ALAN Dulles sat in the Oval Office, puffing on his pipe and pointing out the situation to President Eisenhower. Then the CIA director sat back and let the president think for a moment. Several minutes passed in silence.
“Mr. President,” he said at last, “the CIA took the liberty of arranging a first-strike force in Burma. If you say the word, they’ll be airborne in an hour.”
Since his election in 1952, Eisenhower had faced the McCarthy hearings, the first advisors into Vietnam and a heart attack. He’d had to order ten thousand troops to Little Rock, Arkansas, to enforce integration; witness the Soviets take the lead in space; and have his vice president stoned by hostile crowds in Latin America. Now Cuba had a communist leader only ninety miles from U.S. soil. He was weary.
“No, Alan,” he said quietly, after a pause. “I learned as a general that you have to know how to pick your fights. We need to stay clear of this Tibet situation right now.”
Dulles rose and shook Eisenhower’s hand. “I’ll notify my men,” he said.
In Overholt’s command post in Lhasa, the ashtray on the table near the radio was filled with the stubs of unfiltered cigarettes. Hours passed, with only the confirmation that the radio transmission had been received. Every half hour, Tibetan messengers delivered intelligence. Visual reconnaissance reported that the crowds outside the palaces near Lhasa were growing minute by minute, but the messengers were unable to take an accurate count. Tibetans continued to stream down from the mountains, armed with sticks, rocks and knives. The milling mass would be cannon fodder for the well-armed Chinese.
So far the Chinese had taken no action, but the reports mentioned troop buildups on the roads leading into the fabled city. Overholt had seen this same scenario unfold five years ago in Guatemala, when a crowd supporting the anticommunist rebels under Carlos Armas had suddenly sparked. Chaos had ensued. Forces under President Jacobo Arbenz had begun to fire into the crowd to restore order, and before dawn broke, the hospitals and morgues had been filled to capacity. Overholt had organized the demonstration and the knowledge clouded his mind like a shroud.
Just then the radio crackled.
“Top Hat negative, over.”
Overholt’s heart skipped a beat. The planes he sought were not coming.
“Papa Bear will okay sweeping the path if critically necessary during extraction. Advise on departure and subsequent travel, over.”
Eisenhower said not to attack Lhasa, Overholt thought, but Dulles has agreed to cover the escape out of Tibet on his own, if it came to that. If he worked things right, Overholt thought, he wouldn’t need to put his boss’s ass on the line.
“Sir?” the radio operator asked.
Overholt was jarred from his thoughts.
“They’re expecting a reply,” the operator said quietly.
Overholt reached for the microphone. “Acknowledged and agreed,” Overholt said, “and thank Papa Bear for the gesture. We’ll call from the road. Closing office, over.”
The radio operator stared up at Overholt. “Guess that’s that.”
“Break it all down,” Overholt said quietly, “we’ll be leaving soon.”
INSIDE the yellow wall, preparations for the Dalai Lama’s escape into exile were moving at a blistering pace. Overholt was cleared past the guards and waited to be seen. Five minutes later, the Dalai Lama, wearing his black-framed prescription glasses and yellow robes, entered the office in the administration room. The spiritual leader of Tibet looked weary but resigned.
“I can tell by your face,” he said quietly, “no help is coming.”
“I’m sorry, Your Holiness,” Overholt replied. “I did all that I could.”
“Yes, Langston, I am certain you did. However, the situation is as it is,” the Dalai Lama noted, “so I have decided to go into exile. I cannot risk the chance of my people being slaughtered.”
Overholt had arrived expecting to use all his powers of persuasion to convince the Dalai Lama to flee—instead he found the decision had already been made. He should have expected as much—over the years he had grown to know the Dalai Lama, and he had never seen anything that made him doubt the leader’s commitment to his people.
“My men and I would like to accompany you,” Overholt offered. “We have detailed maps, radios and some supplies.”
“We’d be glad to have you come along,” the Dalai Lama said. “We leave shortly.”
The Dalai Lama turned to leave.
“I wish I could have done more,” Overholt said.
“Things are as they are,” the Dalai Lama said at the door. “For now, however, you should assemble your men and meet us at the river.”
HIGH above Norbulingka, the sky was dotted with a trillion stars. The moon, only days away from being full, lit the ground with a yellow diffused glow. A stillness, a quiet. The night birds that normally warbled their haunting songs were silent. The domesticated animals inside the compound—musk deer, mountain goats, camels, a single aged tiger and the peacocks that ran loose—barely stirred. A light wind from high in the Himalayas brought the scent of pine forests and change.
From high on a hillside outside Lhasa came the chilling scream of a snow leopard.
The Dalai Lama scanned the grounds, then closed his eyes and visualized returning. He was dressed in trousers instead of robes, a black wool coat instead of a cloak. A rifle on a sling rode on his left shoulder, and an ancient ceremonial thangka, an embroidered silk tapestry, was rolled up and hung over his right.
“I am ready,” he said to his Chikyah Kenpo, or chief of staff. “Have you packed the icon?”
“It is safely crated and guarded. Like you, the men will protect it at all costs.”
“As they should,” the Dalai Lama said softly.
The two men walked toward and through the gate on the yellow wall.
The Chikyah Kenpo was holding a large, jeweled, curved sword. Sliding it into a leather scabbard on his belt, he turned to his master. “Stay close.”
Then, followed by a cadre of Kusun Depon, they passed through the outer gate and slipped into the crowd. The procession quickly made its way along a worn dirt path. Pairs of Kusun Depon stepped to the rear and waited to see if anyone followed. After seeing no one, they moved forward to the next pair of guards, who remained until the coast was clear. Hopscotching their way along the path, the guards made sure the rear was covered. To the front, pairs of warriors assessed any danger ahead. Finding it clear, they continued their progression. A handcart containing the icon followed the procession, pulled by a large monk. Hands firmly on the poles, the monk raced along like a rickshaw driver late for an appointment.
Everyone was trotting and the sound made by their feet was like muffled clapping.
The sound of water came with the smell of wet moss. It was a tributary of the Kyichu River. After the party made their way across a series of stepping-stones, they continued quickly ahead.
ALONG the far bank of the Kyichu River, Overholt stared at the radium dial on his watch, then shuffled his feet. Several dozen Kusun Depon who had been dispatched hours earlier were tending to the horses and mules that would speed the escape. They stared at the blond-haired American with neither malice nor fear, only resignation.
Several large ferryboats had brought them all across the water, and now the boats were tied up again on the far shore, awaiting the arrival of the Dalai Lama. Overholt caught a quick flash of light from the far bank, signaling it was safe to cross. In the moonlight, he could see the boats quickly being loaded, then minutes later heard the sound of the oars slapping the water.
The lead boat slid onto the pebbled beach and the Dalai Lama climbed over the side.
“Langston,” he said, “did you leave the capital undetected?”
“Yes, Your Holiness.”
“All your men with you?”