The lampposts leading out of town were being painted silver, no doubt for the honored guests soon to arrive from Beijing and America. But a high wind was blowing, so that sand particles adhered to the poles as quickly as the workers applied the paint, making the poles appear even shabbier than before. Shan envied the proletariat its ability to embrace the most important lesson of their society, that the goal of any worker was not to do a good job, but to do a correct job.
The kiosks that housed public phones were being painted, too, although Sergeant Feng could not find a single phone that worked. He followed a wire to a musty tea shop at the edge of town and commandeered a phone.
"No one will stop you," Colonel Tan replied when Shan told him he needed to inspect the skull cave. "I closed it down the day we found the head. What took you so long? Surely you're not frightened of a few bones."
As the truck climbed the low gravel foothills that led out of the valley, Yeshe seemed more restless than usual. "You should not have done it," he burst out at last. "You shouldn't meddle."
Shan turned in his seat. Yeshe's gaze moved unsteadily across the skyline as they headed toward the huge mass of the Dragon Claws. Giant cumulus clouds, almost blindingly white against the cobalt sky, had snagged on the peaks in the distance.
"Meddle with what?"
"What you did. The skull mantra. You had no right to summon the demon."
"So you believe that's what I did?"
"No. It's just that these people…" Yeshe's voice faded away.
"These people? You mean your people?"
Yeshe frowned. "Summoning is a dangerous thing. To the old Buddhists, words were the most dangerous weapon of all."
"You believe I summoned a demon?" Shan repeated.
Yeshe cut his eyes at Shan, then looked away. "It's not so simple. People will hear about the words you spoke. Some will say the demon will possess the summoner. Some will say the demon has been invited to act again. Khorda was right. Ruthlessness follows the name of the demon."
"I thought the demon was already released."
Yeshe looked with pain into his hands. "Our demons, they have a way of becoming self-fulfilling."
Shan considered his companion. He had never known anyone who could sound like a monk one moment and a party functionary the next. "What do you mean?"
"I don't know. Things will happen. It will become an excuse."
"For what? Telling the truth?"
Yeshe winced and turned back to the window.
Only one thing the sorcerer had said made sense. Follow the path of Tamdin. The Tamdin killer had gone from the 404th, then over the mountains to the skull cave. And Shan had to follow the path, had to return to the horrible, holy place of the dead lamas.
A single army truck with two drowsy guards sat at the turnoff to the skull cave, stationed there while Tan kept the project closed for the investigation. Startled by the sudden appearance of visitors, the soldiers grabbed their rifles, then relaxed as they saw Feng at the wheel.
The air was strangely still as they drove into the little valley. Overhead clouds scudded quickly by, but as they reached the small plateau with the solitary tree, Shan saw that no wind touched its branches. He climbed out of the truck with a strange apprehension. There was also no sound. There was almost no color other than the browns and grays of the rock and shed, except for a new sign in bright red characters. DANGER, it said, ENTRANCE FORBIDDEN BY ORDER OF THE MINISTRY OF GEOLOGY.
Yeshe exchanged an uneasy glance with him, then followed Shan toward the cave entrance. Feng hung back as they checked their flashlights, conspicuously examining the tires as though they suddenly required his attention.
The two men walked silently through the entrance tunnel, Yeshe lagging farther behind Shan with each step.
"This is not-" Yeshe began nervously as he joined Shan at the edge of the main chamber. In the dim, shaking light of their handlamps the huge figures on the walls seemed to dance, staring angrily at them.
"Not what?"
"Not a place where-" Yeshe was struggling, but with what Shan was not certain. Had he been asked to stop Shan somehow? Had he perhaps decided to quit his assignment?
The figures of the demons and Buddhas seemed to be speaking to Yeshe. He cocked his head toward them, his face clouding, but it wasn't fear of the images, nor hatred of Shan. It was just pain. "We should not go here," he said. "It is only for the most holy of people."
"You're refusing to continue on religious grounds?"
"No," Yeshe shot back defensively. He fixed his eyes on the floor of the cave, refusing to look at the paintings. "I mean, this is only meaningful for the religious minorities." He looked up, but refused to look Shan in the eyes. "The Bureau of Religious Affairs has specialists. They would be better qualified to engage in cultural interpretations."
"Odd. I thought a trained monk would be even better."
Yeshe turned away.
"I think you're scared," Shan said to his back, "scared that someone will accuse you of being Tibetan."
A sound, something like a laugh, came from Yeshe's throat, but there was no laughter in his eyes as he faced Shan again.
"Who are you?" Shan pressed. "The good Chinese who craves losing himself with a billion others just like him? Or the Tibetan who recognizes that lives are at stake here? Not just one, but many. And we are the only ones who have a chance of saving them. Me. And you."
Yeshe looked back as though with a question and froze. Shan followed his gaze. There were lights at the opposite side of the chamber, and voices raised in excitement.
Instantly they extinguished their own lamps and stepped back into the tunnel. Tan had shut down the cave. No one else was authorized to enter. There had been no other vehicles outside. Whoever the intruders were, they were running a grave risk if captured.
