CHAPTER FOUR
The Collector
THIRTY BLOCKS AWAY FROM Kate Cold’s tiny apartment, on the top floor of a skyscraper in the heart of Manhattan, the second wealthiest man in the world, who had made his fortune by stealing the ideas of his employees and his partners in the field of computers, was talking by telephone with someone in Hong Kong. The two had never seen one another, nor would they ever.
The multibillionaire called himself the Collector, and the person in Hong Kong was simply the Specialist. The former did not know the identity of the latter. Among other security precautions, both had filters on their telephones to disguise their voices, and a device to prevent having their telephone numbers traced. That conversation would not be heard anywhere else. Not even the FBI, with the most sophisticated espionage systems in the world, would be able to learn what the secret transaction between those two parties consisted of.
The Specialist accomplished things—for a price. The Specialist could assassinate the president of Colombia, put a bomb on an airplane, make off with the royal crown of England, kidnap the pope, or replace the Mona Lisa in the Louvre with a fake. The Specialist didn’t have to advertise, because there was never a lack of work; on the contrary, clients often had to wait months on a list before their turn came. The mode of operation was always the same: the client deposited a certain six-figure fee—nonrefundable—and waited patiently as his personal data were being painstakingly verified by the criminal organization.
After a brief time, the client received a visit from an agent, usually someone with an innocent appearance, perhaps a student seeking information for a thesis, or a priest representing a charitable institution. The agent would interview the client regarding the details of the mission, and would then disappear. On the first visit, the price was never mentioned; it was understood that if the client needed to ask what the service would cost, he would never be able to pay. Later the deal would be sealed with a personal telephone call from the Specialist. The call could originate from any place in the world.
The Collector was forty-two. He was a man of medium stature and ordinary appearance; he wore thick eyeglasses, his shoulders were bowed, and he was balding prematurely, all of which made him seem much older. He dressed carelessly; his sparse hair always seemed greasy, and he had the bad habit of picking his nose when he was deep in thought, which was most of the time. He had been an only child, plagued with complexes and bad health; he had no friends and was so brilliant that he was bored in school. His schoolmates despised him because he got the best grades in class without trying, and his teachers liked him no better because he was pompous and always knew more than they did. He had begun his career when he was fifteen, building computers in his father’s garage. By the time he was twenty-three, he was a millionaire and, owing to his intelligence and his absolute lack of scruples, at thirty he had more money in his personal accounts than the entire budget for the United Nations.
As a boy, like almost everyone, he’d collected postage stamps and coins; in his teens he collected racecars, medieval castles, golf courses, banks, and beauty queens; now, in early maturity, he’d started a collection of “rare objects.” He kept them hidden in armored vaults spread across five continents, so that in case of some disaster not all of his precious collection would be destroyed. The drawback to that method was that it did not allow him to stroll among his treasures and enjoy them all at the same time; he had to hop onto his jet and travel from place to place to see them, but in truth he didn’t have to do that too frequently. It was enough to know they existed, that they were safe, and that they were his. He wasn’t motivated by artistic appreciation of his booty, only clear and simple greed.
Among other items of incalculable value, the Collector possessed the oldest manuscript known to man, the authentic funeral mask of Tutankhamen (the museum example being a copy), the brain of Einstein cut into sections and floating in a formaldehyde solution, Averroes’ original texts written in his own hand, a human skin completely covered with tattoos from neck to feet, rocks from the moon, a nuclear bomb, the sword of Charlemagne, the secret diary of Napoleon Bonaparte, several of St. Cecilia’s bones, and the formula for Coca-Cola.
