Military Orders Page 2

  He recalled the anguished phone call from his mother, begging him to fly immediately to Dharamsala to investigate. “The Indian police are telling us hardly anything,” she said. “It’s your summer vacation. We’ll pay. I know you still hate your dad, but please do it for me. And for Sue.”

  I don’t hate Dad, he wanted to say. I just don’t want to be in the same half of the country as him.

  But he knew it was not the occasion for an argument. “I can pay,” he said. Harel enjoyed a professor’s salary, and since the bitter divorce was living alone. Money was hardly a problem. And, with Matt’s wife Sue about to give birth to the couple’s second child, she would not be able to make the long journey.

  But he resented the imposition all the same. It might be the summer vacation, but he had a book overdue with his publisher, on top of a couple of journal articles that he still hadn’t even started writing. Meanwhile, his department head was berating him for not publishing enough.

  “Are you a missionary too?” asked the girl.

  He sighed at the question. “I used to be.” And my parents before that, he almost said. It’s the family trade, you know.

  He braced for further interrogation, but then he glanced out the window and realized that the bus was arriving in the township of McLeod Ganj. This was Upper Dharamsala, the actual place where the Dalai Lama had lived and died. And, when he thought about it, this was also the place where his younger brother Matt had lived and died.

  The hippie was no longer interested in murdered missionaries. She and her companion were looking excitedly out at a vivid kaleidoscope of rickety, multi-colored buildings that were jammed into narrow, winding streets, lines of washing dangling from verandahs, gaudy Tibetan prayer flags flapping from roofs.

  The base of the buildings held rows of shops, and Harel’s heart sank as he surveyed these - the internet cafe, the organic, vegetarian pizza store, the celestial cosmic souvenir stall, whatever that was. Billboards promoted yoga classes, fortune tellers, courses in herbal medicines and meditation sessions. The fake-Rolex and pirated-DVD outlets were presumably lurking just around the corner.

  But he was a professor in California, and could handle all that. He even knew that as a professor of spiritual art he should be excited about this first-ever trip to Little Lhasa. However, he had been to the real Lhasa, the capital of Tibet, now occupied by China, and had been privileged to view many of the magnificent treasures there. He doubted that anything was about to stimulate his intellect in this outpost of hippie colonialism. He planned to make his visit as short as possible.

  No, it was something else that sent Harel further into despondency. He stared at the buildings. Most looked as if a strong wind would knock them down. It was the monsoon season, and small streams ran down the streets. He looked at the people walking through the mud - many were bent and bowed, as if they were carrying a load of rice on their backs.

  Then he imagined the homes. Already he could see the pale brown water that emerged when you turned on the taps, the lavatories that didn’t flush properly, the neighbors in the apartment above yours who drank and played mah jong - or whatever the local equivalent was - all night, and the kids outside your front door who were skilled in picking your pockets.

  This place screamed out two words: “Mission Field.” It reminded him of his upbringing and of his early adult life, until he “went native,” as the saying went, married a local girl and became a professor instead. To be followed by the bitter divorce and the abject humiliation in his father’s church, at the hands of his own father. But he knew how attractive this place would be to his parents, and how excited Matt undoubtedly felt at coming to live and work here.

  There was indeed a time when he relished all this, took pride in living in towns like this. But now he preferred a comfortable California duplex, gourmet cooking, a glass of wine and some soft music. He didn’t want to be a missionary any more. This town transported him to his past. And that was a place he no longer wished to visit.

  Chapter 2

  Dharamsala, Northern India

  The minibus lurched to a halt at what was apparently the terminal - a shack little bigger than a phone booth. The driver was still talking on his cellphone. Harel let the other half-dozen passengers alight, then exited. The crumbling pavement was awash with mud puddles. The air was refreshingly cool for the middle of summer, though distinctly humid. He walked to the back of the vehicle to retrieve his suitcase.