"Purbas," Yeshe whispered. "We must leave, quickly."
"But we just left them back at the market."
"No. Their ranks are large. They are very dangerous. There is a decree from the capital. It is a citizen's duty to report them."
"So you want to get away from me to report them?" Shan asked.
"What do you mean?"
"We were with Sergeant Feng since seeing the purbas in the market. You said nothing to him."
"They are outlaws."
"They are monks. Are you going to report them?" Shan repeated.
"If we get caught working with them it will be conspiracy," Yeshe said in anguish. "At least five years lao gai."
Shan realized the intruders were not in the skull tunnel, but a smaller alcove in the center of the far wall. He pushed Yeshe toward them, moving silently along the perimeter of the huge chamber. Suddenly, when less then thirty feet separated them, a brilliant strobe exploded.
The camera flash was aimed toward the wall paintings beside him, but caught Shan in the face, blinding him. A high-pitched scream split the air, then was abruptly stifled. "Son of a bitch," someone else groaned in a lower voice.
Shan, shielding his eyes against another flash, switched on his light. Rebecca Fowler, her hand clutching her chest as though she had been kicked, stared at them numbly.
"Jesus, boys," the man with the camera said. "Thought you were ghosts for sure." Tyler Kincaid gave a quick, forced laugh and aimed a high-powered beam behind them. "You alone?"
"The army is outside," Yeshe blurted out, as though in warning.
"Sergeant Feng is outside," Shan corrected.
"So here we are," Kincaid said, and took another picture. "Thieves in the night, you might say."
"Thieves?"
"Just funny- I mean, you sneaking around without lights. Doesn't exactly feel official."
"And when asked, how should I say this cave relates to your mining project, Miss Fowler?" Shan asked.
Kincaid's comment seemed to have restored her confidence. "I told you. The UN Antiquities Commission. Who's going to ask?" She cocked her head. "And why are you here?"
Shan ignored the question. "And Mr. Kincaid?"
"I asked him to come. For the photos."
Shan remembered the photographs of Tibetans in the American's office.
"And how much have you seen?"
"This," Rebecca Fowler gestured around the main chamber with a look of awe. "And we're just getting to the records."
"Records?"
She escorted him into the alcove, which was partially concealed by a canvas sheet hung over the entrance. Three makeshift tables had been erected on planks over wooden crates. One table held cartons of paper files, another empty beer bottles and ashtrays overflowing with cigarette butts. The third, much cleaner, had a cloth thrown over it, with small cartons containing computer disks, a pad to accommodate a portable computer, and an open ledger.
Kincaid kept snapping photos as Shan and Fowler examined the ledger. Beginning a month earlier, it recorded the removal of an altar and reliquaries, offering lamps and a statue of Buddha. Dimensions, weight, and quantity were fastidiously recorded.
"What does it say?" Fowler asked. It was not unusual for foreigners learning Chinese to study only the conversational, not the written language.
Shan hesitated, then quickly summarized the contents.
"How about books?" Tyler Kincaid asked. "The old manuscripts. Jansen says they are usually well preserved, the kind of thing that can easily be saved."
There was a page recording the removal of two hundred manuscripts. "I don't know," Shan replied. He knew about recovered manuscripts. Once at the 404th a dump truck had deposited several hundred old religious tracts. Under gunpoint the prisoners had been forced to rip the volumes into small pieces which were boiled in big pots, then mixed with lime and sand to make plaster for the guards' new latrine.
"And on the first page?" Fowler asked.
"First page?"
"Who wrote this? Who is in charge?"
Shan turned to the overleaf. "Ministry of Geology, it says. By order of Director Hu."
Fowler shoved her hand forward to hold down the overleaf and called for Kincaid to photograph the page. "The bastard," she muttered. "No wonder Jao wanted to stop him."
Was it possible, Shan considered, that Fowler was in the cave not about the antiquities but about her mining permit?
Kincaid changed lenses and began photographing the pages, pausing over the detailed entries. "They took an altar, you said. Where's it say that?"
Shan showed him.
Kincaid placed his finger on a column on the right side of the page. "What's this?"
"Weights and dimensions," Shan explained.
"Three hundred pounds, it says." The American nodded. "But look, here is something even heavier. Four hundred twenty pounds."
"The statue."
"Can't be," Kincaid argued, following the line of data. "It shows it's only three feet high."
Shan studied the entry again. The American was right.
Yeshe, over their shoulders, explained. "In these old shrines," he said in a brittle voice, "the altar statue was often solid gold."
Kincaid whistled. "My God! It's worth millions."
"Priceless," Fowler said, excitement in her eyes. "The right museum-"
"I don't think so," Shan interrupted.
"No, really. Do you have any idea how rare this statue would be? A major find. The find of the year."
"No," Shan shook his head slowly. He found himself almost angered by the Americans' passion. No, not their passion. Their innocence.
"What do you mean?" Fowler asked.