Now the multibillionaire meant to acquire one of the rarest treasures in the world, a prize that few knew existed and to which only one living person had access. It was a golden dragon encrusted with precious stones, and for eighteen hundred years it had been seen only by the crowned monarchs of a small sovereign kingdom that lay in the mountains and valleys of the Himalayas. The dragon was wrapped in mystery and protected by a curse, as well as by ancient and complex security. It was not mentioned in any book or tourist guide, though many people had heard of it, and there was a description of it in the British Museum. There was also a drawing on an ancient parchment that a Chinese general discovered in a monastery at the time China invaded Tibet. That brutal military occupation forced more than a million Tibetans to flee, among them the Dalai Lama, the supreme spiritual leader of Buddhism.
Before 1950, the hereditary prince of the Kingdom of the Golden Dragon had been given special instruction between the ages of six and twenty in the Tibetan monastery where the parchments describing the dragon and its uses had been guarded for centuries. It was part of the prince’s training to study them. According to the legend, the dragon was not merely a valuable statue, it was a miraculous device for telling the future, which only the crowned monarch could use in solving problems of his kingdom. The dragon could make predictions as varied as changes in climate, which anticipated the yield of the harvests, to the militaristic intentions of neighboring countries. Thanks to that valuable information, and to the wisdom of its rulers, the tiny kingdom had been able to enjoy peace and prosperity and maintain its fierce independence.
For the Collector, the fact that the statue was made of gold was irrelevant, for he had all the gold he wanted. What interested him were the dragon’s magical properties. He had paid a fortune to the Chinese general for the stolen parchment, and then had it translated; he knew that the statue was worthless without instructions. The multibillionaire’s tiny ratlike eyes glittered behind his thick glasses when he contemplated how he would be able to control the world economy once he had that object in his hands. He would know the ups and downs of the stock market before they happened, and could act before his competitors and multiply his billions. It annoyed him greatly to be the second richest man in the world.
The Collector had learned that during the Chinese invasion, at the time the monastery was destroyed and several of the monks murdered, the hereditary prince of the Kingdom of the Golden Dragon, Prince Dil Bahadur’s father, had escaped through mountain passes disguised as a peasant. He had managed to reach Nepal and from there, always incognito, traveled back to his country.
The Tibetan lamas had not been able to complete the prince’s preparation, but his father, the king, had personally continued his education. He had not, however, been able to provide his son the same high mental and spiritual training he himself had received. When the Chinese attacked the monastery, the monks had not as yet opened his mind to the ability to see auras and thus judge an individual’s character and intentions. Nor had he been trained in the art of telepathy that allowed him to read thoughts. His father could not teach him those things, but at least when he died his son would be prepared to occupy the throne with dignity. The new king possessed a deep knowledge of the teachings of Buddha, and with time proved to have a commendable combination of the authority needed to govern, the practicality required for meting out justice, and the spirituality that safeguarded him from the corruption of power.
Dil Bahadur’s father was just twenty when he ascended to the throne, and many thought he would not be capable of ruling as other monarchs of that kingdom had before him. From the beginning, nevertheless, the new king gave evidence of maturity and wisdom. The Collector knew that this monarch had been on the throne for more than forty years, and that his government had been characterized by peace
and well-being.
The sovereign of the Kingdom of the Golden Dragon did not welcome outside influences, especially those from the West, which he considered materialistic and decadent, a culture that posed grave dangers to the values that had always prevailed in his nation. The official state religion was Buddhism, and the king was determined to keep things that way. Every year he commissioned a survey to measure the index of national contentment, its focus not on the numbers of problems, since many problems are inescapable, but on the level of compassion and spirituality among his kingdom’s inhabitants. The government discouraged tourism and admitted only a small number of qualified visitors each year. As a result, tourist agencies referred to the country as the Forbidden Kingdom.
Recently installed, television was transmitted a few hours each day, and then only those programs the king considered inoffensive, such as sports, science, and cartoons. National dress was obligatory; Western clothing was forbidden in public places. That restriction had motivated fervent petitions from university students who were dying to wear American jeans and sports shoes, but the king was inflexible on that point, as he was on many others. He counted on the unconditional support of the remainder of the population, which was proud of its traditions and had no interest in foreign styles.
