They Eat Puppies, Don't They? Read online

  Upon being informed of this, Fa asked Lo, “But how is it that the Americans were able to plant this thing in my vehicle?”

  Lo, always on the lookout for any slight or rebuke, read this as, How is it that your ministry is not able to keep my own car safe from busy American fingers?

  Lo coolly reminded Fa that it was he—not MSS—who had spontaneously invited the visiting American secretary of state to ride in the presidential limousine from their meeting at Zhongnanhai to the Great Hall of the People.

  Fa accepted responsibility but said, “Comrade, are you saying that she planted this thing—herself? The secretary of state?”

  Lo shrugged and smiled. “How else are we to conclude, Comrade? No more giving rides to hitchhiking American secretaries of state.”

  “I’ll say this,” Lo offered. “If this Lotus poisoning business does turn out to be American disinformation, it is a grave provocation. We’ll have to respond.”

  Lo lit a cigarette. Fa decided to have one himself—his sixth of the day. Oh, dear.

  “To be sure,” Fa said. “Of course I have every confidence in you and the ministry.”

  The two men smoked in silence awhile.

  Fa said, “Let me ask you, Comrade—do you have any theory as to why such a story should appear now? At this particular moment? In the event it was the Americans, could this be connected with my visit to Washington next month?”

  “Mischief makers are like spiders. Weaving, weaving, always weaving. Not to let the Americans off the hook, but my guess? That this originated from Dharamsala.” Home, that is, to the exiled Dalai Lama.

  Fa nodded. “It was after all an Indian newspaper. What can you tell me about the incident in Rome?” He always took care with Lo to frame his questions as polite requests that Lo could decline to go into for reasons of security.

  Lo hesitated, to show he was being courteous in vouchsafing such confidential information. “Do you want to know everything, Comrade, or just enough?”

  “Tell me what you want me to know,” Fa said, “and that will be ‘just enough’.”

  “We were lucky. As it happened, we had people in place at that hospital.” He paused. “It’s the one where they take the popes.”

  “Ah. But that doesn’t sound like luck to me.” Fa smiled indulgently. “That I would call vigilant intelligence work.”

  Lo feigned modesty. “When they brought him in, he was coughing and having respiratory difficulties. Fever, diarrhea, wheezing. They’re doing a lot of tests on him. I’m informed that one possibility is something called Katayama fever.”

  “This sounds Japanese.”

  “I’m no specialist in infectious disease. It’s some form of schistosomiasis. You get it from walking barefoot in lakes. From snail shit.”

  “Oh,” Fa said, wincing. “Unpleasant.”

  Lo continued. “We’ll have full access to the test results. Soon we shall have a wealth of information about every medical aspect of the Dung Lotus. That would be a nice bit of Buddhism, wouldn’t it, if it turns out the Dung Lotus got sick from walking in snail dung.” Lo laughed heartily at his joke.

  The crude nickname—Dung Lotus—always gave Fa pause, but he was careful to disguise his discomfort. Jetsun Jamphel Ngawang Lobsang Yeshe Tenzin Gyatso, His Holiness the fourteenth Dalai Lama, was called by many names: The Presence, Absolute Wisdom, Ocean, Holder of the White Lotus. Within the organs of China’s State Security, however, he was the Dung Lotus.

  Fa was not strictly speaking “soft” on the Tibetans, as General Han—and Minister Lo, too—thought him to be. As party boss in Lhasa, Fa had presided over the putting down of a half dozen or more uprisings. He had personally signed the execution orders for 679 Tibetans, a third of them women. And then the nightmares began.

  In this way: On one occasion a lama was being executed by firing squad, a burst of 7.62-millimeter automatic-rifle fire to the back of the skull. Standard procedure. Gang related to Fa that the lama had gone to his death cursing. “Isn’t that a bit unusual, for a lama?” Fa asked. Moreover, the man had personally cursed Provincial Committee Secretary Fa Mengyao, by name. Indeed, he had shouted out loudly as he was dragged by soldiers to the mud wall, “Fa Mengyao! Phai.sha.za.mkhan!”

  Fa’s knowledge of the Tibetan language was rudimentary. Gang seemed uncomfortable.

  “So, Gang? What was he saying?”

  “A traditional Tibetan curse, apparently, Comrade Provincial Secretary. I’m told that it means . . .”

