The security minister nodded.
"Paper cannot wrap up a fire," the premier said, lapsing into Confucian epigrams. "This cannot remain secret for long."
"The populace has already begun to talk openly of the Bunji's return. They grow restive."
"There is a Western saying," the premier said. "I do not recall how it goes. It is something along the lines of using a flame to fight a conflagration."
"Fighting fire with fire, is what they say."
The premier wrinkled up his bulldog face. "They say it without grace. When you go to Lhasa you will take with you a flame with which to battle this conflagration. Do you know what I mean by this flame?"
"No," the security minister admitted.
The premier eyed his cigarette tip and blew upon it. It flared up red and hot. "It is a small flame," he purred, "and it has not been smoldering long. Therefore, when it flares up it may be an unexpected thing. Perhaps this tiny flame may come to quench the larger conflagration with its purifying heat."
The security minister considered. "The Tashi?"
The premier of China nodded solemnly. "The Tashi."
"Is it not too soon to introduce the Tashi into Tibet?"
"Let us hope," the premier said in a very low voice, "that it is not too late."
Eyes strange, the minister of state security rose to go.
"One last item," the premier said softly.
The security minister turned, face quizzical. "Yes, Comrade Premier?"
"The unworking telephone was a clever subterfuge. I will have to remember it when the vultures of the politburo sink low enough to be picked off in flight."
IN A PALATAL HOME not many miles west of Beijing, the Tashi sat meditating on a platform that raised him so far above the polished cherrywood floor that he could look down upon even the tallest of his manservants.
His feet were tucked under his saffron-robed body, out of sight. His eyes, very bright yet very wise, were resting upon the pages of a very old book. It was one of his few pleasures, reading these old books.
Television had been banished from the house of the Tashi as a possibly corrupting influence. It was the only thing the Chinese leadership had denied the Tashi. He did not resent this, although television excited his curiosity wonderfully, from the stories he was told by his servants.
So the Tashi turned the pages with short fingers that had never known toil, not even here in the workers' paradise in which he now resided and bided his time, for the hour of his glory was soon to come, the Chinese continually assured him.
It had been a long time already. Perhaps the Chinese, not being followers of Buddha, looked upon time differently than he did. But he tried to be patient because he was the Tashi and it was his responsibility to await the correct astrological conjunction that would presage the fulfillment of his destiny.
The double doors pushed inward, and a servant entered, stopped and prostrated himself in the correct fashion, dropping on his stomach and touching his head to the sumptuous rug.
"Speak," said the Tashi in a voice as sweet as honey.
"The hour has come, O Tashi"
"What is this?" asked the Tashi, closing the heavy book on his silken lap.
"A fei-chi awaits to bear you to holy Lhasa, O Tashi."
The Tashi blinked bright brown eyes at the grating Chinese word, meaning "thing that flies," that spoiled the cadences of his servant's perfectly enunciated Tibetan.
"I am ready," said the Tashi, laying the book aside and coming to his full height. With resolute chin and stern expression, he waited for his strong servant to come to lift him down from the high platform on which he stood.
Chapter 30
No mortal eye witnessed the escape of the Bunji Lama and her protectors from Drapchi Prison, but the scriptures duly recorded that this miraculous feat was accomplished with great stealth in utter darkness. And while many oppressors died, they died quietly, oblivious to the doom that stole upon them, which was a blessing and unquestionably the result of the Lamb of Light's infinite mercy.
"MAYBE WE SHOULD SHOOT a few of these guys," Squirrelly Chicane muttered as she slipped out of the gate to Drapchi Prison in the impossibly silver Tibetan moonlight. The Milky Way overhead appeared close enough to touch.
"Why?" demanded Kula, who walked with an AK-47 assault rifle in each hand as if they were toy pistols.
"Because this isn't very dramatic," Squirrelly said.
"Dramatic?"
"We're just stepping over bodies," said Squirrelly, stepping over a PLA body. "Look at these guys. Not a mark on them. It won't translate to film. It's too unrealistic."
Kula waved Squirrelly to wait. Up ahead the Master of Sinanju was at work. "You asked the Master of Sinanju to separate no more Chinese from their skulls."
"But I didn't say for him to let the rising action go flat."
"You speak in riddles, Bunji!'
"Call me Buddha Sent. I like that better. It's more cosmic. And a little gunfire will keep the audience from going to sleep in their seats."
"You are going to give an audience?" Kula asked, puzzled.
"No. I want to have an audience. All this creeping around reminds me of Hudson Hawk. We need a North by Northwest scene."
"I understand," said Kula. Seeing the Master of Sinanju beckon in the darkness-and only because the old Korean chose to be seen-he urged the Bunji Lama ahead.
In the darkness Kula told Chiun, "The Bunji has a vision. She says we are to go north by northwest."
"This is not a good plan," said Chiun.
"But she is the Bunji."
"Call me Buddha Sent."
"Northwest of here is only mountains, and beyond them lies Chamdo and those who live there," said Chiun.
Kula made a face. "Khampas," he grunted.
"What are Khampas?" Squirrelly asked.