“I’m sorry, Dr. Burke,” the woman said as she started to lead us inside.
“There have been some changes in Changpa Rinpoche’s arrangements. Different staff…” She smiled.
I smiled back at her and gestured for Yamashita to go in ahead of me. The man in black looked at us like we were reptiles.
I waited until she was out of earshot. “You think I’m hard to move,” I murmured to the guard as I passed him, “you ought to try the Japanese guy.” I grinned wickedly and entered the reception.
Yamashita and I made our way through the crowd with the woman who had brought us in.
“I’m so sorry about the fuss,” she apologized again. She had dark brown, almost black hair that danced around her shoulders, and white teeth that glittered when she smiled.
“Is he with the museum?” I asked, nodding toward the man at the door who’d tried to bounce us.
“Oh, no.” Again, the glitter of teeth. “Changpa Rinpoche prefers things simple, but his security advisors sometimes bring on added people for some events.”
“Uh-huh ,”I nodded. “Is that where you come in…”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” She paused and turned to face us. “I’m Sarah Klein.” Her hair swung around and a few fine strands brushed across her forehead. She pushed them back absent-mindedly. Then laughed. “And no, I’m not part of the security. I spend some time at the Dharma Center in Manhattan and I volunteered to help out tonight.”
We introduced ourselves. I watched with amusement as Yamashita gingerly shook hands with her. He doesn’t like to do it, but he is invariably polite to non-students, especially if he likes you. I got the feeling he liked Sarah.
The action gave me a minute to look at her more carefully. She wasn’t a small woman, but she had a lithe, graceful way about her. She looked fit. Mid-thirties, maybe. A good face, heart-shaped, with a lean jawline and brown eyes. She had the look of an adult about her—someone who knew enough about herself and the world to be relatively comfortable in it.
“Are you a Buddhist, Ms. Klein?” Yamashita asked. I was right. He did like her. Otherwise he never would have made the effort at conversation.
The flash of a smile. “Well, no. I study archery at the Center.”
“Tibetan archery?” I asked.
“Oh, No.” She hesitated for a second. “Actually it’s a meditative form of archery from Japan called kyudo.” She shrugged. “The Buddhists say there are lots of paths in life. These days, mine seems to include arrows.”
“How interesting.” My teacher smiled. I smiled, too. This was a woman I could grow to like.
Then she seemed to remember herself. “But you want to meet the Rinpoche, don’t you? And here I am, keeping you from him.” She gestured us toward the crowd and went off in another direction.
“A kyudoka, Burke,” Yamashita said to me.
“You don’t see one of those every day,” I admitted.
“She is attractive.” My teacher eyed me speculatively, but I said nothing. “She has good presence,” he continued. “I liked her.” Yamashita moved toward the Rinpoche, going slowly so I could worm my way through the crowd and stay next to him. “I had heard of this group practicing the Way of the Bow,” he said as an aside. “It would be interesting to visit them…”
In general, I don’t enjoy receptions of this type, so I distract myself by using them to train. I study people in motion: their patterns of movement and focus. At these events, there are typically a few spots where people concentrated their energies. It gave you a clue as to who was present and what was happening. I try to see how good I am at figuring this out by sensing the patterns.
You discount activity at the bar and food areas, of course. That’s a given. People cling to these sites like limpets, trying to look sophisticated while simultaneously consuming as much free stuff as possible. That night, there were a few other zones of activity I picked up on. The Real Estate Tycoon was there, natty and yet somehow feral at the same time. Various flunkies hovered nervously around him. He was trying to appear subdued in honor of his guest. It was obviously a strain—as you looked at him, you got the impression of a seething instability.
There was another major center of activity around Changpa Rinpoche himself, of course. He was hemmed in by the curious, by gushing student-Buddhists, and members of the museum’s PR department. But he didn’t seem overwhelmed. The Rinpoche was not a small man, and he had a certain presence. Even people who didn’t consciously sense anything spiritual were obviously affected by him. He stood there, smiling and making pleasant small talk, his head canted to one side in amusement, holding a cup of tea.
He was the main focal point, but I was also picking up something else. Close by, but with a slightly different feel, there was another swirl of people.
The person at the center of that group of admirers was big and broad-shouldered, square-jawed and dashing. He had bright blue eyes and a full mane of brownish-blonde hair. It took a minute to place him, then I did: Travis Stark. He stood there, smiling pleasantly at people, like an actor beaming at an audience. He was holding forth about something that obviously engaged the attention of his listeners.
My attention was redirected. Yamashita was gently prodding me with a finger toward Changpa Rinpoche. At least he meant it to be gentle. It was like being jabbed by an iron pipe.
And that’s when the really interesting thing happened. The room was filled with people, some clustered in the areas I had noted, but most circulating randomly. They spoke with each other, but their awareness wasn’t focused on anything beyond that. Conversation swirled through the air. Laughter bubbled here and there and glasses and plates clicked with the usual cocktail party noise. The crowd churned, coming together in odd spots, then breaking up and drifting on. In all that, I doubt very much that it was possible for anyone to notice my master’s approach to the guest of honor.
But the lama himself did.
I saw his head swivel around and those eyes look toward us. It was as if he heard something no one else did—a signal beyond the normal limen of human awareness. His body shifted slightly, facing fully toward Yamashita. A receiver turning toward a signal source. He raised his hand in a classic gesture, a mudra, or meditation posture that I had seen on countless statues of the Buddha: have no fear.
Some of the people he was with turned to see what Changpa was looking at. Simultaneously, I sensed a different type of activity from a few discrete spots in the room. A pattern was emerging. The Tycoon and his attendants began to approach. From another corner, Stark was listening, head down, as the bouncer we had encountered whispered in his ear. In the aimless swirl of party movement, the currents began to converge.
My friend Steve from the museum was with Changpa, and you could see his face brighten as he caught sight of me. He touched the Rinpoche lightly on the arm as he prepared to introduce us. Stark and the bodyguard vectored in on our location at the same time, both sets of jaws set in photogenic determination. And Real Estate Man moved toward us as well, churning through the crowd with the unconscious momentum of an abandoned ocean liner.
The lama broke into a broad smile. “Sensei,” he said, and bowed toward Yamashita. “How good to see you again.”
Yamashita bowed in turn, more