The Ghost Moths Read online

  Copyright © 2021 by Harry Farthing

  E-book published in 2021 by Blackstone Publishing

  Cover and book design by Alenka Vdovič Linaschke

  Maps and illustrations by Amy Craig

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced

  or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the

  publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious.

  Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental

  and not intended by the author.

  Trade e-book ISBN 978-1-5384-6922-4

  Library e-book ISBN 978-1-5384-6921-7

  Fiction / Thrillers / Suspense

  CIP data for this book is available from the Library of Congress

  Blackstone Publishing

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  Hepialus armoricanus Oberthür lives on the edges of the harsh cold night in a harsh cold land: Tibet. An ancient creature, the ghost moth silently seeks little more than survival. To do so, it must endure, escape, and evade to ultimately cast its offspring far and wide in a biological diaspora that seeks only to better the long odds of continuity on those high, frigid plains and mountainsides. However, the defenseless caterpillar that immediately struggles into the ground for its own protection can be betrayed by that same soil. For within the very earth awaits Ophiocordyceps sinensis—an insidious fungus that seeks to claim the larva’s fleshy body and simple soul as its own.

  It is apocryphal that in Putonghua, or Mandarin Chinese as that language is also known, the symbols for crisis and opportunity are the same; an oft-used, oversimplistic rallying cry of the panic-stricken in moments of calamity already beyond their control. Many far beyond the borders of that harsh cold land see the crisis of the parasitized ghost moth as an opportunity. The by-product, yartsa gunbu, a mummified powdery husk, is for some a needed medicine, for others a stimulant or performance-enhancing drug, a source of hard currency, a coveted status symbol, a useful “gift” that oils wheels in the salons of Shanghai and Beijing. Just one more valuable commodity from the “Western Treasure House” as Tibet has always been known in those same salons.

  But, make no mistake, for the ghost moth it is simply a slow, lin-

  gering death.

  The ghost moth and the fungus are old foes.

  They battle on.

  Dramatis Personae

  Alan “Big Al” Reid English climber on guide Neil Quinn’s commercial expedition to climb the mountain of Shishapangma

  Anthony Green, the Honorable New ambassador-in-waiting to Nepal for Her Majesty’s Government, replacing the longstanding incumbent, Sir Jack Graham

  Balkumar Venerable Kathmandu newsagent

  Christopher Anderson Pioneering American climber who pushed the use of the “alpine style” in the Himalayas in the 1970s and ’80s and also the partner of Henrietta Richards

  Elizabeth Waterman American freelance journalist

  Gedhun Choekyi Nyima The rightful eleventh Panchen Lama as chosen by the Dalai Lama in May 1995 when aged six, but missing within Chinese territory ever since

  Gelu Sherpa Senior climbing Sherpa (sirdar) to the 2014 Snowdonia Ascents commercial expedition to the mountain of Shishapangma

  Geshe Lhalu Scholarly monk at the monastery of Amling in the 1950s

  Geshe Shep Senior monk and Chinese Communist Party member who advises the Chinese State on religious matters within the current Tibetan Autonomous Region (TAR)

  Gyaltsen Norbu The official eleventh Panchen Lama appointed by the Chinese State following the disappearance of Gedhun Choekyi

  Nyima

  Haiyang Senior general in the People’s Liberation Army

  Hao Ping Elderly Chinese trader in the Tibetan village of Amling in the 1950s

  Henrietta Richards, OBE Retired senior staff member of the British embassy who has lived in Kathmandu for over forty years becoming the preeminent historian and record keeper of Himalayan climbing

  Huang Hsu Accomplished and aggressive mountaineer from Taiwan seeking to become the first female climber to summit all fourteen eight-thousand-meter peaks in the Himalayas

  Hsiao Teng Business manager, sponsor, and the lover of Taiwanese mountaineer “Lady” Huang Hsu

  Inaka “Fuji” Sakata Japanese climber who went missing while climbing the mountain of Annapurna in 1985, the last summit in his quest to solo climb all fourteen eight-thousand-meter peaks in the Himalayas