Shan answered by shining his light around the room. He found what he expected under one of the other tables, a pile of hammers and chisels. "Four hundred pounds of gold would be inconvenient to transport in one large piece." He picked up one of the chisels and showed the Americans the flecks of brilliant metal embedded in its blade.
Rebecca Fowler grabbed the chisel and stared at it, then threw it against the wall. "Bastards!" she shouted. Angrily she grabbed several of the computer disks and stuffed three of them into her shirt pocket, staring at Shan as she did so, as if daring him to defy her.
Kincaid gazed at the woman with obvious admiration, then began shooting photos again. Yeshe began leafing through the ledger, pausing at a loose sheet near the back. He looked up excitedly and handed the page to Shan. "An audit page," he whispered, as though to keep the Americans from hearing. "From the Bureau of Religious Affairs."
"But it's blank."
"Yes," Yeshe said. "But look at it. Columns to identify the gompa, date, relics found, distribution of relics. If Religious Affairs does audits, we could find if any gompas had a Tamdin costume."
"And if so, when it was found, and where it is now." Shan nodded, with an edge of excitement.
"Exactly."
Shan folded the sheet and was about to put it in his pocket, then paused and handed it to Yeshe, who stuffed it in his shirt with a look that for the first time might have been satisfaction.
Shan slowly moved out of the alcove, leaving his three companions with the murals as he moved into the tunnel where Colonel Tan had taken him. He paused just before the circle of his light reached the first of the skulls, trying to find words to prepare the others. But no words came, and he forced his feet ahead.
Even the dead were different in Tibet. He had been in mass bone-yards back home, after the Cultural Revolution. But there the dead had not felt holy, or wise, or even complete. They had just felt used.
As he moved along the shrine, he found himself gasping. He stopped and surveyed the rows of empty eye sockets. They all seemed to be watching him, the endless lines of skulls like the endless rosary of skulls Khorda had pressed into his hands before making Shan call for Tamdin. With a start, he realized they had been witnesses. Tamdin had been there with Prosecutor Jao's head, and the skulls had seen it all. The skulls knew.
Behind him he sensed a shudder. The others had discovered the tunnel. Fowler groaned. Kincaid cursed loudly. Something like a whimper escaped Yeshe's lips. Shan clenched his jaw and moved on to the shelf where Jao's head had been deposited. He tried to sketch the scene, but stopped. His hand was trembling too much.
"What is it you expect to find?" Yeshe whispered nervously over his shoulder. He stood with his back to Shan, as if expecting to be ambushed at any moment. "This is not a place we should stay in."
"The murderer came here with Jao's head. I want to find the skull that was moved from here to make room for Jao. Why was this particular shelf disturbed? Was there a reason for this particular skull to be moved? Where was its skull moved to?" Shan felt almost certain he knew the answer to the last question already. It would have been thrown into the shed with the other skulls being processed.
Yeshe seemed not to have heard. "Please," he pleaded. "We must go."
As the Americans approached they were speaking of Tibetan history. "Kincaid says this was probably a cave of Guru Rinpoche," Fowler announced. She too was whispering.
"Guru Rinpoche?" Shan asked.
"The most famous of the ancient hermits," Yeshe interjected. "He inhabited caves all over Tibet in his lifetime, making each one a place of great power. Most were turned into shrines centuries ago."
"I had no idea Mr. Kincaid was such a scholar," Shan observed.
"Jao wanted to stop them," Fowler announced suddenly, her voice cracking. Shan looked up. A single tear rolled down her cheek.
"What's that?" Yeshe asked in an urgent whisper. "I thought I heard something!"
There was something, Shan sensed. Not a sound. Not a movement. Not a presence. Something unspeakable and immense that seemed to have been triggered by Fowler's sadness. He lowered his pad and stood silently with the others, transfixed by the hollow sockets of the gleaming skulls. They weren't in the heart of the mountain. They were in the heart of the universe, and the numbing silence that welled around them wasn't silence at all, but a soul-wrenching hoarseness like the moment before a scream.
Choje was right, Shan suddenly knew, it was meaningless to ask whether Tamdin was indeed the grotesque monster he had seen painted on the wall. Whoever or whatever the killer had been, the killer had been a demon, not because it had decapitated Prosecutor Jao but because it had brought the ugliness of the act to such a perfect place.
He became aware of something new, a slight rustle of noise that became a chatter. It seemed to be coming from the skulls. Rebecca Fowler, fear now in her eyes, stepped closer to Kincaid. The two stood frozen, listening, then Kincaid abruptly turned and raised his camera toward Yeshe. He fired the strobe like a weapon and the noise stopped. Shan suddenly realized they had been hearing an echoing mantra, started by Yeshe.
The spell was broken.
"You could still help," Shan suggested as he recovered.
Fowler looked up with a haggard expression. "Anything."
"We need a record. If Mr. Kincaid could photograph all the shelves." The skulls knew, Shan told himself again. Maybe he could make them talk.
Kincaid nodded slowly. "I could get all three levels in one frame. Should have just about enough film."