  “Where are you staying?” asked the hippie. Harel decided that he was not surprised when he realized that her luggage consisted of an expensive-looking Italian leather bag with ornate silver buckles.

  “Chonor House.” He smiled at the girl. It was a deliberate, smug smile. Chonor House, opposite the late Dalai Lama’s residence, and run by a group dedicated to preserving traditional Tibetan culture, was the swankiest place in town. It was where Richard Gere and Goldie Hawn and other celebrity Buddhists sometimes used to stay when they came for an audience with the Dalai Lama.

  “Stay cool,” she said, and she and her companion tripped off in the direction of the narrow streets and shops.

  Stay cool? What sort of talk was that? He was about to raise two fingers in a peace sign, but refrained. He knew that his problem - one of his problems - was his biting sarcasm. Another was his terribly judgmental attitude - an asset more than a failing, of course, for a university professor, but not a welcome trait in a Christian, as his parents had never tired of informing him.

  He grabbed his suitcase out of the back of the minibus. He had packed lightly, a legacy from missionary days. With luck, he thought, he would be out of this town in just a couple of days. Then, depending on flight availability, he could fly across to see the Ajanta caves, with their superlative Buddhist paintings and sculptures. Or he might try to contact some art historian colleagues at the universities in New Delhi or Mumbai, though with the summer vacation you never knew who was available. In any case, he expected to be home in California, and back at work on his writing assignments, within a week.

  He decided to go straight to the police station, even with his suitcase, and then check into his hotel. In his typically disciplined manner he had prepared for this trip by downloading from the internet and printing as many maps of Dharamsala as he could find. He had also consulted at his university library a selection of India travel guides - and had been quite disconcerted to find that, when he looked up “Dharamsala” in each book’s index, it was frequently followed immediately by “diarrhea.”

  He checked one of his maps. The town was small, and the police station looked to be no more than a ten-minute walk away. A handle extended from the suitcase and he set off up a hill, in the same direction as the hippies, dragging the case on its little wheels. The roadway was muddy, and he realized that the wheels of his suitcase were sending up streaks of mud that were starting to coat the case. Too bad. He didn’t expect much good to come out of this trip.

  Cars, minivans and motorcycles moved slowly up and down the narrow alley. Pedestrians were forced into narrow strips in front of the stores, each of which, it seemed bore a large photo of the late Dalai Lama.

  He had walked less than twenty yards when a sweating young tout in blue trainers and white shirt grasped his arm.

  “You want gold?”

  “Gold? Who comes to Dharamsala for gold?”

  “Gold necklace. Bracelet. Ring. Top quality. All made by Tibet people. Best souvenir.”

  Harel reflected that handmade Tibetan jewelry was probably a great souvenir, but he had other things on his mind. And he wasn’t buying from a street tout. “Sorry.” He walked on, only to have his arm grasped again, this time by a grotesque lady with one eye and a deformed hand, begging for money. Harel was ready. He had allocated five hundred rupees per day for charity, and he handed the woman fifty - about one dollar.

  A couple of Western monks edged past, garbed in the traditional maroon and saffron robes that flowed down to the ankles, but left the entire arm exp
osed, right up to the shoulder. Harel noted that the beggars and touts didn’t bother them. Perhaps he should adopt a similar costume.

  He stopped in front of a store displaying rows of Tibetan religious art objects. A line of fat-bellied laughing Buddhas of different sizes, the kind that Western tourists like to place on the mantelpiece or in their gardens as a kind of good luck talisman, occupied the top shelf. Harel presumed the tourists did not know - or care - that these had little connection to Tibetan Buddhism.

  Below them he spotted a Yab-Yum sculpture. This was certainly from Tibet. It depicted a male and female deity, both seated and scowling at each other like feral cats, mouths open, teeth bared, eyes aglow. Yet as they glowered at each other they were also clasped in a passionate embrace, arms and legs entwined, and with their scanty, slinky robes the whole effect was almost erotic. Harel knew that this sculpture represented the union of male compassion with feminine wisdom. Buddhists believed that compassion and wisdom were the two most powerful forces in the universe, but they must be in unity before the world can know harmony and humans can achieve enlightenment.