  “Oh, come, come, Gang.”

  “He was saying that you are an eater of your father’s flesh. Something to that effect.”

  Fa forced a dry, nervous laugh. “Not a very Buddhist sentiment, I must say.”

  But the curse clung to his mind. That night he had the first dream.

  Fa was hungrily eating dumplings from a large bowl. But the dumplings began to take on a strange taste—a truly awful taste. Peering into the bowl, he saw with horror the face of his late, much-beloved father staring up at him. Fa awoke with a cry, drenched in cold sweat. The almost identical dream came to him night after night, until the thought of going to bed struck terror.

  “What is it?” Fa’s wife said after the fifth or sixth nightmare.

  “Nothing.” Fa shuddered. “Something I ate.” He could not bring himself to share the details, even with Madam Fa.

  He began to take more time reviewing the death sentences. Many of them he commuted, or even overturned outright. To some he granted clemency—if lengthy sentences in verminous prison cells could be considered clemency.

  The nightmares persisted. Fa began to give speeches on the need for “harmonious convergence.” This raised a few party eyebrows back in Beijing. But his moderation toward the Tibetans did usher in a period of relative calm in the “Autonomous Region.” The uprisings ceased. The remainder of Fa’s tenure as party boss in Lhasa was uneventful but productive. Under his supervision the party’s main goal in Tibet was achieved: the immigration of hundreds of thousands of ethnic Han Chinese. Within twenty, thirty years, ethnic Chinese would outnumber the native Tibetan population and the integration of Tibet into Great China would be complete. The Tibetans understood this, and in the past the arrival of large numbers of Han had often provided the spark of unrest. Under Fa’s leadership this was avoided. Fa was promoted upon his return to the capital.

  Only two minor incidents marred his remaining time in Tibet. Susceptible to the region’s extreme altitude, Fa had fainted one evening in the middle of a speech he was giving on the theme that “total unquestioning obedience to the party is the truest path to freedom.” On another occasion, also a speech, this one on the theme of “resisting with diligent and patriotic strenuousness those who proclaim the so-called superiority of Japanese-manufactured televisions,” he was suddenly stricken with altitude sickness and vomited over the podium into the laps of a high-ranking delegation from Zimbabwe, China’s most devoted and faithful ally in Africa. Unpleasant.

  “When,” Fa said to Lo, “do you anticipate having the results of these medical tests?”

  “Soon enough,” Lo said. “Some of them take time. Maybe it will just turn out to be food poisoning. We’re told that he ate some vermicelli dish with clams.” Lo laughed. “He was a vegetarian for a time, but he took up eating meat and fish because he decided he needed the protein. Situational Buddhism! Maybe the clam was an insufficiently reincarnated blowfish.”

  Fa regarded Lo’s expression of contempt. Lo hated the Dalai Lama with more than just professional passion. He hated all religions but reserved a special loathing for Tibetan Buddhism. Fa had been present at a dinner once when Lo had held forth at great length about the “theocratic gangsterism” of Tibet under the lamas before China “liberated” the country in 1950, a year after the glorious success of Chairman Mao’s Great Revolution.

  Lo chuckled darkly. “Or maybe it was a mushroom—a mushroom with doubtful karma!”

  Fa rose. “I thank you profusely, Comrade, for your always
excellent work. China’s security is truly safe in your capable hands. Do keep me informed.”

  The two men shook.

  As they walked to the door, Lo said, “Don’t spend your time worrying about this one, Comrade. The media will chew on it like dogs for a while and then move on to the next bone. It’s no great matter.”

  “Perhaps not. Still, it is troubling.”

  “How so?”

  “To stand accused of such things when they are not true.”

  “Bah,” Lo said. “He’s an old man. He’ll be dead soon enough, of something.”

  “To tell the truth”—Fa smiled, putting a hand on Lo’s shoulder and pointing at the overflowing ashtray—“we may be dead sooner!”

  Lo gave a polite laugh.

  Fa said, “Tell your wife that she is making me jealous.”

  “Jealous? Why?”

  Fa made a show of looking about as if someone might be listening. He whispered into Lo’s ear, “Between ourselves, Comrade. I think you are getting better meals at home than I.”

