The Avatari (38 page)

She lapsed into silence for a few moments. Her neck was hurting from having to crane it to look up at the boxes. She desperately wanted to see the faces of her audience, to gauge from their expressions their level of interest and attention and modify her script accordingly. But that was not to be. With a mental shrug and an outward smile, she doggedly continued; it would soon be over.

‘You would, no doubt, have heard of Shangri-La,’ she went on, ‘the mythical kingdom in the high mountains of Central Asia, whose inhabitants are said to enjoy the gift of immortality. Well, in writing his novel,
Lost Horizon
, James Hilton did incorporate, in bits and pieces, some of the existing mythology associated with the kingdom of Shambhala, as the Tibetan Buddhists knew it, or Tagzig Olmo Lung Ring, as the Bon who preceded them, called it. Shambhala was also rumoured to be the repository of the Kalchakra Tantra, which contained knowledge to be used at the end of the “time cycles” for the good of humanity, after all had been lost in the apocalypse. There are many legends connected with this mythical kingdom; it was alleged to have four gates, access through which was controlled by shamans. The inner periphery was apparently protected by a horde of warriors. Entry was restricted to lamas or monarchs of the highest rank, for both were believed to be divinely ordained.

‘The great thinkers turned out to be accurate in their forecast, for four hundred years later, the invasions they had predicted centuries earlier began in full force. The Mongol hordes swept southwards, destroying and pillaging as they went, vanquishing the opposition which was many times more civilized, but no match for them in warfare. It was while engaged in these violent battles that Genghis Khan came to hear about the legend of the monastery. It is more than likely that he was sceptical about the reports, but the name his people chose to give that place – Burqan Qaldun or “sacred mountain” – already existed in the legends associated with the pagan religions they followed. It was the Mongol’s grandson, Kublai Khan, however, who subsequently became emperor of all China and converted to Buddhism, who would be truly captivated by the possibilities this monastery held. It is said that the Great Khan spent years exploring the known world in its entirety for a priceless treasure, even sending his fleet to conquer Japan in the hope of coming upon it. Kublai Khan apparently believed that this treasure, if he could find it, would not only firmly establish his devotion to his adopted faith, but also earn him enough merit to allow him access to the Burqan Qaldun. Most of you probably know that he even sent Marco Polo in search of this monastery, though the explorer would fail to find it during his travels.’

She stopped, glanced at her notes, then looked up again at the glass-panelled boxes. ‘Our team here has evidence that Kublai Khan did actually make the pilgrimage to the Burqan Qaldun. In fact, he was not the only one, but perhaps the most famous of them all. It is the very map he had used for directions to his destination that is now in our possession.

‘At this point, one may well ask whether merely gaining entry to the monastery was enough to persuade the lamas to perform their ministrations on the soul of the traveller in question. Now, Eastern religions lay great emphasis on the nature of events and are driven by the conviction that every individual’s divinely ordained fate has a crucial role in determining how those events unfold. In the case of the Burqan Qaldun, the lamas do not assume the role of arbitrators or judges, but consider themselves mere instruments by means of which the preordained is unfolded. So the very fact of a person completing the pilgrimage to Shambhala, the sacred mountain, is taken to be a sign that he or she is divinely ordained to receive the knowledge of the Bardo Thodol.’

Normally, Claire would have invited questions at this point, but not tonight. Smoothly and politely, she made the transition, introducing the next speaker, Dr Schmidt. As she came off stage, Josh Wando got up and caught hold of her hand.

‘That was really great, Claire,’ he declared enthusiastically, ‘you were very convincing.’

She nodded expressionlessly, disengaged her hand and sat down. All that talking had tired her.

Dr Schmidt was a small-built man who managed to look even more faded under the bright lights than he normally did. He had wispy blonde hair which he wore long and carefully draped over the balding patches on his angular skull. His colourless eyes, set deep in a pale face, gave him the appearance of death warmed over, a walking cadaver, as it were. The doctor’s field of specialization, however, involved bringing forth life and in this area, he had few rivals; he was head of the most expensive and, debatably, the best fertility clinic in the world.