  Nearby was another image that was revered in Tibet, the Tara, a sexy lady deity, and one of the most important female figures in Buddhism, representing compassion, long life and healing. This sculpture was about a foot tall, and showed a voluptuous, full-figured lady with a thin mouth, long nose and eyes that were barely open. She wore shapely robes that displayed the curves of her body, and she was adorned with a golden crown, along with necklaces and bracelets.

  A man had emerged from the store. He was short and fat and bald, probably middle-aged, and could quite conceivably pass as a laughing Buddha himself. “Welcome, sir, oh yes, welcome indeed,” he said in a traditional sing-song Indian accent, a broad smile on his chubby face. “These are all made here in Dharamsala. They are produced by refugees from Tibet. Sir, every rupee that you spend goes in support of refugees.”

  Harel looked at the man, and decided that beneath the beaming exterior he looked decidedly creepy, with fluttering eyes that refused to look straight at Harel, peculiar wisps of wiry hair that sprang from his face in various trajectories and fat hands that even now were clutching Harel’s arm.

  “Do you have any sculptures of dharma protectors?” he asked.

  “Dharma protectors? Sir, I can see that you are man who knows about Buddhism. Are you training here as a priest? You are clearly a very wise man.”

  “I’m a teacher.”

  “That is wonderful, sir. A teacher. That is wonderful. Yes indeed, we do have some dharma protectors. Look, up there.” He pointed to the top right corner of the display, at a sculpture Harel had not noticed. It depicted some kind of crazed man-monster, flames shooting from its hair, fangs instead of teeth, a sword in one hand, serpents twisting at its feet, its skin a tomato red.

  The Buddha’s teachings were known as the dharma, and hundreds of supernatural beings - particularly in Tibetan Buddhism - had come into existence for the protection of these teachings. Dharma protectors were generally quite grotesque monsters, intended to terrify Buddhism’s enemies. You often saw these sculptures placed at the entrance to temples, and they were also placed at strategic locations inside monasteries and prayer halls. Tourists might like the happy, laughing Buddha and the sexy Yab-Yum and Tara, but Harel doubted that many would choose a grotesque dharma protector as a souvenir.

  “Do you sell many of these?” he asked the man.

  “Oh yes.”

  “You do? To Western tourists?”

  “Oh no, sir. Tourists do not like these at all. We sell them to temples. Temples around the world.”

  Harel smiled. “Thank you,” he said, and started to walk on.

  The man held his arm. “Sir, we have many, many more inside. Please enter, I beg you, and take a look.”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Please come inside and drink a cup of delicious Indian chai. I shall make it for you myself.”

  Harel shook himself free of the man’s uncomfortable grasp. “I’m here for a couple of days. I’ll be passing by again. Another time.” He continued up the alleyway.

  As he walked he thought about Matt, and of one thing he was now certain. Matt was absolutely rock-solid in his Christian convictions. He had no doubt that his mission in life was to take the teachings of Jesus to those who had not heard. He knew that an enemy, in the form of Satan, was out to stop him. He did not doubt the reality of spiritual warfare, or the presence of good and evil in the world.

  So Harel knew that Matt might have been down to his last nickel, his own little son might be starving, his wife in urgent need of surgery, yet never would he have taken it upon himself to be involved in selling grotesque and creepy art pieces of the kind that Harel had just viewed. Matt would certainly have seen these figures as satanic - the work of the devil.

  So why were the police and the papers saying otherwise? Was someone trying to frame his brother?

  Chapter 3

  Dharamsala, Northern India

  The police station occupied a grey, stucco building surrounded by English oaks. With trepidation, Harel pushed open a tall, yellow door and walked in, dragging his suitcase behind him. The police weren’t telling his parents anything. Why should they talk to him? Worse, might the police somehow be involved in framing his brother, for whatever reason?

