Remo had checked in with Smith when he reached the Hong Kong airport.
"There are reports the Bunji Lama has crossed the border of Tibet," Smith had told him, his voice grim, "followed by a train of upward of a thousand pilgrims.
"Any word of Chiun?"
"No," Smith had said.
"Maybe you should call 1-800-GENGHIS. "
"I beg your pardon?"
"Boldbator Khan has an 800 number of his own."
"You are joking."
"I called it myself."
Over the miles of intangible phone line, Remo could almost hear Harold Smith mentally debating whether or not to accept Remo's word.
"Can't hurt to call," Remo prompted.
"One moment," said Smith.
He came back a moment later, saying, "The line is busy."
"Must be a run on looting and pillaging," Remo said dryly. "But it was Boldbator who hired Chiun to find the Bunji Lama. Maybe he's trying to chisel another roomful of gold to save her from the Chinese."
"And there is no doubt if Miss Chicane and her entourage have crossed the border, PLA units will be sent to intercept them," Smith said tightly.
"So what do we do?"
Smith was silent a moment. "Change your plans. Do not fly to New Delhi. Go to Nepal. From Katmandu you can enter Tibet and reach any number of points as developments warrant. Contact me when you arrive."
In Katmandu, Remo had called Smith again.
"Squirrelly Chicane has been arrested by the Chinese authorities," Smith reported. "It just came over the wire."
"So much for the First Lady's guarantee."
Smith cleared his throat unhappily. "I believe the charge is drug possession. This could be extremely embarrassing for the First Lady."
"Can't have the First Lady embarrassed," Remo said. "Congress might faint dead away. So what do I do now?"
"Miss Chicane has been taken to Lhasa, the Tibetan capital. Cross the Nepalese border on foot. Once you bypass customs and Public Security Bureau posts, it should be easy to hitchhike to Lhasa along the Friendship Highway."
"Hitchhike? Is that the best you can do?"
"Unfortunately, yes. In Lhasa, make contact there with Bumba Fun."
"Who's he-the local Bozo the clown?"
"Bumba Fun is a member of Chushi Gangdruk. Tibetan resistance."
"The Tibetans have resistance fighters? How come I never heard of them?"
"Because when they are successful," Smith said dryly, "the Chinese occupation suppresses news of their exploits, and when they are not they are tortured and executed in secret. Bumba Fun will be your guide."
"I don't need a guide."
"Do you speak Tibetan?"
"No."
"Can you pass for Tibetan?"
"You know I can't. "
"You will need Bumba Fun."
AND SO REMO now on a dusty road on the outskirts of a truck depot just inside Tibet waiting for a modern WuShiLing, or at least a semimodern brown Dongfeng. But definitely not a Refeng truck, because the guidebook had warned him they were slow and breakdown prone, and there was hardly any room in the cabin for the driver, never mind a passenger.
After two hours of nothing but Jiefengs, Remo gave up. The next Dongfeng or Jiefeng that came along, he decided, was his. He just hoped the driver had bathed some time in the past six months.
The next truck turned out to be a shiny new WuShiLing, so Remo figured his luck was starting to change.
Following the guidebook's directions, Remo popped his thumbs up, stacking his fists while making butter-churning motions.
The driver brought his truck to a screeching, dusty halt. He had a wise old windburned face with merry eyes. He might have been thirty; he might have been fifty. The harsh mountains aged people mercilessly. He wore a tight-fitting winter hat with hanging earflaps. When he stuck out his tongue in greeting, he reminded Remo of a middle-aged fourth-grader.
"Lhasa?" said Remo.
"Shigatse," said the driver.
"Is that near Lhasa?" asked Remo.
"Yes, yes. Only one, two hundred mile nearby."
"Close enough for government work," said Remo, climbing in.
The driver got the truck in gear and asked, "What your name?"
"Remo."
"Re-mo. Good name. No other name?"
"Buttafuoco," said Remo.