"I need the inscriptions for each skull included. After I study the photos maybe we could turn them over to your UN Commission."
Fowler offered Shan a small, sad nod of gratitude, but lingered when Yeshe went to help Kincaid with the first row of skulls. She and Shan continued cautiously down the tunnel. The shelves ended, replaced by more images of demons painted on the walls.
"Is it true that you're being forced to do this, that you're a prisoner of some kind?" Fowler asked suddenly.
Shan kept walking. "Who told you that?"
"Nobody. Tyler just said that nobody knows who you are. You were some kind of outside official, we thought. But outside officials- I don't know, outside officials get lots of respect." She winced at her own words.
He was touched by her embarrassment.
"Tyler says it's funny, the way your sergeant watches you. He carries a gun, but he's not a bodyguard. A bodyguard would watch past you, around you. But your sergeant, he just watches you."
Shan stopped and turned his light toward the American's face. "When I am not investigating murders I build roads," he confessed. "In what they call a labor brigade."
Fowler's hand went to her mouth. "My God," she whispered, biting a knuckle. "In one of those awful prisons?" She looked away, toward the demons. Her eyes were bright and wet when she spoke again. "I don't understand anything. How are you- why would you-" She shook her head. "I'm so sorry. I'm such a fool."
"A very senior Party member told me once that there're only two types of people in my country," Shan observed. "Masters and slaves. I don't believe it, and I would be saddened if you did."
Fowler offered a weak smile. "But how could you be investigating?"
"It was my talent before being elevated to road laborer. I used to be an investigator in Beijing."
"But you defy Tan, I saw it. If he's your-"
Shan held up a hand, not wanting to hear the next word. Prisonkeeper, perhaps? Even slavemaster? "Maybe that's why- because he can inflict no further harm." It was the kind of half-truth an American would believe.
"Which is why you won't prove that monk is Jao's killer?"
"I can't. He's innocent."
Fowler stared at him. Maybe, Shan considered, she knew too much about China to accept such a bold statement.
"Then what's going on? You're here like a thief. Li is conducting an investigation, too, but he's not here. What is Tan so worried about?"
So she did understand China more than Shan expected. "I am confused about you, too, Miss Fowler," he countered. "You are the manager, but you said Mr. Kincaid's father owns the company."
The American woman gave an amused grunt. "Long story. Short version is that just because Tyler's father runs the company doesn't mean they get along."
"They are not close? You mean for him Tibet is a punishment?"
"You know what a dropout is? Tyler went to mining school like his family wanted, so he could take over the company someday. But after graduation he announced he wanted none of it. Said the company ruined the environment, said it impoverished local populations. Spent several hundred thousand of his trust funds on a ranch in California, where he lived a few years, then gave it to a wildlife conservation group that was blocking a new mine his father wanted to build. Took a few years for things to cool down to where they would speak to one another, a few more before Tyler agreed to take a job in the company. But his father was still distrustful enough that he wouldn't put him in charge. Still, they're talking now. Tyler is serious about making a new life for himself. He's a damned good engineer. Tyler will be chairman one day, and one of the richest men in America."
"And you? You're very young for such responsibilities."
"Young?" Fowler shook her head slowly and sighed. "I haven't felt young for a long time." She stopped, looking ahead. The tunnel opened into another chamber. "Guess I'm the opposite of Tyler. Never had two cents when I was growing up. Worked hard, saved, won scholarships. Worked like a dog for ten years to get here."
"And you choose Tibet?"
She shrugged as she stepped forward. "It's not what I expected."
The paintings inside the chamber presented a tableau of Tibetan geography, images of mountains and palaces and shrines. On the floor at one end were shards of bone and a dozen skulls arranged in a triangle shape. Fifteen feet away was a row of skulls, surrounded by bootprints and cigarette butts. The soldiers had been bowling.
Fowler picked up a skull and held it reverently in her palms, then began to retrieve the others as though to return them to the shelves. Shan touched her arm. "You can't," he warned. "They will know you were here."
She nodded silently and lowered the skull, then turned back down the tunnel wearing a desolate expression. They joined Yeshe and Kincaid, waiting in the main chamber, and the four moved quickly away. No one spoke until they were near the entrance.
"Wait a quarter of an hour," Shan suggested, "then return the same way you arrived." He did not ask how they knew a secret route. "I will come for the photos-"
He was interrupted by a gasp from Fowler. A figure had appeared in the entranceway, lit by the brilliant sunlight as though with a spotlight.
"It's him!" Fowler cried in a hoarse whisper, and she and Kincaid faded into the shadows. But Shan needed no explanation. The man in the entrance could only be Director Hu of the Ministry of Geology.
Shan stepped out into the light.
"Comrade Inspector!" the short, stocky man called out. "What a pleasure! I had hoped to find you still here." On his wide face his tiny black eyes looked like beetles.
"We have not been introduced," Shan observed slowly, surveying the compound as he spoke.
"No. But here I am, coming all this way to help you. And here you are, working so hard to help me." He ceremoniously handed Shan his card. It was made of vinyl. Director of Mines, Lhadrung County, it read. Hu Yaohong. Hu Who Wants to be Red.
