Rogue Angel - The Golden Elephant Part 17

"Don't they have trouble when some want to leave?" Annja asked.

"Surprisingly, no," Easy said. "They lose some that way, of course. But their culture keeps alive a sense of mission. I believe they're awaiting the return of Gautama, or reincarnation of Vishnu, as Maitreya. Like a lot of Buddhists in this part of the world they mix their faith up with the mother religion pretty liberally."

THROUGH THE COMPACT BINOCULARS Easy Ngwenya had handed Annja, the men in the dark green not-quite-uniforms and blue turbans looked like roaches climbing the cliff's red face with the aid of piton-anch.o.r.ed ropes. The two women lay on their stomachs on a high point on the cliff 150 yards or so to the west. The invaders had found a groove worn through the rock so that they were able to climb at an easier angle. It was still a risky business.

But the Grand Shan State Army had no idea how risky it really was. Out of sight beyond the head of the cut a trio of small, wiry Protectors, wearing drab sarongs and headcloths, worked diligently at a tilted slab with pry bars and chisels. The red sandstone was p.r.o.ne to fracture along a plane-the same phenomenon that killed Patty Ruhle.

As Annja watched a flat piece of rock the size of a Volkswagen cha.s.sis suddenly s.h.i.+fted and broke free with a grinding sound. The Shans raised their turbaned heads to see doom accelerating down at them.

It smashed the top two men outright. The man right below turned and jumped down reflexively-a bad move, given that he was about sixty feet up. He bought himself about a second more of life. The stone slab was constrained in the channel the men had been climbing up. Banging off the sides in pink sprays of rock dust, it smashed two more men off. Then it struck an outcrop, bounced, went end over end away from the cliff.

That spared the half dozen men below it in the chute. However, it landed on two more waiting their turn to climb from the ground below. The more prudent turned and ran.

The Protectors, for their part, acted like pros. Reminding Annja of the football coach's admonition to his players to "act like you've been there before" when scoring touchdowns, they didn't indulge in any boastful triumphant display. They just turned to make their escape.

A Shan militiaman on the ground shouldered an RPG and launched a grenade toward the head of the narrow cut running down the cliff where the rock had tumbled. More by luck than wizard aim his rocket-propelled grenade struck near the top of the outcrop from which the defenders had levered the boulder. It went off with a white flash and a vicious crash that went like needles through Annja's eardrums into her brain.

Vaporized copper from the shaped-charge head and a shotgunlike spray of shattered rock blasted the nearest Protector in the back. He fell on his face thras.h.i.+ng. His comrades grabbed his arms to pull him away. The right one came off in his companion's hand.

Annja jerked back from the binoculars. Beside her Easy grimaced.

"Hard luck, that," she said.

"Maybe we'd better s.h.i.+ft out of here, too," Annja said. Although they'd been careful she realized with a sick shock she couldn't be sure she hadn't been spotted from the ground, although with the sun over their left shoulders there was little chance of a lens glint giving their position away. She also did not feel like betting her life that had just been a lucky shot.

"These aren't helpless farmers, you see," Easy said as they trotted back away from the cliff.

"No," Annja said.

"But here's the rub," Easy said, "the cold equations. The Protectors have about a hundred effective fighters, including some pretty young and pretty old. The Lord's Wa Army is bringing four times that number against them, the GSSA almost five.

"Our friends had every advantage in that ambush. Granted, that shows their skill-it's part of the art of ambush, after all, knowing how to stack the deck in one's favor. And a lucky shot by a Shan militiaman did greater hurt to our side than a well-conceived and executed ambush from the heights did theirs."

Annja felt the corners of her mouth draw back in dismay. She had felt nothing but exultation over their victory, then grief for the loss of a brave man whom she didn't actually know. What Easy told her now sat in her stomach like badly curdled milk.

"If they had modern weapons-and the sort of near infinite resupply it takes to use them in battle-the Protectors could dig in along the heights and stand both armies off forever. They lack such weapons-don't like them, actually. They fear to use them lest they become dependent upon them to fight effectively."

"And you agree with that?" Annja asked in surprise. Easy was well-known as a technophile.

Easy laughed. "Oh, yes. In this instance. They lack the resources to support that kind of war, having no income from the ever-lucrative drug trade, nor the support of wealthy and delusional American fundamentalists-nor the likely support of shadowy U.S. government agencies.

"And anyway that kind of Gallipoli-style stand would work an even greater disaster on them. They could withstand anything short of a heavy artillery bombardment. Neither the Shan nor the Wa have such artillery. The Tatmadaw Kyee does in abundance. And the noise of protracted firepower-intensive battle would surely attract their attention. And I doubt I need to tell you what would follow then."

"No," Annja said. She looked at her companion. "So why the sudden interest in this place, anyway?"

