Stones: Experiment (Stones #3) Read online

  A pair of white cranes, male and female, fly low over the heads of the crowd trailing green ribbons from their talons. They land on the railing on either side of Miyazawa. Waves of adulation move through the masses as they see the birds. They bring hands together in front of their bowed heads.

  “These two birds symbolize the purity of Shinto, the Path of the Kami gods, passed down from the days of Amaterasu, the divine ancestor of Japan, the first creation.” Miyazawa raises his arms, and the birds light upon his upraised palms. “For thousands of years, the Path has been protected in its purity by the Japanese, people of the first creation. Through the generous blessing of the Kami, we are pleased to share it now with the entire world.”

  Spontaneous bursts of worshipful ecstasy break from thousands of lips.

  Miyazawa brings his hands together. The white cranes spread their wings and leap into the air. Hovering for an instant, they fly straight out from Miyazawa a meter above the kneeling worshipers and disappear behind a high temple wall.

  The effect is immediate. Screams of joy ripple across the courtyard.

  “The Path of the Kami is unique.” Miyazawa takes a small step forward. “It has no written creed, no doctrine, no dogma, no commandments. It cannot be defined by words. In its purity, it is open to all and incompatible with none. It is manifest in the trees, the rivers, the mountains, the rocks. It is in nature everywhere and accessible to all peace-loving people.”

  Out in the sea of kneeling worshipers, thirty meters back from the platform, a young boy rises to his feet. His arms reach out to Miyazawa, and his face looks up to heaven, eyes closed.

  Miyazawa nods.

  Right on cue, he thinks.

  The worshipers near the young boy appear startled.

  “I sense the power of the Kami. It is with this boy.” Miyazawa’s voice booms across the multitude. “Behold him.”

  Next to the boy, just a meter away, an ancient boulder in the rough shape of an enormous kidney bean juts out from the crowd, weighing several tons and covered in moss and pock marks. The Lhasa community reveres it as the Ghost Stone, said to have been brought to the mountaintop on the back of the founder of the first Buddhist temple constructed in Lhasa.

  The boy places a trembling hand on the surface of the Ghost Stone.

  It floats up and hangs in the air three meters off the ground.

  A hush rips through the worshipers. Thousands of heads turn to face the boy. Tens of thousands of fingers reach out to the boulder.

  “Young man, the Kami have chosen you.” Miyazawa smiles upon the boy, still standing with his arm stretched out to the Ghost Stone. “Please come to the platform.”

  The boy opens his eyes, and his arm floats back to his side. The Ghost Stone settles to the ground. The sea of worshipers parts, and he walks to Miyazawa, pausing at the bottom of the steps, and ascending slowly, eyes fixed ahead.

  At the top of the stairs, Miyazawa meets the boy with a deep bow and turns him to face the crowd. From the back of the platform, a young Shinto priest brings a ceremonial white robe and tall black hat, the same as Miyazawa wears on his head. Miyazawa opens the robe and places it on the young boy’s shoulders, tying the sash on his waist. He takes the hat in both hands and brings it down gently on the boy’s head.

  It all fits perfectly.

  Miyazawa turns back to the gathered worshipers. “Behold the head priest of your new Shinto shrine.”

  Roars of approval burst forth from a multitude of tear-stained lips.

  The old Buddhist priest sitting behind Miyazawa rises from his wooden bench, walks forward, and stands beside the boy, his own grandson. A broad smile beams on his weathered face.

  At the end of the dedication services, Miyazawa descends from the platform and walks back to the torii gate, looking up as he moves under its protective arch. Closing his eyes, he mentally leaves the sacred ground behind and passes back into the world of the profane, the unclean and the unholy.

  With that thought firmly in his mind, his pace quickens. A hundred meters past the torii gate in a roped-off section of the courtyard, the heli-transport waits at the edge of the sea of pebbles, its color the same shade of white. Miyazawa bends under the spinning rotor blades. They whip up the cool Tibetan air with all its dirt and filth, and the wide sleeves and tunic of his priestly robes balloon out, doubling his size.

  He makes a mental note that his clothing will have to be cleansed of the vile Tibetan dust immediately upon his return to Japan.

