King watched as Reyes passed in front of the Jokhang. He stopped for a second and raised a closed fist into the air. Then Reyes, followed by two Tibetans, made his way down an alley between the temple and the chairman’s house and passed out of view.
King pushed the button on a silver-plated stopwatch, set the time for one minute, and watched.
When the stopwatch read fifteen seconds, King reached into his satchel and removed a hollowed-out ram’s horn and handed it to the Tibetan.
“When I say,” he told him, “start blowing, and don’t stop until I tell you to, or we’re dead.”
The man nodded eagerly and took the horn. King took another breath of oxygen and checked the stopwatch. Five seconds. He glanced at the guards patrolling the walkway outside Zhuren’s house. There were two outside the wrought-iron gate, two more just outside the front door sitting on chairs. He lined up his shots.
“Now,” he said loudly.
The horn erupted with the sound of a cat under a vacuum cleaner.
Like wraiths appearing above a graveyard, the square was suddenly filled with four dozen Dungkar warriors. They had posed as shopkeepers and early-morning walkers, and had hidden inside drums containing spices and seeds. They screamed war cries and raced toward the gate leading up to the chairman’s home. On the front porch, one of the guards was rousted from a half sleep by the sound of the horn and the approaching horde. He stood up and reached for a bell near the front door. But before he could reach it to sound the alarm, he heard a sharp crack. As if in a dream, he stared in amazement as his hand and arm from the elbow dropped onto the porch.
Then he screamed as blood erupted from the stump like a geyser.
At the same time, the Dungkar reached the pair of guards outside the gate; they were dead before they could comprehend what was happening, their throats slit like pigs at slaughter.
Swiveling around, the front-door guard stared in horror at the advancing Dungkar. His partner started to speak, but a second later his head was blown off his shoulders. It landed on the porch with a thud, the lips still straining to answer a signal from an impulse now dead. The first Dungkar raced up the steps with his sword held in front. The guard tried to reach for his handgun, but with no hand he had no chance.
The sword ran through his middle and pinned him to the wooden door like some macabre Christmas wreath. He mouthed a few words before dying, but only blood seeped from inside. The force of the guard slamming into the door burst the lock.
The door swung open and the Dungkar raced inside.
AROUND the rear of the house the scene was less violent. The single guard at the door off the kitchen had been asleep. His dereliction of duty would save his life. Reyes crept up, hit him with a stun gun, then had one of the Tibetans bind his mouth, wrists and legs with duct tape before he had a chance to do anything. Then Reyes popped open the lock with a pick and made his way inside. He and the Tibetans were halfway up the stairs leading to Zhuren’s bedroom before the horn sounded.
Then Reyes saw them.
There were three unarmed men at the top of the landing. He reached for his holstered .40 handgun, but before he could snap off a round, a Tibetan houseboy appeared from behind and lopped a leather garrote over the men’s heads and pulled tight. Their heads slammed together, then their legs began to kick as the houseboy tightened the cord. Reyes motioned for one of the men following to help, then raced past to Zhuren’s door. Stopping for a second to line himself up, he slammed his polished black boot at a point just above the doorknob. The door burst open and he stepped inside. The man in the bed slowly started to rise while rubbing his eyes, then he reached toward the nightstand. Reyes fired a round into the headboard above the man’s head and the room filled with the smell of spent gunpowder.
“I wouldn’t,” Reyes said, “if I were you.”
“I can’t see much,” Gurt admitted.
The clouds had closed in as they neared the top of the pass. Snow and sleet raked across the windshield of the Bell. The 212 was slowly ascending, but barely making any forward movement at all. They were flying blind on the edge of the helicopter’s performance envelope.
“I’ve got a road,” Murphy suddenly shouted, “on the port side.”
Gurt spotted the black stripe against the white background. A movement of vehicles across the terrain had displaced most of the snow, leaving only dirt and rock.
“What’s that?” Gurt said, straining to see.
“I think it’s a column of tanks,” Murphy said.
“I’ll go to one side,” Gurt said, “and stay in the cloud cover.”
Along the side of the road, a Chinese tank commander was watching several of his soldiers repair a tread that had come loose. He heard the helicopter in the distance, so he climbed inside and called his superior on the radio.
“No idea,” his superior reported, “but you’d better find out what it is.”
Popping his head out of the hatch, the tank commander shouted down to his men, then he began to pass rifles out of the hatch. Two minutes later, the soldiers were hiking up the road away from their disabled tank.
“THERE’S the crest,” Murphy shouted. “Find a spot to touch down.”
Gurt played with the collective, but at this altitude he had little control. “Hold on,” he shouted.