  Jack Graham, Sir, KCVO CMG Longstanding friend of Henrietta Richards and soon-to-retire ambassador for Her Majesty’s Government to Nepal

  Jin Yui Governor of the TAR

  Jitendra Thanel Senior detective in the Kathmandu Metropolitan Police

  Kami Sherpa Climbing Sherpa and manager of the Sunrise Café owned by Temba Chering and located in the Thamel tourist district of Kathmandu

  Mao Tse-tung Founder and supreme leader of the People’s Republic of China and Chairman of the Communist Party of China who died in 1976

  Neil Quinn Professional mountain guide from England who has officially summited Mount Everest twelve times and unofficially once

  Nima Sherpa Junior climbing Sherpa on the 2014 Snowdonia Ascents commercial expedition to the mountain of Shishapangma

  Pashi Bol Sole proprietor of the famous Pashi’s Barbershop in the Thamel tourist district of Kathmandu and longstanding friend of Henrietta Richards

  Paul van der Mark Dutch professor of Chinese and Tibetan studies at Nijmegen University who also guides high-end tours of China and the TAR for wealthy Europeans

  Pema Chering A doctor and surgeon, oldest son of Tibetan exile and successful Kathmandu businessman Temba Chering

  Pema Chöje Tibetan who grew up in the village of Amling in the 1950s

  Pertemba Chering Flies H125 rescue helicopters out of Lukla airport in the Khumbu Everest region, youngest son of Tibetan exile and successful Kathmandu businessman Temba Chering

  Rambhadur Gurkha sergeant seconded to the British embassy in Kathmandu as head of security and logistics

  Sangeev Gupta Indian born clerical assistant and secretary to Henrietta Richards

  Tenjin Sherpa Senior climbing Sherpa on the 2014 Snowdonia Ascents commercial expedition to the mountain of Shishapangma

  Tenzin Gyatso The fourteenth and current Dalai Lama who resides in exile in the suburb of Mcleod Ganj, situated above the hill town of Dharamsala in the Indian state of Himachal Pradesh

  Temba Chering Tibetan who grew up in the village of Amling in the 1950s with Pema Chöje and, in subsequent exile, worked as a porter and “sherpa” in the mountains but would become a successful businessman in Kathmandu

  Thubten Norgyu Tibetan laborer within Community Work Group 57, once the village of Amling in the region of Gyaca

  Tommy Rowe One of many noms de guerre adopted by a former US Marine and CIA agent who specialized in training indigenous tribes to fight against Communism during the Cold War

  Tore Rasmussen Norwegian client climber on the 2014 Snowdonia Ascents commercial expedition to the mountain of Shishapangma in Tibet led by mountain guide Neil Quinn

  Wang Maozhen Chairman of the Chinese People’s Political Consultative Conference with specific responsibility for religious affairs within the TAR

  Wangdu Palsang Second-generation Tibetan refugee based in Dharamsala who works for the Central Tibetan Administration (the Tibetan Government in Exile)

  Xi, Captain Officer in charge of the People’s L
iberation Army that came to Amling in 1950

  Yama, also known as Lieutenant Yen-Tsun Lai Officer in the Chinese Ministry of State Security Police, Xizang division, active throughout the TAR and enforcer for Governor Jin Yui

  Zhang, Captain Kathmandu chief of station for the Chinese Ministry of State Security

  Zhang Li Designated Chinese Travel Agency assistant to Professor Paul van der Mark

  Zhao, Lieutenant Officer in the People’s Liberation Army stationed in Amling in the 1950s

  Zou Xiaopeng Communist Party secretary for the TAR

  A glossary of terms is included at the end of the book.

  PROLOGUE

  The Mountain of Makalu

  1981

  A huge gust slammed Christopher Anderson hard against the French Couloir. The snow crust fractured, chunks sliding down the icy chute to oblivion far below. The American climber pulled down hard on his axe and dug in his spiked crampons to stop himself from doing the same.