Easy shrugged. "Coincidence, it appears. Truly. Marshal Qiangsha, the GSSA supremo, has taken it into his head that this would make an ideal base of operations for his drugs concern, as well as his war with Yangon. Unfortunately, Jerry Cromwell and his Wa have got the same notion. Of course, Cromwell has to have an additional bee in his bonnet-he's declared the temples and all the relics within them are abominations in the eyes of the Lord and must be expunged."

"Even though they're mostly ruins?"

"Apparently they're not ruined enough. Too impressive by half. So he wants to dynamite the lot and then use the mesa as a base to spread his brand of righteousness across the Shan Plateau and, presumably, all of Southeast Asia."

"So he wants to do for this archaeological treasure what the Taliban did for the statues of Buddha at Bamiyan?" Annja asked, horrified.

"The very thing. A bit of an irony, that, really. He gets financial support from certain right-wing fundamentalist groups stateside because he claims to be battling Islamic terror," Easy said.

"You mean he doesn't fund his operations through drugs the way Qiangsha does?"

"I didn't say that. Truth to tell, I don't know. Still, one thing I've noticed about true believers of every stripe-being utterly and inalterably convinced that you know the real truth, the only truth and nothing but the truth doesn't translate to decent behavior the way everybody thinks it does. Rather, once you start from the standpoint of una.s.sailable righteousness, it's no trick to rationalize any atrocity whatever, so long as you claim it's directed against the wicked."

Easy shrugged. "It's even possible both commanders believe the mesa will provide them a stronghold secure against the full might of the Myanmar armed forces. I think that's a faint hope myself, but they'd not be the first to think that way."

Annja remembered the heat-lightning flicker and the rumble of distant rocket artillery vibrating right up through her bones into her belly. "I don't think there's much hope at all."

Easy laughed without joy.

"What about the Protectors?" Annja asked. "What're the invaders' plans for them?"

"Qiangsha is looking to enslave them, I gather, based on past performance. Basically force them to provide food and labor to his merry men. Cromwell feels that Protectors of pagan abominations-in this case, in more ways than one, 'Pagan'is the old spelling of the kingdom now known as Bagan-are themselves abominations in the eyes of the Lord, hence worthy of extirpation."

Annja made a sour face. "Chalk up another moral victory for religion."

"Oh, yes," Easy said sweetly. "Militant atheists like Pol Pot and Mao Tse-tung would never get up to large-scale mischief such as genocide."

Annja's expression got sourer. "Do you ever get tired of being right all the time?"

The younger woman laughed. "Oddly, my father used to say that, too."

"I'm beginning to empathize with him," Annja said.

They walked a time in silence. Monkeys scolded them from the trees. Birds called. Bugs trilled.

As they walked Easy regarded the taller woman sidelong. "There's not really anything keeping us here," she said in a leading way.

"Do you feel like abandoning these people to their fate?" Annja asked.

"No. But then I have what might be seen as an overly sentimental fondness for tribal peoples-especially inasmuch as I come from one myself. Then, too, I have a reflex hatred of injustice. I don't care to see these brave people crushed."

"Hatred of injustice?" Annja said, legitimately surprised. "But what about your disregard for the law?"

"Do you really believe law and justice are the same thing? Do you believe there's any necessary connection between them? And as I've asked before-if you really believe so strongly in hewing to the letter of the law, where's your permission slip from the SPDC?"

"All right, all right," Annja said. "It's just that your activities-"

"My tomb robbing, as you'd call it? My pot hunting? All those other flip pejorative phrases you academic archaeologists use to rea.s.sure yourselves that you're righteous grave robbers, while those whose methods differ are not?"

Annja winced. That's not fair! she wanted to protest reflexively. Yet she had to admit there was truth in what the younger woman said. At least a little.

"We have a different conception of what's right, perhaps," Easy said. "But am I wrong in believing you possess a strong urge to defend what you feel is right? And are our differences really that wide, at least where human decency is concerned?"

"No," Annja said deliberately. "No, I guess not. But should we let ourselves lose track of why we're both here?"

"What do you mean?" Easy asked.

Annja stopped and faced the shorter woman. "You came to seize the Golden Elephant, didn't you?"

Easy looked at her calmly. "Yes. Didn't you?"

It hit Annja like a sucker punch. I did. I did. She had gotten so wrapped up in her conviction that her race with Easy to the Temple of the Elephant was a primal contest between good and evil, that she was trying to preserve an ageless archaeological treasure from the b.l.o.o.d.y claws of a soulless murderess that she forgot she was trying to grab the idol, too. For profit. To sell to the mysterious private collector who had contacted Roux. She had gotten so wrapped up in her conviction that her race with Easy to the Temple of the Elephant was a primal contest between good and evil, that she was trying to preserve an ageless archaeological treasure from the b.l.o.o.d.y claws of a soulless murderess that she forgot she was trying to grab the idol, too. For profit. To sell to the mysterious private collector who had contacted Roux.

Of course, now that the secret seemed to have gotten out, she could say she was only trying to keep it out of the clutches of the Yangon government. But didn't she believe national governments were the righteous protectors of their people's heritage? And how about the near-total certainty that the State Peace and Development Council would melt the idol down, the Bamar people and their heritage be d.a.m.ned?