The Collector knew very little about the Kingdom of the Golden Dragon, whose historical and geographical riches meant nothing to him. He never planned to visit. Nor would it be his problem to acquire the magical statue: for that he was paying a fortune to the Specialist. If that icon could predict the future, as he had been assured, he could fulfill his ultimate dream: to become the richest man in the world, to become Number One.
Dil Bahadur was the youngest son of the monarch of the Kingdom of the Golden Dragon, and the chosen heir to the throne. He lived with his master in his “home” in the mountains. The entrance to their grotto was camouflaged by a natural screen of rocks and bushes and located on a kind of terrace or balcony on the side of the mountain. The monk chose it because it was nearly inaccessible on three sides, and because no one could find it unless he was very familiar with the area.
Tensing had lived for several years as a hermit in that cave, in silence and solitude, until the king and queen of the Forbidden Kingdom delivered their son to his care. Tensing was to tutor the lad, who would be with him until he was twenty. During that time he would shape him into a perfect ruler by following a program so rigorous that few humans would survive it. All the training in the world, however, would not achieve the desired results unless Dil Bahadur proved to have superior intelligence and a spotless heart. Tensing was content; his disciple had exceeded his hopes in regard to those attributes.
The prince had been with the monk twelve years now, sleeping on rock, his only shelter the skin of a yak, eating a strictly vegetarian diet, dedicated totally to religious practice, study, and physical exercise. And he was happy. He would not change his life for any other, and it was with regret that he saw the day approaching when he must rejoin the world. He remembered very well, nonetheless, how terrified and lonely he had felt when at the age of six he had found himself in a hermit’s cave in the mountains alongside a gigantic stranger who let him cry for three days; cry until he had no more tears to shed. He never wept again. Beginning with that day, the giant had replaced his mother, his father, and the rest of his family; he became his best friend, his master, his Tao-shu instructor, his spiritual guide. From Tensing he learned nearly everything he knew.
Tensing led the prince step by step along the path of Buddhism, tutored him in history and philosophy, introduced him to nature, animals, and the curative powers of plants, developed the youth’s intuition and imagination, and taught him the skills of war while teaching him the value of peace. He initiated Dil Bahadur into the secrets of the lamas and helped him discover the mental and physical equilibrium he would need in order to govern. One of the exercises the prince had to practice was shooting his bow while standing on tiptoe with raw eggs beneath his heels, or crouched with eggs tucked behind his knees.
“Hitting the target with your arrow is not enough, Dil Bahadur; you must also develop strength, stability, and muscle control,” the lama repeated patiently.
“Perhaps it would be more productive for us to eat the eggs, honorable master,” the prince would sigh when he broke them.
Dil Bahadur’s spiritual apprenticeship was even more intense. When he was ten, the boy could enter a state of trance and rise to a higher level of consciousness; at eleven he could communicate telepathically and move objects without touching them; at thirteen, he made astral journeys. On his fourteenth birthday his master opened an orifice in his forehead to enable him to see auras. The operation actually perforated the bone and left a circular scar the size of a pea.
“All organic matter radiates energy, or an aura, a halo of light invisible to the human eye except in the case of certain persons with psychic powers. You may learn many things from the color and shape of an aura,” Tensing explained.
During three consecutive summers, the lama traveled with the boy to cities in India, Nepal, and Bhutan, to train him in reading the auras of the people and animals he saw there. He did not, however, take him to the beautiful valleys and cultivated terraces in the mountains of his own country, the Forbidden Kingdom. He would return there only when his education was complete.
Dil Bahadur learned to use the eye in his forehead with such precision that by now, at the age of eighteen, he could identify the medicinal properties of a plant, the ferocity of an animal, or the emotional state of a person, just from viewing the aura.
In only two years the prince would be twenty, and his master’s work would be done. Then Dil Bahadur would return for the first time to the affection of his family, and would go to study in Europe, because there was crucial knowledge to be learned in the modern world, information Tensing could not teach him but he would need if he was to govern his nation.