  Walking up the steps into the transport, Miyazawa pauses as glass doors slide open with a low whisper. Eyes only half open, he steps inside just before the doors seal shut behind him. Finding his chair with practiced efficiency, he drops into it as the expert hands of his assistants remove his hat and robes and slip them into cedar-scented boxes. Like a lotus flower closing for the night, the chair folds and pulls him into silence and darkness. Relaxation flows through his body as the massage protocol begins.

  He shudders at the filth of the people out in the courtyard. The duties of his calling require his presence in their midst, but it will be the first and the last time he comes to Lhasa. His mind craves cleanliness.

  As he looks on, the purification ceremony for the inside of the heli-transport is performed by two assistant Shinto priests. Its ritual purity is tangible, a comfort to his soul. The transport lifts off the ground, and the red tile roofs and golden spires of countless Buddhist temples fall away below.

  Six months ago, he wouldn’t have believed a Shinto shrine would be standing anywhere in Tibet, let alone next to the Jokhang Temple monastery.

  Incredibly, the idea of building the shrine had been embraced by all the monastery leadership.

  Generous donations to multiple off-shore private investment accounts have certainly helped. So has the promise made to the senior Bhuddist priest of the monastery that his young grandson will be made the head of the new shrine. The illusion of the floating Ghost Stone was a nice touch. MX Global should be thanked for that. Their technology had produced many convenient miracles during dedication ceremonies over the past few months.

  The Potala Palace floats by, its whitewashed walls gleaming against the grass and trees garnishing its lower reaches like a diamond set in jade. Somewhere within its walls, the head of Tibetan Buddhism meditates in sacred chambers surrounded by chanting monks.

  A smile crosses Miyazawa’s lips.

  Soon, even the Dalai Lama will exchange his maroon robes for white.

  The last six months have been brutal. Multiple dedications almost every day. Unrelenting appeals for new temples to be built on foreign soil. But Miyazawa can finally rest. A milestone has been reached. All of China has welcomed Shinto with open arms. His closes his eyes as the transport lifts up over the snow-capped jaws of the Himalayas. The low vibrations of the rotors lull him to sleep.

  Inexplicably, the lotus chair opens and the massage protocol ceases.

  “The ceremony was impressive.”

  Miyazawa’s eyes flutter open at the sound of the voice. He turns to face the man who has interrupted his rest.

  The earthy colors of the brown tweed jacket and green bow tie stand out in stark contrast to the white interior.

  “I apologize for the surprise visit.” Ryzaard leans forward and bows so his hands brush his knees. “I only came because I have an urgent matter to discuss.” He relaxes into a folding chair and crosses his legs.

  Miyazawa stares in disbelief. He can’t remember anyone other than his assistants being inside the heli-transport when he boarded. In his confusion, he forgets to bow his head, a rare slip of courtesy. “How did you—”

  “It’s not important how I got here.” Ryzaard opens his tweed jacket and pulls a pack of Djarum Blacks from an inside pocket. His other hand produces a lighter from somewhere in his trousers. “The only thing that matters is what I’ve got to say. Please listen carefully.”

  Miyazawa’s eyes are drawn to the leather harness strapped to Ryzaard’s chest. Three ro
cks shaped like rough claws fit snuggly into loops on its surface. Something about them draws his attention. He searches his memory. “I’ve seen those stones before.” Miyazawa points at Ryzaard’s chest.

  “I’m sure you have.” Ryzaard taps the pack of cigarettes on his knee and brings it up to his lips. “One of these belonged to Naganuma-san. He gave it to me before he died.” Ryzaard’s lips extract a slender black cylinder from the pack. The lighter comes close to his face, and a flame jumps up to engulf the tip. It glows red. He inhales, relaxes and allows the dark smoke to bleed out through his nose.

  Miyazawa stares in a speechless stupor as Ryzaard blows the filth out through his lips. It floats through the interior of the heli-transport, defiling the ritual purity of everything it touches.

  The jagged peaks of the Trans-Himalaya float below the transparent floor of the heli-transport.

  Ryzaard takes another long drag. “You have made remarkable use of our resources. How many shrines have you dedicated in China during the past six months?” The smoke curls out of his nose and spreads in the direction of Miyazawa.