Dr Schmidt was not, however, an ideal orator and practically hid behind his rostrum, rarely looking up at his audience. When he occasionally did, he seemed to flinch before returning his gaze to his papers, from which he read out in a monotone. Josh remained unworried, though, about the doctor losing his audience’s attention; more than one of the invited guests had been a happy recipient of the doctor’s expertise; all would probably have heard of him.

‘Honoured guests, to summarize,’ Dr Schmidt said, ‘I have perfected the process of in vitro fertilization.’

Modesty was evidently not one of his virtues.

‘My laboratory has achieved a 90 per cent success rate. Each, er, client will have three eggs of the highest quality – duly chosen by you – fertilized by a sperm – again, chosen by you. There is no chance whatsoever of failure.’

He glanced at Claire, who nodded. Then he continued reading from his script, more slowly and deliberately appearing unfamiliar with what was written.

‘As you would have seen from the literature we sent you, Buddhism maintains that the transmigration of the soul takes place not at the moment of conception, but in the third month of pregnancy, when the
skandhas
or five aggregates of physical form, sensation, perception, mental formations and consciousness – in other words, all the aspects of the central nervous system – develop in the foetus. Dr Donovant tells me that this time is adequate for you to complete the, ah, process.’

Dr Schmidt was followed by Emil Kratow, a psychologist, who elaborated on the process of selecting foster parents for the child and the attributes to look for in their detailed psychological profiling that would make them ideal caregivers. When he was done, the lawyer Myron Levitt took over, going through the details of the process involved in the transfer of trust funds to the child on maturity.

When the lawyer stepped down, Claire came up on stage again. This was it; what needed to be said had been said. It was now up to the men in the boxes to make a decision. She chose her words carefully; what she wanted to avoid at all costs was a hard sell. The men in the audience were familiar with every board-meeting-presentation trick in the book. Behind her, a video came up on the screen. The camera focused on a laboratory, with Dr Schmidt peering down a microscope, and moved on to some decidedly presentable young men and women who sat across the table from the psychologist, who appeared to be addressing them. When it was over, Claire began to speak.

‘Well, that’s it in a nutshell,’ she declared, her voice soft and the words drawn out, as she deliberately avoided a sales pitch. ‘It’s a chance we are taking, but there is much to back it up. And while I agree that this has a fairy-tale ring to it, I would like to share something with you: the ancient city of Troy, hitherto the stuff of legend, was excavated by a German businessman in 1868. In fact, so enamoured was he by Homer’s epic that he left his business, followed his heart and began digging. And we are aware of the outcome of his endeavours.’ She coughed for effect, then said, ‘Where our own mission is concerned, I would like to assure you that the map we have in our possession will, in all probability, lead to a place where this monastery existed. I don’t think I am wrong in assuming that we have a fairly good chance of giving you a rebirth of your choice.’ After a pause, Claire asked quietly, ‘Are there any questions?’

A buzzer sounded almost immediately from Box Number Two. Its occupant, a Jewish hotelier from Boston, was suffering from Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease, a rare and fatal degenerative disorder that slowly destroyed the central nervous system. Death occurred almost within a year of the appearance of symptoms. The man now spoke up, his voice, louder than necessary, booming through his mike.

‘What if there
is
no monastery?’ he barked, not bothering to tone down the irritation in his abrasive voice. ‘Or what if it’s been defunct for years? You people don’t seem to give a rat’s ass about that!’

It was evident to Claire that the man hadn’t followed all of what she had said so far, but she was careful not to lose her patience or composure.

‘It’s a possibility, of course,’ she said smoothly, ‘but according to the information we have, the text of the Bardo Thodol is inscribed on the walls of the cave there and we have every reason to hope that will be the case. Moreover, we have experts who can decipher the inscriptions and perform the funerary rites accordingly.’

‘We need to confirm the authenticity of this map you claim to have in your possession,’ the hotelier rasped into the mike again.

‘I’m afraid we can’t allow that,’ Claire replied swiftly.