  Lo smiled and nodded. “Well, that we can do something about. If you will do us the honor, come with Madam Fa to our house. I’ll have Daiyu make us her special dish.”

  “My mouth already waters. What is the dish?”

  “Dumplings.”

  Fa felt a prickle of cold sweat along his hairline. He swallowed dryly and forced a smile. “Wonderful,” he said.

  “In that case it will happen. I will see to it.”

  Fa went to his desk and immediately lit his seventh cigarette of the day. The lighter’s flame trembled in his hand.

  He rose and paced, away from the window so the guards in the courtyard below wouldn’t see. His mind reeled.

  Dumplings. Was it possible that Lo knew about the nightmares? But how could he know? Fa had shared it only with the person who was closest to him, whose devotion and loyalty were beyond question—Gang.

  CHAPTER 7

  MUONS?

  The story had gone cold. It was four days now since any mention of it in the media.

  Bird and Angel confronted the most likely reason—namely, that His Holiness the Dalai Lama had been discharged from the hospital, smiling and in the very pinkest of health. Not merely pink: vibrantly, vibratingly alive, positively thrumming with well-being and serenity.

  His meeting with His Other Holiness had been rescheduled. Photographs of “Their Holinesses” were everywhere, two elderly divines embracing, smiling, patting each other—practically groping!—a pair of beatific old sweetie pies, one in red Prada loafers, the other in Bata sandals.

  “Look at him,” Bird said morosely to Angel. “Like he’s about to run the New York City Marathon.”

  According to the statement issued by the Rome hospital, His Holiness—that is, the one in sandals—“may have been” the victim of a bad clam in a serving of linguine alle vongole. A terrible embarrassment for his Vatican hosts. Severed monsignorial heads were rumored to be “bouncing down the Bernini staircase like so many marbles.”

  The hospital also noted that there had been “a slight shadow” in His Holiness’s lung but that it “was not seen again” on a subsequent X-ray—a fact possibly consistent with a diagnosis of schistosomiasis. Out of cultural nicety, the hospital was reluctant to announce that the Dalai Lama had “worms.”

  As for the poisoning rumor, this had been officially dismissed as, variously, “absurd,” “ridiculous,” and a “canard.” Various governments—especially those friendly to China—had gone so far as to rebuke the world media for “shameless sensationalism.”

  “Over and out,” Angel said. “Well, we gave it a shot.”

  “It’s not a total loss.”

  “How do you figure that?”

  Bird tapped on the keyboard. “Google ‘Dalai Lama,’ ‘poison,’ and ‘China’ and you get . . . four and a half million matches. I’m not declaring total victory, but it’s something.”

  “Give it up, Bird. Look, there are a hundred and one reasons to go after China. Let’s not put all our eggs in one basket. I’ll tell you what we ought to be focusing on.”

  “Panda genocide?”

  “Will you forget the pandas? Intellectual-property theft. Industrial espionage.”

  “Intellectual-property theft. You really think that’s going to get Americans rushing into the streets with torches and pitchforks?”

  “Okay, what about their massive naval buildup. Did you read General Han’s speech last week at the WuShen Boat Works?”

  “No, I missed that somehow.”

  “Talk about a wake-up call.”

  “General Han,” Bird said. “Remind me, which one is he?”

  “I keep forgetting—you know nothing.”

  “Okay. Let me rephrase. Who—the hell—is General Han?”

  “Head of Zhonghua Renmin Gongheguo Guofangbu.”

  “Stupid of me.”

  “The minister of national defense, dum-dum. Head soldier. And one very tough SOB. He spent two years during the Cultural Revolution in a five-by-five-foot cell and came out grinning. From what I’m hearing, he and Lo Guowei are bonding tighter than epoxy.” Angel looked at Bird. “Please tell me I don’t have to explain who Lo Guowei is.”

  “Wait, I know this one. Secret-police guy?”

  “Check out the big brain on you. My Politburo-watcher buddies say those are the two to watch.”

  “All well and fine,” Bird said. “But I still don’t see the American public staying up into the wee hours Googling ‘Lo Guowei’ and ‘General Han.’ With all respect to your superb skills at manipulating public opinion—PR is where I live. We need something a little more juicy than inside-Politburo baseball. We need red meat.”