A red truck was parked beside their own. Suddenly Shan remembered: The same truck had been parked at the worksite the day they had discovered Jao's body. He studied it more closely. It was a British Land Rover, the most expensive vehicle he had ever seen in Lhadrung.
"You came to help?" Shan asked.
"That, and for a security check."
There was a man talking to Feng. With a twitch of his gut Shan realized Hu wasn't referring to security at the entrance. The second visitor was Lieutenant Chang, from the 404th. Chang looked at him with an indolent eye, the gaze of a shopkeeper confirming his inventory.
As Director Hu took a step toward the cave, Shan moved in front of him. "I do have some questions for you."
"In my mine, I can show you-"
"No," Shan pressed. Had Hu seen the Americans? He half expected Kincaid to step out for a photograph. "Please. I'd rather not." He put his hand on his stomach and tried to look nauseated. "It's very unsettling for me."
"You're scared?" The Director of Mines looked amused. He wore a large gold ring. For a geologist he seemed extremely well dressed. "We could sit in the car perhaps? It's British, you know."
"I have to return to town. Colonel Tan."
"Excellent! I'll drive you. I must explain my evidence." Hu called out and Chang threw him the keys, then nodded as Hu instructed him to follow with Feng and Yeshe.
"Evidence?" Shan asked.
Hu seemed not to have heard. They spoke no more until they were on the main road. Hu drove hard, seeming to enjoy the rough road and the way Shan grabbed the dashboard as they bounced. On the curves he accelerated, laughing as the rear wheels skidded in the dirt.
"Civilization," Director Hu said abruptly. "It's a process, you know, not a concept."
"You spoke of evidence," Shan said, confused.
"Exactly. It's more than a process. It's a dialectic. A war. My father was stationed in Xinjiang, with the Moslems. In the old days they were even worse than the Buddhists. Bombings. Machine gun raids. A lot of good government workers were sacrificed. The dynamic of civilization. New against old. Science against mythology."
"You're speaking of the Chinese against Tibetans?"
"Exactly. It's progess, that's all. Advanced agricultural techniques, universities. Modern medicine. You think the advance in medicine wasn't a struggle? A battle against folklore and sorcerers. Half the babies born here used to die. Now babies live. Isn't that worth fighting for?"
Maybe not, Shan wanted to say, if the government won't let you have babies. "You're saying Prosecutor Jao was a martyr for civilization."
"Of course. His family will get a letter from the State Council, you know. The lesson is there for all of us. The challenge is making sure they get the lesson."
"They?"
"This case must also be an opportunity for the minority population to recognize how regressive, how backward, their ways are."
"So you want to help with the evidence."
"It is my duty." Hu reached into his pocket and produced a folded paper. "A statement from a guard stationed at the road into the skull cave. The night of the murder a monk was seen walking along the road near the entrance."
"A monk? Or a man wearing a monk's robe?"
"It's all there. Matches this Sungpo's description."
A monk was seen acting suspiciously near the entrance, the guard had written. He was of medium height, medium build. His head was shaven. He appeared antagonistic, and was carrying something in a cloth sack. The guard had signed the statement. Private Meng Lau. Shan put the paper in his pocket.
"When did this guard see this man?"
Hu shrugged. "Later. After the murder. It happened at night, right?"
"How close was he? There was a new moon. Not much light."
Hu sighed impatiently. "Soldiers make good witnesses, Comrade. I expected more gratitude."
He sped up as they reached the valley floor, laughing as he raised a cloud of dust around Feng, Yeshe, and Chang, still following closely. "You said you had questions for me, Comrade Inspector?"
"Mostly about security. And how someone might get in the cave at night," Shan replied.
"When we first discovered the cave we posted guards at its mouth. But after the contents were revealed they were all spooked. So we put a detail out on the road. Only way in and out. Seemed adequate."
"But someone found another way."
"These monks, they climb like squirrels."
"Who discovered the cave?"
"We did," Hu acknowledged. "I have exploration teams."
"So it was also you who found the Americans' brine deposits?"
"Of course. We issued their license."
"But now you want to cancel it."
Hu looked at Shan, plainly peeved, then slowed the truck. They had reached the outskirts of Lhadrung. "Not at all. What is being discussed is the operating permit, which assures that they comply with specified management systems. We are engaged in a dialogue about management. I am a friend of the American company."
"By 'management' you mean individual managers?"
"Pond construction technique, harvesting technology, equipment specification, utility consumption, and the conduct of their managers are all subject to permit criteria. Why do you ask?"
"So if you wanted a certain manager to leave, you might suspend the operating permit."
Director Hu laughed. "And I thought your geological interests were confined to hauling rocks."
Shan considered his words as they parked in front of the municipal building. "I find it interesting that you knew I am a prisoner and still you came all the way out to the cave. I thought the Director of Mines would simply order me to appear."
