to Lhadrung.”

“I was planning to. When it’s over there will be things to be cleaned up there.”

“Tonight,” Shan said. “Either you go back or I go back. When you get there find the informer, Tashi. Tell him you were able to locate the letter Ming said the police lost. The one Ming said the emperor wrote about Lhadrung. Tell him it, too, is being authenticated.”

Yao smiled again. “But why so urgent, why tonight? Your friends Lokesh and Liya are safe.”

“It isn’t his friends,” Corbett said. “He’s afraid they will send Ko back.” Corbett caught Shan’s eye, but Shan looked away, toward the ground. “He’s still trying to become a father.”

C
HAPTER
S
IXTEEN

Every mile, every minute moving in the opposite direction of Tibet, tugged at something inside Shan. The news he was going to Beijing had been wrenching enough. The news that he was going to America had numbed him. He felt adrift. Several times on the plane he woke with a start, not from a dream exactly, for he had no image in his mind, only a nightmarish sensation, a terrible dread he would never see Gendun and Lokesh again, nor even Ko, despite Yao’s promise to return that night.

They landed in a steady rain, at an airport surrounded by highways and warehouses. Corbett, staying only a few inches from Shan’s side, led him to two young, well-scrubbed men in business suits who greeted Corbett with cool deference, acknowledging Shan with small frowns, then led them past a long line at the immigration stations into an office where several men and women monitored video surveillance screens. Corbett motioned Shan into a chair while he spoke on the telephone in a low voice for nearly ten minutes, then conversed just as quietly with a dour woman in a uniform who repeatedly gestured with a clipboard toward Shan. The official, clearly unhappy with Corbett’s explanation for Shan’s presence, finally scribbled on a form on her clipboard, ripped the paper from the board, and handed it to Corbett as she marched away.

They drove through the rain in silence; the two young FBI agents in the front of the large blue sedan; Corbett slumped against one rear window, asleep, Shan staring out the other window.

“Why the long face?” the man at the wheel asked Shan abruptly. He had been introduced as Bailey, though his features had Chinese aspects. “I thought everyone in China dreamed of coming to America. You look like you’ve been given the death sentence and the last good lawyer just died.” His partner laughed, and looked at Shan expectantly. When Shan did not reply, Bailey shot him an irritated glance. “Dammit, Corbett told us you speak English,” Bailey said in Mandarin.

“Coming like a prisoner is not in anyone’s dreams,” Shan replied in the same language. He remembered something Corbett had said in the mountains, to explain his presence in Tibet, that the Bureau had needed someone who spoke Mandarin. But this junior officer, working for Corbett, spoke the language.

Bailey laughed and translated for his colleague. “Does this look like a prison?” he asked in English as he eased the car to a stop in front of a small two-story cottage. The wooden shingles on its walls were grey, its windows and front porch trimmed in white. It had a weathered, disheveled appearance. Vines with purple flowers were growing around the pillars of the porch and overtaking its floor, a line of dense bushes along the front walk dangled long offshoots over the sidewalk.

“Neighbors can’t believe I work for the Bureau,” Corbett declared. He was standing by the car with his suitcase and Shan’s drawstring bag. “They prefer to have all their cops look like young Marines and all cop houses like military barracks.” The car pulled away from the curb.

As the American unlocked the door and gestured Shan inside, Shan realized how little he really knew about the man’s personal life. “Do you have family?” Shan asked as he examined a cluster of framed photographs on a table by the door. A boy with freckles, on a tricycle. An angry-looking little girl holding a large boot. The photos were faded, the glass in one frame cracked.

“None active,” Corbett muttered, and turned away. “Listen quick before I collapse from exhaustion. Here’s the tour,” he said, and began pointing, to the right, to the shadows beyond, then the left. “Living room, then the kitchen. Downstairs bath.” He grabbed his suitcase and kept speaking as he climbed the stairs. “Guest room is first door on the right. Then the bath, then my room.”

For a moment Shan stared in wonder. “You have two bathrooms?” His own apartment in Beijing, no bigger than the living room of Corbett’ s house, had been prized because it had been only thirty feet from the communal toilets. Bathing had been down the street at a municipal showerhouse.