  A young officer in a drab khaki uniform sat at a counter, squinting intently into a computer. He peered up, his brow furrowed, as if resenting the interruption to his work.

  Harel handed over a card. “Professor Rafa Harel,” he said in a loud voice. “I’m here to meet one of your officers, Rajiv Bhati, concerning my brother Matt Harel. He’s expecting me. He said he would be available this afternoon to see me.”

  The young man looked at the card, looked at Harel, and then without a word slipped into a back room. Harel scanned the room. A low bench occupied one side, near the door, with an elderly woman in traditional sari seated there. She was staring at Harel, but quickly averted her gaze as he looked around. A clock on the wall above her, running ten minutes fast, was the only decoration. The grey concrete walls were grimy and stained.

  A middle-aged man, also in a khaki uniform, but with stripes on his shoulders, emerged, carrying a file of documents. He was powerfully built, with the face of a bull, a thick head of black hair and piercing brown eyes. He opened a small gate in the counter and walked through to the waiting area.

  “Professor Harel, it is a great delight to meet you.” Spittle appeared around his lips. He extended a thick arm and shook Harel’s hand vigorously. “This way please.” He led him down a corridor to a bare, whitewashed room, furnished with an old wooden table and four plain office chairs. An old Japanese-made fan on the table, not switched on, was the only other item in the room. He beckoned Harel to one chair, then took a seat opposite.

  This was almost certainly an interrogation room. Harel knew little about the Indian police, but could not help but feel a vague degree of disquiet. Behind him a young lady opened the door. She was also dressed in a khaki uniform. She gave a slight bow, and then placed cups of a hot drink before the two men. “Chai,” she said, and exited.

  The officer spoke again. “I am sorry about the circumstances of your visit. But it is a great privilege to have such an esteemed American professor with us in Dharamsala.”

  Harel smiled softly at the flattery. “More of a privilege than having Richard Gere visiting?”

  “You are a professor,” said the officer. “Do you want to know something? We Indians value education. Much more highly than acting. You are a professor. Professor of art. ”

  “Professor of spiritual art.”

  “Is there any other kind?”

  Harel smiled again. He was used to this question. Certainly his title gave him a mandate to investigate just about any art at all. He sometimes joked about that at faculty meetings, where office politics always swirled right below the surface of almost any discussion. All art was inspired, sure
ly, even the most mundane - inspired by something - and therefore could be deemed spiritual. “I specialize in art that is an expression of the religious impulse. Usually it is connected with religious ritual of some kind.”

  “So Van Gogh, Cezanne, they are not spiritual artists?”

  During his eight years in Japan Harel had learned that the most plebeian of people could have extraordinary knowledge of particular topics. He remembered the taxi driver in Tokyo who was one of his aikido teachers, and who spent his spare time reading Buddhist texts in the original Sanskrit. So an Indian police officer with expertise in Western art was not necessarily a surprise.

  “Actually, they are,” he replied. “But I don’t normally cover them in my classes, or my writing. I am generally looking at art that is produced as a result of some direct spiritual influence, or is produced to be used in some kind of religious ritual - and usually both. All those Tibetan statues that I’ve just been looking at in the souvenir shops - they’d qualify. That’s the sort of thing I mean.”

  “Statues in souvenir shops are spiritual art?”

  He’s quick, thought Harel. “That is a debatable question. Probably not the actual products in the shops. They are usually just mass-produced for tourists. They don’t have much spiritual or religious input or purpose. But the originals, the ones they’re based on, that’s what I meant.”

  “Very interesting, Professor Harel. You are a man of deep learning. Very deep learning indeed.”

  What outrageous flattery, thought Harel, and quite insincere. This guy was as unctuous as the Buddhist art salesman. He changed the subject. “I understand that you are in charge of investigating my brother’s murder.”