Hu replied with a wooden smile. "I'm teaching Lieutenant Chang how to drive. When Colonel Tan told me where you were-" Hu shrugged. "Chang must learn to navigate the mountain roads."
"Is that why you were at the 404th worksite the day the body was found?"
Hu sighed, trying to control his impatience. "We must be vigilant against faults."
"Geological, I presume."
Hu grinned. "The ranges are unstable. We must be careful about the people's roads."
Shan was tempted to ask again if Hu was speaking of geology. "Comrade Director, would you please join me with the colonel?" he asked instead.
Director Hu's look of amusement did not fade. He tossed the keys to Chang, who had appeared behind them, and followed Shan inside.
Madame Ko gave Shan a nod of welcome and dashed into Tan's darkened office. The colonel's eyes were puffy. He was stretching. Shan glanced around the room. On the table by his desk was a rumpled pillow.
"Colonel Tan, I would like to ask Director Hu a question."
"You interrupted me for this?" Tan growled.
"I wanted to do it in your presence."
Tan lit a cigarette and gestured toward Hu.
"Director Hu," Shan asked, "can you tell us why you suspended the Americans' permit?"
Hu frowned at Tan. "He is intruding into Ministry business. It is counterproductive to engage in public dialogue about our problems with the American mine."
Tan nodded slowly. "You do not have to answer. Comrade Shan is sometimes too enthusiastic." He fixed Shan with a sharp look of censure.
"Then perhaps," Shan pressed, "you could tell us where you were on the night Prosecutor Jao was murdered?"
The Director of Mines stared in disbelief at Shan, then, as a broad smile grew on his face, turned to Tan and began to laugh.
"Director Hu," Tan explained with a cold grin, "was with me. He invited me to dinner at his house. We played chess and drank some good Chinese beer."
Hu's laughter became almost uncontrolled. "Have to go," he said between gasps and, throwing a mock salute at Shan, he disappeared through the door.
"You are fortunate he is so easygoing," Tan warned. There was no amusement in his eyes.
"Tell me something, Colonel. Is the skull cave an official project?"
"Of course. You've seen all the soldiers there. A big operation."
"I mean, does Beijing know about it?"
Tan exhaled a column of smoke. "That would be the responsibility of the Ministry of Geology."
"It's filled with cultural artifacts. The operation itself is the army's. How do Hu and the Ministry of Geology fit in?"
"They discovered it. They are responsible for exploitation. But they have only a small staff. As county administrator I offered the assistance of the army. A good field exercise."
"Who benefits from the gold?"
"The government."
"In this case, who is the government?"
"I don't know all the agencies which participate. Several of the ministries are involved. There are protocols."
"How much does your office receive?"
Tan bristled at the suggestion. "Not a damned fen. I'm a soldier. Gold makes soldiers soft."
Shan believed him, though not for the reason he gave. Political office, not money, was the source of power for a man like Tan.
"Perhaps there are those in the government who would not support looting tombs."
"Meaning what?"
"Did you know that Prosecutor Jao and Director Hu fought over the cave? The American woman was a witness. Now I believe Hu is trying to force her from the country."
A narrow grin appeared on Tan's face. "Comrade, you have been misled. You have no idea what Hu and Jao were fighting over."
"Jao wanted to stop what Hu was doing."
"Right. But not stop the cave, stop the accounting. He was arguing that a bigger share of the gold needed to go to the Ministry of Justice. His office. I have it on record. He wrote letters of complaint wanting me to mediate. Madame Ko can give you copies."
Shan sank into a chair and closed his eyes. It was not Hu. "What about his staff? Can we get their background files?"
Tan gave an indulgent nod. "Madame Ko will make a call."
"Whoever killed Jao was saying something about that cave."
"So ask him."
"The prisoner is not speaking."
"Then go ask your damned demon," Tan said irritably, moving to his desk.
"I would like to. Where do you suggest I look?"
"Can't help. I don't regulate demons." He picked up a file and gestured toward the door.
Shan stood up and suddenly realized exactly where he had to go. There was indeed someone who regulated demons.
Like so much else in Tibet, the weather was absolute. It was seldom dry without drought, seldom wet without a downpour. The sun had been shining brightly when he left Tan's office, but by the time they reached the offices of the Bureau of Religious Affairs on the north side of town, the weather had reversed itself. The sky began throwing tiny balls of ice at them. Shan had read once that fifty Tibetans a year died in hailstorms. He handed Feng a piece of paper before he stepped out of the truck. "Private Meng Lau from Jade Spring Camp. I need you to find if he was on the duty roster the night of the murder, for guarding the road to the cave."
Sergeant Feng accepted the paper without acknowledgment, uncertain how to respond to a request from Shan.
"You know who to ask. Even if I tried, they would never tell me. Please. Comrade Sergeant."
Feng tossed the paper on the dashboard and tugged at the wrapper of a roll of candy, taunting Shan with his disinterest.