  “Is it my fault the Dalai Lama didn’t die? If you feel that strongly about it, why don’t we just bump him off ourselves?”

  Bird stared. “You’re saying that with a slightly-too-straight face.”

  Angel shrugged. “I know people. Mike Burka could put together a team like that.”

  “Angel. Be serious.”

  “I’m always serious. Do you have any idea how many out-of-work military guys are out there right now reading classified ads? Special-ops guys? Seasoned people.”

  “Stop.”

  “Special Forces, Delta, CIA—”

  “Angel. I don’t want to hear this.”

  “I’m just saying it wouldn’t be all that hard.”

  “Thank you, Mary Poppins. Got it. Can we move on?”

  “Do you realize the Pentagon has cashiered over two hundred two-, three-, and four-stars? Generals, admirals. Never mind the colonels and commanders.”

  “The panda population in Shaanxi province is down forty-six percent,” Bird said. “Coincidence or—”

  “I know a lot of those guys,” Angel continued. “Your heart goes out to them. They feel betrayed. And why shouldn’t they? You give your life to your country, put your ass on the line. And suddenly—bam—you’re out on the street wondering if your medals will buy you a cup of coffee. I said this at the time: Winning the Cold War was the worst thing we could have done. The absolute worst.”

  “Angel,” Bird said. “It’s 2012. Wake up. Smell the latte.”

  “I’ll tell you something else. Right now the situation in the U.S. military is exactly where it was with the Iraqi army in ’03.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “After we liberated Iraq—what did we do? Disbanded their army. Smart move. I argued against that until I was blue in the face. And what happened? We ended up with four hundred thousand pissed-off, highly armed, out-of-work, sexually frustrated, mustachioed alpha males. All wanting payback. But who listens?”

  “Are you actually comparing U.S. military retirees—with their pensions and benefits, the GI Bill, all the extras—to Saddam Hussein’s army?”

  “I’m saying there are a lot of pissed-off vets out there. Remember the Bonus Marchers in ’32? Hoover had to order MacArthur to open fire on those poor bast
ards. You think something like that couldn’t happen again?”

  “Honestly? No. Not in a trillion years. And you’re making me nervous with this talk.”

  “Too bad,” Angel said. “I thought you wanted to play in the major leagues.”

  “No,” Bird said. “I’m just another K Street hustler trying to make a buck.” Bird stood up, this time woodyless. “I’ll call you later. We’ll think of something.”

  Angel started to laugh. “Did you really think I was being serious?”

  “You have a weird sense of humor,” Bird said. “The sign in your lobby does say ‘Extremism in the defense of liberty is no vice.’ ”

  “Oh, my God!”

  “What?”

  “Barry!”

  “Goldwater?”

  “I was supposed to pick him up at four-fifteen”

  Angel whipped out her cell. “Barry? Hi, sweetheart! It’s Mommykins . . . I know. I know. Mommy is such a bad person. She was supposed to be there half an hour ago! Bad Mommy. Is Yolanda there, honey? . . . Oh, thank God. Put Yolanda on . . . Yolanda? . . . Sí, sí, yo mistako-biggo. Enormo. Siento, siento. Yo be casa in veinte minutos. Put Barry back teléfono. Gracias, gracias, gracias . . . Barry, honey? Mommy’s on her way, baby. I wuv oo, my widdle pumpkin-schmumpkin.”

  ON THE SIDEWALK Bird found himself thoroughly confused. Angel was a maze of contradictions. One minute she was fantasizing about hiring a hit team of disgruntled American vets to assassinate the Dalai Lama. The next she’s making goo-goo talk with her eight-year-old.

  His cell went off. This ringtone was the voice of Houston’s Mission Control: “Three, two, one, we have ignition.”

  “Birdman,” Chick Devlin said. “How they hanging?”

  “About thirty-two inches off the ground. How are yours hanging?”

  “Hey, you following this crazy story about the Chinese trying to bump off the Dalai Lama?”

  “Am I . . .” Bird started to laugh. “Did you just ask me if I’m following it?”

  There was a pause. “Holy shit. You mean—”

  “On cell, Chick.”

  “Oh. Right. Right,” Chick said excitedly. “Well, goddamn. Goddamn, goddamn! How about that? Call on the landline soon as you can. Boy, those Chinese. Guess they play for keeps, huh?”