  “I’ve personally dedicated over 500.” Miyazawa draws back into his chair and strains to suppress his revulsion at the smoke polluting the interior of the transport, but it’s too late. The foul smell of tobacco bathes his clothes and skin and stinks in his nostrils. It’s getting difficult to breathe. He turns his head to the side and coughs.

  “Almost three a day. I don’t know where you get the energy.” The cigarette wags up and down between Ryzaard’s thin lips. “How is the rest of your operation going?”

  Miyazawa waves a hand in front of his face. “I’ve only had time to visit the major cities. Thanks to your financial support, we’ve built over 50,000 shrines throughout China.” He takes a shallow inhale, tightness spreading through his chest. His stomach is suddenly queasy. Blue smoke fills the inside of the cabin. He opens his mouth, but his throat muscles contract and refuse to allow a breath. Chest tightening, he turns and searches the wall behind him. His vision is hazy. Nausea floods his belly. Bile rises in his throat. The irresistible urge to wretch.

  Then his eyes fall on a single red button on the wall only inches away. The words inscribed on its surface call out to him.

  Emergency Air Ventilation.

  With an involuntary motion, the palm of his hand shoots up and slams down on the button.

  Two large windows on either side of the cabin pop open and fall away. A powerful blast of icy air shoots through the interior, clearing away the smoke in an instant.

  It also clears away most of the oxygen.

  Ryzaard looks up and shakes his head. “Not a good idea.”

  Red strobe lights begin to scream. In the forward section of the heli-transport, the pilot’s hands slip from the joystick. “No air,” he mutters. Before blacking out, his fingers brush against a panel marked Manual Engine Override.

  The twin rotors of the heli-transport hum to a stop, and the aircraft goes into freefall.

  Miyazawa’s body floats up and out of his chair, leaving behind an unlatched lap belt. His back bobs against the cabin ceiling. His eyes are wide, unbelieving.

  Ryzaard looks through the transparent floor and sees a rocky peak rushing up to meet them. He calmly flicks his cigarette out the open window, lets go of a handrail, and floats up out of his seat. With less than a hundred meters to go before impact, he reaches out and touches Miyazawa on the shoulder.

  Blue light fills the cabin.

  As if in a dream, Miyazawa sees the heli-transport smash into a rocky ledge and disintegrate around him in an explosion of orange flames and metallic debris.

  Through it all, he’s enveloped in the warm embrace of light clinging to him and Ryzaard.

  The air flashes white, forcing his eyes shut. He swims in a sea of black space.

  When Miyazawa opens his eyes, he is lying on the tatami floor in his personal quarters with a rice pillow under his head. His Shinto robes are gone. A green blur floats directly above him in a sea of brown.

  “I trust you are better.”

  Miyazawa focuses his eyes on the voice. The green blur is a bow tie. He sees the tweed jacket.

  And bolts upright.

  “How did I get here?” Miyazawa stares up.

  Ryzaard turns away and reaches for a teapot. “There were difficulties with the heli-transport. You’ve been out for some time. I arranged for you to be brought here.” He pours tea into two cups, places them on a serving tray and turns back to face Miyazawa. “But enough of that. You and I have important matters to discuss.” He sets the two cups on a low table between them.

  “Thank you.” Reaching for the tea, Miyazawa raises it to his lips and throws his head back, downing it like a shot of whiskey in one gulp. The boiling water doesn’t faze him.

  “We were discussing your operations in China.” Ryzaard sits on a zabuton cushion and takes a sip. “Fifty thousand Shinto shrines in six months. Good practice for what is next.”

  “Practice?” Miyazawa puts the teacup down and looks up at Ryzaard with a blank stare. “I don’t understand.”

  “That is why I have come.” Ryzaard takes another sip. The hot tea pools on the top of his tongue and glides over the back of his throat. “To open your eyes.”

  Miyazawa stays silent.

  “I am sure you will not be surprised to know that I have been keeping a close eye on you. Let me see if I have this right.” Ryzaard lays his palms on the tatami floor and leans back, his eyes drifting up to the ceiling. “With all the new shrines in China, the Shinto priesthood is now a major career path for young men in Japan. You have launched a recruiting effort on college campuses across the country to fill the need for priests at your shrines.”