This was a question they had anticipated and the answer to it had been rehearsed many times.

‘It would involve more people and increase the risk of jeopardizing our expedition.’ She refrained from adding that their prospective clients had been sent photographs of the
paiza
in advance, which had persuaded them to congregate here in the first place.

Well, that was that, thought Josh, sitting in his dugout. The hotelier had a reputation for getting what he wanted
and
of being vicious when thwarted. But he hoped the others would see the logic in Claire’s argument.

‘What’s the plan, once you find the place?’

The voice, slurred and stuttering, had spoken out immediately after the sounding of another buzzer. Box Number Three. Its occupant, the Brazilian, was afflicted by Alzheimer’s.

‘We get you in, nice and easy, and then we get out. We don’t disturb the place and we don’t disclose anything – ever. We get only what you give us.’ She grinned. ‘You can bet that we too will be making that trip some twenty or thirty years from now.’

‘If this is a scam of some sort, don’t imagine for one moment that we won’t get you.’ The Brazilian’s voice was softer, though still thick and slurred.

That was a statement of fact. These men could get them; they had the power to do so, even from beyond the grave.

Claire nodded. After a moment, she asked, ‘May I have your decisions now?’

‘It has to be done within six months – or no deal,’ the hotelier from Boston snapped over his mike.

‘That is agreed,’ Claire responded automatically.

They had expected this condition as well. Josh understood the urgency of the men occupying the boxes overlooking the stage.

Claire waited for further questions. Once she was sure there would be none, she looked up and said in a firm voice, her hands clasped, as if in prayer, ‘This expedition will go to the highest bidder. Please punch your bids into the computer; we will receive them on our monitor. As you have been informed, the starting bid is ten million dollars and the highest bidder will wire in 10 percent of the bid by noon tomorrow. You will remit the balance amount when we contact you for the final journey.’ She waited a moment, before adding, ‘We guarantee absolute confidentiality and the highest level of security. As of now, no one, apart from the people present here today, is aware of the matter we have discussed at this venue.’

The figures punched in by the men in the boxes – all four of them, including the Japanese battery manufacturer in Box Number One and the Chinese from New York in Box Number Four, who hadn’t asked any questions at all – flashed on the monitor before which Josh was seated. Looking at the figures he grinned and raised a thumb to the woman.

Claire bowed and on cue the lights on stage went out; the show was over. She came backstage and sat down next to Josh while they waited for the men in the boxes to leave.

Josh’s mind went back to how all this had come about.

After he had handed over the
paiza
to Hoover, Josh didn’t hear from the doctor for quite some time and began to get anxious. Then Hoover had got back with this woman, who was to help him organize the expedition. Josh was amazed at the ease with which she assimilated his proposed plan and more importantly the Tibetan beliefs which formed the basis of his quest. But she had also insisted on this ‘auction’, ostensibly for the money.

‘Why?’ Josh had asked, taken aback, ‘I have as much as you think is needed.’

‘And how much is that?’ she asked back.

He told her. It was everything he had on his name and whatever he could siphon off without the Board getting to know.

‘It won’t be enough,’ was her adamant response, ‘we need that and more. We’ll have to find more participants.’

‘We don’t need more participants!’ he had half-shouted, ‘I can get more money. Just tell me how much you need.’ The last thing he wanted was someone else on
his
expedition.

‘You don’t have more money, Josh,’ Terry Hoover had then interjected quietly, ‘we know that.’ Josh started to say something and then changed his mind. They knew; they were the FBI.

‘Don’t worry, we’ll find the right guy to join,’ the doctor had continued with a wink, ‘and it will do you good, believe me, give you more faith in this little enterprise of yours; like getting a second opinion.’

It then dawned on Josh that the auction was also a
test
. The men who had sat in the boxes were obscenely wealthy and were dying – that is what had drawn them here. But they also had reputations of being hardnosed sons of bitches; they would rather die than bid on a scam. They had the resources to check the viability of the proposal, and Josh knew they all had. Now that it was over, he felt the doctor was right; it was nice to have the ‘second opinion’ – which matched his own.