  Beneath a fall of freezing spindrift, Anderson pushed in close to the mountain’s white mantle. His tinted goggles blanked as he leaned his face into the ice and—pinned to the mountain—shivered the hold. The empty gray of the ski mask began to flicker like a screen coming alive with grainy images.

  Faces.

  People. Friends. Enemies. Some true. Some not.

  Places.

  Countries. Mountains. Jungles. Some real. Some not.

  This is nothing new.

  Anderson had pushed himself beyond twenty-five-thousand feet enough times to recognize the mental kaleidoscope of an oxygen-starved brain, the cascade of unsought images, as happens in those final seconds before sleep, before death perhaps. He drew in a long, deep breath, as much to drag his brain back into his skull as to fill his chest.

  Colder than its nitrogen, the thin air threatened to shatter his teeth as his lungs strained to absorb every chill molecule. He answered the pleural scream for more, permitting himself another nine breaths and counting each one. His head cleared, a little.

  Anderson lifted his face back up, shook the snow from his body, and looked around. To his right, that dark cliff that they had identified in their black-and-white reconnaissance photographs jutted from the white snow like a brutal compound fracture. While the rock lacked the red ink of the pictures’ route markings, he could imagine the bleeding, the rivers of red arterial blood cascading down the stone gullies, running, falling, dripping . . .

  You need to move!

  Wearily the American tugged the steeply angled head of his Terrordactyl free from the ice only to heft the stubby pick in again, three feet to the right. More snow shattered and collapsed as it stabbed into the hard ice beyond. Below, a spiked boot reached similarly sideways and kicked into that same frozen spine as hard as the tired leg muscles and bruised toes permitted. The other slowly followed.

  Pull. Stab. Kick. Kick. Hold.

  And again.

  Pull. Stab. Kick. Kick. Hold.

  And again.

  For this is my mantra . . .

  Foot by foot, Anderson crabbed across the treacherous snow face until, finally, he could hook his axe onto an edge of solid rock and haul himself up onto it, muscles screaming. The grimace of effort split his congealed upper lip and real red blood oozed out, the only warm thing in that forsaken and frozen place.

  Wind pummeled the American as he took momentary sanctuary in the solidity of his new perch. He rewarded himself with ten more shuddering breaths before he continued to claw his way up the jagged rock in bullying, hard climbing that tasted of blood and bile.

  Anderson lost himself in the relentless stop-start progress, until he reached the shelter of the gully riven into the rock that they had both identified in those same photographs. In the lee of the rough granite cliff, he spiked his toe points into cracks, locked his legs, and unhooked a piton from his waist harness. Probing its flat blade into the tightest fissure before him, he hammered it home. A gloved, wood-stiff hand hooked a carabiner into the piton’s protruding, beaten eye, then pulled down on it as hard as possible.

  The anchor didn’t move a micron, bombproof solid; “bomber” as those two English brothers used to say before the mountains blew them both away. Uncoiling a purple 11/16 sewn sling, he quickly tethered himself to the piton and, trusting the nylon umbilical, leaned back to sling his backpack from his shoulders and hang that also from the same anchor.

  Now free to work, he began to dig the axe’s pick deep into another, bigger crack that horizontally split the rock, scraping it free of snow and ice until he could push an arm far inside to be sure it was good for his purpose. It was, so he bent down to pull from his backpack a football-sized bundle tightly wrapped in olive green gabardine and bound with bright red cord.

  He rotated the package carefully with both hands, thumbs gently pushing on the surface to feel the form within as the wind picked up around him once more to pummel and pound, ice crystals drilling against his jacket. Satisfied he was holding the bundle correctly, Anderson defiantly lifted it up high into the angry air, pointing it toward the distant northern horizon, toward Tibet.

  For a long, cold minute he just held it there. “See this, you fuckers? Because it sees you and everything you do,” he shouted into the north wind, then lowering the green package, he twisted it around and firmly pushed it into the mountainside. The fit was perfect.