  Now fully awake, Miyazawa looks up. “We have the full support of the Japanese government. Our program is creating a significant drop in chronic unemployment.”

  “So I’ve heard.” Ryzaard picks up the teapot and fills Miyazawa’s cup again. “And now you have a shrine in Lhasa, Tibet, one of the greatest centers of Buddhist scholarship in the world.”

  Miyazawa drops his head in a shallow bow. “The head monk of the Jokhang Temple monastery welcomed us with open arms.” He drains half the tea in the cup.

  “No doubt the generous donations to his offshore investment accounts helped in the effort. And the miraculous manner in which his grandson was made the ceremonial head priest of the shrine. Clever.”

  Choking on his tea, Miyazawa goes into a coughing fit, spraying a fine mist across the table. “I can explain—”

  Ryzaard raises his hand. “No need to explain anything. You are doing it exactly right. In fact, I want you to do more of the same, but on a much more aggressive scale.”

  “More aggressive?” Miyazawa’s eyebrows rise above his dark eyes. “We’ve been dedicating almost 300 locations a day. Five new factories are turning out pre-fabricated shrines and torii gates night and day. We’ve set up a financial subsidiary to manage the flow of funds. How much more aggressive can we get?”

  “Mr. Miyazawa.” Ryzaard pulls himself closer to the table. His voice drops to a whisper. “You underestimate the strength of your position. And mine.” Pushing away, Ryzaard stands up. “Let’s go for a walk. The fresh air will clear your mind.”

  “But—”

  “I have a proposal to make. You will find it most interesting and well worth your time to consider.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Just before he makes the jump, nausea surges in Matt’s belly.

  I must be crazy.

  Heart beating wildly, Matt peels back his eyelids as the white flash dies, Stone in hand, ready to lunge in any direction.

  Ready for an onslaught of blue lightning. A burst from a pulse rifle. Someone trying to kill him.

  But the room is dark, empty, deserted. He faces the great wooden desk.

  It stands next to the window like the hulk of a wrecked battleship, with papers, books, an antique-looking statue, slates and more than o
ne jax strewn on its surface. A red sofa hugs the wall to his right. Chinese calligraphy hangs above it. To the left is an old grandfather clock standing like a silent tombstone. Everything is just as he remembers it.

  Ryzaard’s office.

  It’s crazy to come here. If Jessica knew, Matt knows what she would say.

  How can you be so reckless?

  Blame it on the dreams. For the past week, he’s seen the same scene over and over, like a repeating loop on a holo ad in the Tokyo subway. One of the many dreams he hasn’t told Jessica about.

  Moving as quietly as he can, he walks to the back of Ryzaard’s desk. The statue catches his eye, a little man standing erect, wearing armor, one hand on a hip, the other hand holding the remnants of a spear, staring back at the chair where Ryzaard sits. Without thinking, Matt reaches out to pick it up. It’s comfortable in his hand. As he brings it closer to his eye, he sees the well-worn surface of the abdomen and legs. But the eyes are still etched in high relief. The eyes of a king, an emperor. A god.

  And then Matt realizes what he’s looking at.

  Zeus.

  It makes sense. Ryzaard fancies himself as a modern-day conqueror of the world. Strong enough to take down even the mighty Chinese.

  Matt drops the statue with disgust. It thuds to the desk and rolls to the side.

  Recalling images from his dreams, he remembers seeing Ryzaard move around the desk, searching for something. Matt opens the drawer in the middle, reaches into the far left corner and gropes for the key.

  And finds it. Exactly as in the dream.

  Retrieving the key, he moves to a drawer on the far right, inserts the key, and opens the lock. The drawer slides out easily, and another key lies in the middle. He replaces the first key back to its spot and bends below the desk, dropping his hands to the smooth wood floor, searching for a slight indentation.

  His fingers drop half a centimeter, and he senses the cool surface of metal. Finding the tiny hole, he inserts the second key, twists and pulls. A lid moves up on squeaky hinges.