Tensing was devoting all his energies to preparing the prince to be a good king and to be able to decipher the messages of the Golden Dragon. Dil Bahadur’s course of studies was intense and complex, so that sometimes he lost patience, but Tensing, unyielding, prodded him to keep working until both were exhausted.
“I do not want to be king, master,” Dil Bahadur said one day.
“Possibly my student would rather renounce his throne and not have to study,” smiled Tensing.
“I want to live a life of meditation, master. How shall I achieve enlightenment amid the temptations of the world?”
“Not everyone can be a hermit like me. It is your karma to be a ruler. Your illumination must come as you travel a path much more difficult than that of meditation. You will have to achieve that while serving your people.”
“I do not want to leave you, master,” said the prince, his voice breaking.
The lama pretended not to see the tears in the youth’s eyes.
“Wishes and fears are illusions, Dil Bahadur, not realities. You must practice detachment.”
“Must I also detach myself from affection?”
“Affection is like the noonday sun; it does not need the presence of another to be manifest. Separation between beings is also an illusion, since all things in the universe are connected. Our spirits will be together always, Dil Bahadur,” Tensing explained, noting, with some surprise, that he himself was not immune to emotion, and that he shared the sadness his disciple felt.
He, too, was distressed when he thought of the impending day when he must return the prince to his family, to the world, and to the throne of the Kingdom of the Golden Dragon for which he was destined.
CHAPTER FIVE
Eagle and Jaguar
THE PLANE CARRYING ALEXANDER Cold landed in New York at five forty-five in the evening. At that hour, the heat of the June day had not yet faded. The youth remembered with good humor his first trip alone to that city, when almost as soon as he left the airport, an inoffensive-looking girl stole everything he owned. What was her nam
e? He’d nearly forgotten . . . Morgana! A name from medieval sorcery. It seemed to him that years had gone by since that incident, though it was only a few months. He felt like a different person: he’d grown up, he was more sure of himself, and he no longer had fits of anger and despair.
His family’s crisis was behind them. It seemed that his mother had beat her cancer, though there was always the fear that it would come back. His father was smiling again, and his sisters, Andrea and Nicole, were beginning to grow up, too. He almost never fought with them anymore, just enough to be a true brother. He had gained a lot of respect among his friends. Even the beautiful Cecilia Burns, who used to pay about as much attention to him as she would to a flea, now asked him to help her with her math assignments. Well, more than just help. He had to do all the problems and then let her copy his work, but the girl’s radiant smile was more than enough reward for him. All Cecilia Burns had to do was shake that shining mane of hair, and Alexander’s ears turned red. Ever since he had returned from the Amazon with half his head shaven, with a proudly displayed scar and a string of incredible stories, he’d become very popular at school. Even so, he felt as if he didn’t really fit in. His friends were not as much fun as they had been. Adventure had aroused his curiosity; the little town where he’d grown up was a barely visible dot on the map of Northern California. He felt he was suffocating there, he wanted to escape and explore the wide, wide world.
Alexander’s geography professor suggested that he give an oral report to the class about his adventures. He arrived at school with his blowgun—though, to avoid accidents, without the curare-poisoned darts—photos of him swimming with a dolphin in the Rio Negro, subduing a crocodile with his bare hands, and wolfing down meat impaled on an arrow. When he explained that the meat was a hunk of anaconda, the world’s largest water snake, his classmates’ amazement reached the point of disbelief. And he hadn’t even told them the most interesting part: his journey into the territory of the People of the Mist, where he had encountered fabulous prehistoric creatures. Nor had he told them about Walimai, the aged shaman who helped him obtain the “water of health” for his mother, because that story would have made them think he’d lost his mind. He had written everything down very carefully in his diary, because he was planning to write a book. He even had the title; he would call it “City of the Beasts.”