  When Anderson’s empty hands reappeared, he lifted his axe again. The sharp pick scraped and gouged a design into the stone, one that mirrored the outline of the smallest of the many embroidered patches stitched to his climbing jacket.

  Finished, Anderson pulled back a glove cuff to look at his battered Benrus. Peering into the watch’s scratched crystal as if looking into a frozen lake, he murmured to himself, “It’s okay. There’s still time.”

  The American climber turned his face upward to see the remainder of the route they had chosen together to be his variation to the summit of Makalu. His eyes stepped into the sky seeking holds, suggesting moves.

  He only caught a glimpse of the tumbling shadow before the image of a woman’s face flashed in front of it; the woman he loved.

  Another.

  An aspen lined valley; the place where he had grown up.

  Another.

  A Tibetan face, that of a child; he didn’t recognize it.

  Faces.

  Places.

  Some known.

  Some not.

  Before sleep.

  Before death.

  The falling rock killed Christopher Anderson instantly.

  PART I

  THE KAPALA

  Very soon in this land deceptive acts may occur from without and within. If, in such an event, we fail to defend our land, the holy lamas including “the triumphant father and son” [the Dalai Lama and the Panchen Lama] will be eliminated without a trace of their names remaining; the properties of the reincarnate lamas and of the monasteries along with their endowments for religious services will be seized. Moreover, our political system originated by the three Dharma Kings will be reduced to empty name; my officials, deprived of their patrimony and property, will be subjugated, as slaves for the enemies; and my people subjected to fear and miseries, unable to endure day or night. Such an era will certainly come.

  Prophecy regarding the “Reds,”

  written by the Thirteenth

  Dalai Lama, Thubten Gyatso,

  shortly before his death in 1933

  1

  YARTSA GUNBU

  Amling, Gyaca, Tibet

  Spring in the Year of the Iron Tiger (1950)

  Hao Ping’s doors were magnificent, the only thing the village of Amling possessed to rival the ancient monastery that watched over it. It was said that their immense black beams came from the cloud forests of Pemako, the hidden kingdom of poisoners far to the southeast. Their wood was
so thick and heavy, others recalled, that it broke the backs of many yaks carrying it over the Su-La, thereby costing the Chinaman an even greater fortune. The villagers firmly believed those great doors were big enough to hold back all the hells, be they hot or cold. But despite such strength and power, qualities the villagers so admired, a simple wooden sign that sometimes hung to their side always received far greater attention.

  The fading red symbols meant different things to the different people of Amling. To the literate monks who lived in the three-sided monastery that crowned a steep conical hill that rose above the small town, the script read simply, yartsa gunbu.

  It was a riddle for a name best explained by their ancient scholar, Geshe Lhalu. Whenever his young novices asked about it, the old monk would patiently pull himself away from his lifetime’s work—his study of the glorious goddess Palden Lhamo, to whom the monastery was dedicated—and extract a piece of dry fungus from his medicine cabinet. Pinching the crinkled stick of ochre between his stained fingertips, his hand would gently lift like a black crane rising on the summer air as he spoke of the summer grass, winter worm.

  “A powerful medicine,” he would say, “found especially on the grassy hills below the holy lake of our monastery’s spirit, our protectress, Palden Lhamo. It is one of her many gifts to us, beneficial for ailments of the kidney and the lungs, the heart and the liver.”

  The students would be hypnotized by the spiraling crooked fingers raising up what seemed to be a dead caterpillar impaled on a burned matchstick. They always had more questions that Geshe Lhalu would answer by telling the story of a small and drab, yet hardy and determined, insect that flew as briefly as summer lasted in that high place. His wrinkled arthritic hand fluttered before their eyes as their teacher told the story of the ghost moth’s continual battle for survival in that harsh cold land. Then it mimed the coiling action of the moths’ newly hatched caterpillars worming their way into the earth to escape their many predators; the shrike, the owl, the fox, the weasel, and, fiercest of all, the coming winter. But even there, in that cold darkness, seemingly so hidden, so remote, Geshe Lhalu cautioned, the caterpillar was not safe.