Shan and Yeshe were ushered into an empty office on the second floor with a quick apology and the inevitable offer of tea. Shan wandered around the office. A tray on the desk held several magazines, the top of which was China at Work, a party organ that published glossy images of the proletariat. On the coffee table was a single book, entitled Worker Heroes of Socialist Carpet Factories. Shan lifted the magazines. On the bottom of the pile were several American news magazines, the most recent over a year old.
They were alone. "Have you decided what you will do?" Shan asked. "About the purbas." And the Americans, he almost added.
Yeshe nervously looked back to the door. He hunched his thin shoulders forward, his face twisted as if he were about to weep. "I am no informer. But sometimes questions are asked. What can I do? For you it is easy. I have my freedom to consider. My life. My plans."
"Do you really understand what the warden has done to you?" Shan asked. "You need to get out."
"What he has done? He is helping me. He may be the only friend I have."
"I am going to ask the colonel for a new assistant. You need to get out."
"What has Zhong done?" Yeshe pressed.
"You misunderstand the organs of justice. For you, a Tibetan, to be offered a job in Chengdu immediately after reeducation in a labor camp would not only be extraordinary, it would be impossible for Zhong to accomplish. Public Security in Chengdu would have to approve, after receiving an official request from Public Security in Lhasa. The new employer would have to approve without knowing you, which they wouldn't do. Travel papers would have to be issued, under the name of your new work unit, which doesn't exist. Zhong has no papers for you. He has no authority over such things. He lied to keep you talking with him, to tell about me. Then when it is finished, when they decide I have again failed the people by refusing to condemn Sungpo, he will accuse you of conspiring with me and have you detained again. Administration detention for less than a year requires nothing but the signature of a local Public Security officer. And Zhong has his valued assistant back."
"But he promised me." Yeshe twisted his fingers together as he spoke. "I have nowhere to go. I have no money. No recommendation. No travel papers. There is nowhere to go. The only real job I could get is at the chemical factory in Lhasa. They like to hire Tibetans, even without papers. I've seen the workers there. Their hair falls out after a few months. By the time you're forty you lose most of your teeth." He looked up. Instead of the bitterness Shan expected to see, there was a hint of gratitude. "Even if you're right, what could I do? And you, you are in the same trap, only worse."
"I have nothing to lose. A lao gai prisoner on an indefinite sentence," Shan said, trying hard to sound disinterested as he stepped to the window. "For me it may be intentional. But for you, it's just bad luck. Maybe youshould become sick."
The wind slammed hail against the glass. The lights flickered. The prisoners at the 404th always flinched when such weather began. Hailstones on their tin roofs sounded too much like machine guns.
"If they ask, I never saw the purbas," Yeshe said to his back. "But it's not just that. If the purbas are found to be helping Sungpo it will be taken as proof that the radicals were behind the murder, that Sungpo is one of them." His voice trailed off. An old Red Flag limousine, no doubt retired from one of the eastern cities years before, had stopped below them. A man with a tattered umbrella ran from the building to the car to escort the occupant in the back seat.
Two minutes later the Director of the Bureau of Religious Affairs burst into the room. He was several years younger than Shan, and wore a worn blue suit and red tie that gave him the air of an earnest bureaucrat. His hair was cut short in military fashion. On his wrist was a watch, its face an enamel depiction of the Chinese flag, the kind presented to dedicated Party members.
"Comrade Shan!" the man greeted loudly. "I am Director Wen." He turned to Yeshe. "Tashi delay," he said clumsily.
"I speak Mandarin," Yeshe said with obvious discomfort.
"Wonderful! This is what the new socialism is about. I gave a speech in Lhasa last month. We must focus not on our differences, I said, but on the bridges between us." He spoke with great sincerity, turning to Shan with a sigh. "That is why it is so tragic when hooliganism takes on cultural dimensions. It drives a wedge between the people."
Shan did not reply.
"Colonel Tan's office called about the investigation." Wen paused awkwardly. "They requested my full compliance. Of course, no one need ask."
"You are responsible for all the gompas in Lhadrung County," Shan began after the tea was served.
"They must all obtain licenses from my office."
"And each monk."
"And each monk," Director Wen confirmed, looking now at Yeshe.
"A heavy responsibility," Shan observed.
Yeshe gazed at the floor in silence. He seemed unable to look at Wen. Slowly, stiffly, as though it caused him pain, he produced his notepad and began recording the conversation.
"Seventeen gompas. Three hundred ninety-one monks. And a long waiting list."
"And the records of the gompas?"
"We have some. The license applications are quite lengthy. A comprehensive review is required."
"I mean of the old gompas."
"Old?"
Shan fixed Wen with an unblinking gaze. "I know monks who lived here decades ago. In 1940 there were ninety-one gompas in the county. Thousands of monks."
Wen waved his hand dismissively. "That was long before I was born. Before the liberation. When the church was used as a vehicle for oppressing the proletariat."
Yeshe kept his gaze fixed on his notepad. It wasn't Shan's previous explanation of Zhong's true intentions that was causing Yeshe's reaction, it was Wen. And it wasn't pain in Yeshe's eyes, Shan realized. It was fear. Why did the Director of Religious Affairs disturb him so? "In those days," Shan said, "some of the large gompas had special dancing ceremonies on festival days."
