Golden Buddha Read Free

had begun to fire into the crowd to restore order, and before dawn broke, the hospitals and morgues had been filled to capacity. Overholt had organized the demonstration and the knowledge clouded his mind like a shroud.
    Just then the radio crackled.
    â€œTop Hat negative, over.”
    Overholt’s heart skipped a beat. The planes he sought were not coming.
    â€œPapa Bear will okay sweeping the path if critically necessary during extraction. Advise on departure and subsequent travel, over.”
    Eisenhower said not to attack Lhasa, Overholt thought, but Dulles has agreed to cover the escape out of Tibet on his own, if it came to that. If he worked things right, Overholt thought, he wouldn’t need to put his boss’s ass on the line.
    â€œSir?” the radio operator asked.
    Overholt was jarred from his thoughts.
    â€œThey’re expecting a reply,” the operator said quietly.
    Overholt reached for the microphone. “Acknowledged and agreed,” Overholt said, “and thank Papa Bear for the gesture. We’ll call from the road. Closing office, over.”
    The radio operator stared up at Overholt. “Guess that’s that.”
    â€œBreak it all down,” Overholt said quietly, “we’ll be leaving soon.”
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    I NSIDE the yellow wall, preparations for the Dalai Lama’s escape into exile were moving at a blistering pace. Overholt was cleared past the guards and waited to be seen. Five minutes later, the Dalai Lama, wearing his black-framed prescription glasses and yellow robes, entered the office in the administration room. The spiritual leader of Tibet looked weary but resigned.
    â€œI can tell by your face,” he said quietly, “no help is coming.”
    â€œI’m sorry, Your Holiness,” Overholt replied. “I did all that I could.”
    â€œYes, Langston, I am certain you did. However, the situation is as it is,” the Dalai Lama noted, “so I have decided to go into exile. I cannot risk the chance of my people being slaughtered.”
    Overholt had arrived expecting to use all his powers of persuasion to convince the Dalai Lama to flee—instead he found the decision had already been made. He should have expected as much—over the years he had grown to know the Dalai Lama, and he had never seen anything that made him doubt the leader’s commitment to his people.
    â€œMy men and I would like to accompany you,” Overholt offered. “We have detailed maps, radios and some supplies.”
    â€œWe’d be glad to have you come along,” the Dalai Lama said. “We leave shortly.”
    The Dalai Lama turned to leave.
    â€œI wish I could have done more,” Overholt said.
    â€œThings are as they are,” the Dalai Lama said at the door. “For now, however, you should assemble your men and meet us at the river.”
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    H IGH above Norbulingka, the sky was dotted with a trillion stars. The moon, only days away from being full, lit the ground with a yellow diffused glow. A stillness, a quiet. The night birds that normally warbled their haunting songs were silent. The domesticated animals inside the compound—musk deer, mountain goats, camels, a single aged tiger and the peacocks that ran loose—barely stirred. A light wind from high in the Himalayas brought the scent of pine forests and change.
    From high on a hillside outside Lhasa came the chilling scream of a snow leopard.
    The Dalai Lama scanned the grounds, then closed his eyes and visualized returning. He was dressed in trousers instead of robes, a black wool coat instead of a cloak. A rifle on a sling rode on his left shoulder, and an ancient ceremonial thangka, an embroidered silk tapestry, was rolled up and hung over his right.
    â€œI am ready,” he said to his Chikyah Kenpo, or chief of staff. “Have you packed the icon?”
    â€œIt is safely crated and guarded. Like you, the men will protect it at all