"Are you all right, Annja?" Easy asked with what sounded like genuine concern. "You've gone rather ashen, and your breathing is shallow."

"An acute attack of conscience," Annja said. "Never mind. We do need to know where we stand, though."

"Relative to-?"

"Each other," Annja said grimly. "And the idol."

Easy nodded. "Fair enough. I'm willing to bind myself to do nothing toward recovering the idol until the people of the mesa are safe-or until I've died trying to keep them that way. As for the idol...there's time enough to settle that when this thing's resolved and we both stand before it. And I am also willing, if you are, to give my word to do my best to make sure we both come to stand before the idol, of our own free will on our own two feet."

"Why should I believe that?" Annja said.

Easy shrugged. "Why believe the other, then? We can do this the Easy way, or-"

She let it trail away with a little smile. Annja frowned.

Easy's protestations rang true to Annja. The Zulu princess's motivations might differ radically from her own. Yet nothing she knew or had seen of Easy's actions indicated that she did things without reason. And once her rival had spoken to Sir Sidney or even if, despite her denials, she'd talked to Isabelle, what point would there be in killing them? Annja wasn't sure what the point would be for anyone to do so-and that was a loose end that bothered her.

But the fact was, having met Easy, listened to her voice, seen her body language, looked into her eyes-Annja believed her.

Perhaps the woman was that good an actress. And then again, if she was really that sociopathically ruthless, she'd had plenty of opportunity to finish off her rival. She could then have made her own way to the Temple of the Elephant while the Protectors were distracted with the unprecedented double threat to their holy mission and very way of life. She could have made away with the idol, leaving all concerned to their fates. Surely the person who beat a harmless old man to death, and shot an innocent woman, wouldn't hesitate to do exactly that.

"All right," Annja said. "I'll swear. How do guys handle this kind of thing?"

"Customarily with some ridiculous, unacknowledgedly h.o.m.oerotic ritual," Easy said. "While I've no aversion to that sort of thing, I suspect you're much too straitlaced to be comfortable with it. So why not just shake hands? Or would you Americans cross your hearts?"

Annja looked at her a moment. Then, solemnly, she crossed her heart.

Easy did likewise. Then they broke out laughing and hugged each other.

As they walked on toward the village, Easy said, "Well, now that we've got the awkward bits out of the way, there's a very real question of what we can do to help the villagers except die futilely and bravely at their sides. Which, while satisfying on a certain teen-angst level, is hardly useful."

"Wait," Annja said. "The Protectors seem to base their whole strategy on hit-and-run attacks, traps and ambushes."

"The cla.s.sic resource of the weaker defender against the stronger invader," Easy said. She shrugged. "Also, they work."

"And they have," Annja said, "for almost a thousand years. But what if that's too long?"

"For success-" Easy began. Then she stopped and grinned and once again looked even younger than she was. "Oh. A light begins to dawn."

"We can let go of the comforting neocolonial illusion of being superior minds from the West come to save the savages through enlightenment," Annja said.

"Ouch," Easy said. "Especially since I really do fear I resemble that remark."

"But what we can bring," Annja said, "is a fresh perspective, yes?"

"After almost a millennium," Easy said, "a habit of thinking can be tough to break."

"My point exactly. Never before have the Protectors faced two powerful and determined foes at the same time. And I think their long strings of successes may just be blinding them to the obvious."

Easy stopped and looked at her. "I have to admit I was blind to it, too," Easy said. "But now that you rub my nose in it..."

"It's pretty obvious, isn't it?" Annja asked. "To an outsider."

Easy nodded decisively. "Yes," she said. "So it is."

"The only problem," Annja said, "is selling it to the Protectors."

Easy's grin came back wider than before. "Oh, don't forget the Protectors are well aware of the modern world. Some have even lived in the United States. They may disdain modernity, but on the other hand, if anything I think they overestimate its abilities and powers. A fact we can shamelessly exploit-to their advantage, of course."

"Isn't that a cla.s.sic Western-colonialist att.i.tude?" Annja asked.

"Did I ever claim to be perfect? Come on, Annja. Are you in or out?"

Annja laughed. She couldn't help liking the woman, despite their differences.

"You know I'm in," she said. "I guess I'm not perfect, either."

26.

Sometimes I have to admit, Annja thought, the old ways are the best ways. Which was hardly a radical thought for a professional antiquarian such as herself.

The Lord's Wa Army carried mostly American-made equipment, prominently M-16 automatic rifles. Annja suspected they had been funded, at least, by the CIA. The grenades that dangled like heavy metal fruit from their web gear had a made-in-America look to her, as well, although she knew much less about grenades than she did guns. However they got that way, they were frighteningly well armed.

Given the fearful reputation the mesa enjoyed among the surrounding tribesfolk, according to Easy, the Wa patrol seemed ridiculously incautious. Maybe they believed G.o.d was keeping a special eye out for them.

In which case He was just about to blink.