Wen nodded. "I have seen films. The costumes were symbolic, very elaborate. Deities, dakinis, demons, clowns."
"Do you know where such costumes would be today?"
"A fascinating question." He picked up the phone.
Moments later a young Tibetan woman appeared at the door. "Ah. Miss Taring," Wen greeted her. "Our- our friends were asking about the old festival costumes. How to find them today." He turned to Shan. "Miss Taring is our archivist."
The woman acknowledged Shan with a nod and sat in a chair at the wall. "Museums," she began with a stiff, professional tone, removing her steel-rimmed glasses as she addressed Shan. "Beijing. Chengdu. The cultural museum in Lhasa."
"But artifacts are still being discovered," Shan said.
"Perhaps," Yeshe ventured, "a costume was found in a recent audit."
Miss Taring seemed surprised by the question. She turned to Wen. "We do compliance checks, yes," Wen said. Yeshe would still not meet his eyes. "Licenses are meaningless if they are not enforced."
"And you list artifacts?" Shan asked.
"As part of the wealth redistributed from the church, the artifacts belong to the people. The gompas hold them in trust for us. Obviously, we must verify what is where."
"And sometimes new artifacts are discovered," Shan pressed.
"Sometimes."
"But no costumes."
"Not in the time I have served here."
"How can you be certain?" Shan asked. "There must be thousands of artifacts in your inventories."
Wen smiled condescendingly. "Esteemed Comrade, you must understand that these are irreplaceable treasures, these costumes. It would be quite a discovery, to find one now."
Shan looked at Yeshe, to see if he was still writing. Had he heard correctly? Esteemed Comrade? He turned to the archivist. "Miss Taring. You say all of the known costumes are in museums."
"Some of the large gompas near Lhasa have been licensed to conduct the dances again. For certain approved events. Tourists come." She studied him with an air of suspicion.
"Foreign exchange," Shan suggested.
Miss Taring nodded impassively.
"Has your office authorized any for Lhadrung?"
"Never. The gompas here are too poor to sponsor such ceremonies."
"I thought perhaps with the Americans coming-"
Director Wen's eyes lit up, and he glanced at the archivist. "Why didn't we think of that?" He turned to Shan. "Miss Taring is handling our arrangements for the Americans. Tour guide to cultural sites. Speaks English with an American accent."
"An excellent idea, Comrade Director," the archivist said. "But there are no trained dancers. Many of these costumes, they are not what you think- they are more like special machines. Mechanical arms. Elaborate fastenings. Monks were trained for months, just to understand how to operate them. To use them in a ceremony, to know the dances and movements- some dancers underwent years of training."
"But a short show at one of the new projects," Wen asserted. "The Americans would not need the genuine dance. Just costumes. Some graceful swaying. Some cymbals and drums. They can take photographs."
Miss Taring stared at Director Wen with a small, noncommittal smile.
"New projects?" Shan asked.
"I am pleased to say that some gompas have been rebuilding under our supervision. Subsidies are available."
Subsidies. Meaning what, Shan considered. That they were looting ancient shrines to build pretend ones, destroying antiquities to pay for stage sets where Buddhist charades could be performed for tourists? "Did Proscutor Jao participate in reviewing the licenses for such projects?" he asked.
The director set his cup on the table. "Thank you, Miss Taring." The archivist rose and made a slight bow to Shan and Yeshe. Wen waited for her to leave before speaking. "I am sorry. I believe you wanted to talk about the murder."
"Comrade Director, I have been talking about the murder all along," Shan said.
Wen stared at Shan with new curiosity. "There is a committee. Jao, Colonel Tan, and myself. Each has a veto power over any decision."
"For rebuilding only."
"Permits. Rebuilding. Authorization to accept new novices. Publishing religious tracts. Inviting the public to participate in services."
"Did Prosecutor Jao reject any such applications?" Shan asked.
"We all have. Cultural resources need to be allocated to avoid abuse. The Tibetan minority is only part of China's population. We cannot rubber-stamp every request," Wen declared with a fuller, practiced voice.
"But recently. Was there any particular one that Jao refused to support?"
Wen looked up at the ceiling, his hands tucked behind his neck. "Only one in the last few months. Denied a rebuilding petition. Saskya gompa."
Saskya was Sungpo's gompa. "On what grounds?"
"There is another gompa in the lower end of the same valley. Larger. Khartok. It had already applied for rebuilding. Much more convenient for visitors, a better investment."
Shan stood to go. "I understand you are new in this job."
"Nearly six months now."
"They say your predecessor was killed."
Director Wen nodded his head sadly. "They consider him something of a martyr back home."
"But don't you fear for your life? I saw no guards."
"We cannot be bullied, Comrade. I have a job to do," Wen declared somberly. "The minorities have a right to preserve their culture. But unless there is balance, there is danger from reactionaries. Just a few of us have been trusted by Beijing to stand in the middle. Without us there would be chaos."