Читать книгу Dragon Mountain - Daniel Reid - Страница 7

II

As soon as we'd landed, the barefoot coolies swarmed across the airstrip again, dragging shrubs and fallen limbs to conceal it. I taxied to a halt under a makeshift canopy among the trees that served as a hangar and disembarked, with One-Eye right behind me, prodding me in the ribs with his Uzi. Dented drums of gas and oil, broken boxes full of rusty old tools, and sundry aircraft parts were strewn about the ground. Amid this mess an old woman squatted before a charcoal fire, stirring a bubbling cauldron of what appeared to be food. One-Eye commandeered a fresh chew of betel from her, then nudged me up a jungle trail with his gun.

The hike up to Dragon Mountain took a day and a half. We spent the night in a filthy hovel along the trail, which One-Eye called an "inn." It was actually a guardhouse, and I spent a sleepless night chained to a post like a dog.

We finally reached the village I'd seen from the air late the following afternoon. A crude drawbridge fashioned of wooden planks and bamboo beams hung across a muddy, swift-flowing stream that separated us from the final stretch of trail into the village. One-Eye barked a sharp command at the guards on the other side, and immediately they lowered the bridge to let us cross. We trudged along another half mile or so of trail into the village, a dusty little hamlet perched on a plateau at the foot of that massive mountain.

It looked like a typical Shan village, with thatched huts built up on short bamboo stilts, each one set in a private yard enclosed within hedges of tough thornbush. A few Shan tribes-men eyed me curiously as we passed through the village, but they didn't show the least hint of surprise at my presence there. They all wore the towel-like turbans, baggy pants, and loose tunics favored by the Shan, who resemble Mongols and Tibetans more than Burmans. Their Chinese-Tibetan ancestry gives them features entirely different from Southeast Asian stock.

I stopped to light a cigarette, but One-Eye poked me rudely in the ribs and hurried me on. "No time to stop and rest now. Almost sunset. Boss waiting. Dinner soon." We passed through the village and headed up a steep path that led directly to the base of Dragon Mountain.

The dirt path gave way to smooth stone steps as we approached a huge, triple-arched Chinese gate, like the ones you see in old Chinese temples and imperial palaces. A fifteen-foot-high stone wall with cornices of glazed yellow tile snaked out into the jungle in both directions from this gaudy gate. For a moment it reminded me of a stage set for one of those corny Chinese kungfu movies they make in Hong Kong. Nothing seemed real.

One-Eye shouted the same command he'd used at the drawbridge, and one of the side gates slowly swung open. Only the "Boss" used the big central portal, One-Eye informed me, just like the Chinese emperors of yore. Armed guards, all of them Chinese, milled around within the compound, but they too barely took notice of me.

Have you ever seen the private imperial gardens located in the northern compound of the Forbidden City in Peking? That's what the scene that unfolded before my eyes behind that gate looked like. Not a trace of the wild jungle through which we'd trekked to get there was to be seen anywhere within those walls. Instead, everything was neatly landscaped and carefully manicured, with exotic trees and flowers from all over the world growing profusely in well-tended gardens. There were "mountains" of cleverly sculpted rocks, "rivers" formed by little rills that connected carp ponds abloom with lotus, miniature stone bridges, ornate pavilions, and other classical Chinese touches. In the soft pink light of dusk, the scene looked especially beautiful—and unreal.

We followed a flagstone path through the gardens up to another huge Chinese gate. It too swung open at One-Eye's signal. We entered a spacious courtyard paved with slabs of raw marble, empty except for an enormous bronze incense cauldron, five times the size of an oil drum, set in the middle. A pair of intricately cast golden dragons snaked up the sides of the cauldron, peering ferociously at each other over the rim.

Long colonnades of rooms stretched along the walls on both sides of the courtyard, with the smooth gray face of the mountain rising abruptly opposite the gate. This cliff soared about a hundred feet straight up, with the craggy peaks of the mountain towering high above it. Halfway up the face of this cliff, I noticed windowsills jutting out. A heavy double door studded with bronze spikes formed an entrance to the cliff at ground level. Chiseled in bold relief just above the door, writhed an impressive Imperial Dragon, the kind with five claws rather than only four, the symbol of Chinese emperors for over five thousand years. Whatever lay behind that door must have been carved into solid rock.

"We are here!" One-Eye hissed with obvious relief, his mission accomplished. The bronze doors swung open silently, and he signaled me inside, while he remained out in the courtyard as the huge doors swung closed again behind me.

I found myself standing in a vast cavern, dimly lit by a few coconut oil lamps along the walls. It was so large that I couldn't see the ceiling. Suddenly a woman stepped out of the shadows and greeted me with a deep bow, her hands folded before her heart in the traditional Buddhist gesture of greeting. Though she was definitely of local stock, she wore a tight-fitting Chinese gown of the finest silk brocade. Silently she led me across the dark, dank cavern to a narrow stairwell carved into the living stone of the mountain and beckoned me to follow her up.

It was a long climb, and when we emerged at the top, I saw why. We now stood in a chamber set high above the cavern I'd entered down below. Plenty of light and fresh air entered this room through latticed windows cut into the stone walls, and Chinese lanterns with electric light hung from the carved wooden beams of the ceiling. The entire room was paneled in richly lacquered hardwood, and the scent of sandalwood incense sweetened the air. Traditional Chinese furnishings stood all around. It looked like one of those throne rooms in the Forbidden City, where Chinese emperors used to receive foreign dignitaries.

My escort melted into the woodwork as silently as she'd appeared, leaving me to gawk at the incredible luxury that filled the room. But the smell of tobacco told me I was not alone. Perched on some kind of elevated throne at the far end of the room sat a man smoking a cigarette and tapping the arm of his chair with the tip of a long gold, jewel-encrusted fingernail sheath that capped the little finger of his left hand. He glared at me in stony silence as I approached him.

At ten paces I froze in my tracks and squinted at the man. I could hardly believe my eyes! A smug smile spread across the man's face as he felt my recognition grow—a demented smirk that confirmed his identity beyond all doubt. Sure, he'd changed a bit—lost most of his hair and much of his bulk-but that look on his face—especially the perverse smile—hadn't changed at all. Swank on his pretentious throne, wearing a long Mandarin robe of the best Chinese silk, with a golden dragon embroidered across his chest, sat my "old friend" Ching Wei, grinning at me through a coiling cloud of smoke.