Dorchen was so withdrawn as they rode down the mountain that he only acknowledged Shan with a weary wave of his hand when Shan announced he was taking a track that veered off from the Yangkar path. He watched the forlorn old Tibetan, worried that he had ripped open a wound that would now never heal, then nudged his mount forward.
He approached the plain of the old college slowly, studying it as if seeing it for the first time. Everything in the secret drawings had had a meaning, an intention of the witness. Dorchen had finally interpreted the signs Shan could not understand. Everything had played a role. Pistols, pick axes, mules, ravens, drinking skulls, and what Dorchen had described as sleeping gods had been drawn beside the sacred signs. Guiding his horse down onto the plain, he let it free to graze as he walked the oval of the ruined chortens. The Tibetans would never have used the sacred tombs as hiding places, but their locations had been carefully noted on the drawings, as though they were reference points. He stood by one of the slabs he and Jinhua had exposed, then slowly began pacing the ground beyond it. In the first drawing there had been a small circle of stones on this northwest side of the plain, where trees had once grown. Heather and wind-beaten rhododendron prevented him from clearly seeing the surface, and it was nearly a quarter hour before he found the old structure. A shiver ran up his spine, and he realized the air over the circle of stones was noticeably cooler. He leaned over the empty well. The air in the well was very still and very cold. He cleared away one side of the ring, then went back to the borrowed horse and to his relief found in the saddle bag one of the coils of thick cord that farmers and herders often carried with them in the high meadows, ready to tether an animal or even make a temporary corral.
At one end of the cord he fashioned a harness for his plastic water bottle and lowered it. Over thirty feet had uncoiled when the cord went slack. He tied the cord, then rose and stepped to the edge of the steep, fifty-foot embankment that ended in the wide ledge where the caves opened. He had seen many underground springs emerge from the side of Tibetan mountains, but here, though the spring of the well would logically have run downward, there was no stream, no waterfall. He studied the gravelly slope below him and saw now the little eroded swale where indeed water had once flowed.
Suddenly he remembered the passage from the 1897 manuscript that been stored with the final records in 1966. The earth deities woke briefly last week. We lost a temple wall, three chorten steeples, and the well. We bid good slumber to the beloved gods. The old well had been lost in the great earthquake at the end of the nineteenth century. The words of the old manuscript echoed in his mind as he returned to the well and retrieved the bottle. A half-inch of ice had formed on its bottom.
Ten minutes later he stood by the ice cave. He paced along its entrance, studying its irregular mouth, then the jumble of rocks that blocked further passage along the ledge that led toward the chasm at the north edge of the Plain of Ghosts. Below, on the embankment that led to the parking area, hundreds of rocks had been dumped. He slid a few feet down the embankment to lift some of the rocks. They were all small and sharp edged, nothing like the weathered boulders elsewhere on the slope.
Lighting one of the lanterns that had been left at the entry, he stepped inside the now-empty cave, first rubbing his hand along the rough ice along the back wall and then turning, lantern raised, to study the demons on the front wall, the way Lokesh would have done. The deities Begtse and Brahma flanked the entry. Above them were Palden Lhamo, Vaisravana, and Yama. They were known as fierce protectors of the faith and numbered among the eight dharmapalas, the Eight Defenders. Shan had had a vague sense that something about the gonkang chapel was incomplete, and now he understood. The three most fierce drinkers of blood—Yamantaka, Hayagriva, and Mahakala—were missing. Sleeping gods. The drawings held images of sleeping gods. We bid good slumber to the beloved gods, a monk had written after the earthquake of 1897.
Back on the Plain of Ghosts he studied the drawings again and visualized where the stable must have stood. He kicked at the dirt with his heel until he found a line of set stone that had been a foundation, exposing it until he reached a corner. Then he lowered himself onto the sparse grass that grew out of what must have been the earthen floor of the structure, tucking his legs under him in meditation position and arranging his fingers in a steeple, the Diamond of the Mind mudra.
Once again he weighed each of the pieces of his puzzle, satisfied finally that at least now he understood what had happened during the last days of the college and how Nyima had spent her years in the land where no other human walked. He lost all track of time as fragments of the horror appeared in his mind’s eye, and he did not stir until the horse, more mindful of the lowering sun, nuzzled his shoulder.
The outcroppings above town that marked his house had come into sight when an old yak lumbered across the track in front of him to reach a patch of sweetgrass, trailing a splash of color from the thick hair of its neck. Shan hesitated, then dismounted. He tied the reins to the saddle and slapped the rump of the sturdy little horse, which gladly trotted off toward its home.
He circled the yak, speaking low comforting words. The massive creature recognized him, perhaps even recalled that Shan, mired up to his knees himself, had once helped free him from a muddy ford. The old bull, the lama yak, was part of Lhamo and Trinle little’s herd, and probably their most valuable animal, but now lengths of bright red yarn had been tied into the hair of the yak. The animal had been ransomed.
He congratulated the yak, stroking its broad head for a few minutes, then took a few steps toward his house before slowly turning as he realized the gravity of his discovery. The bounty to keep such an animal from suffering would have been huge, a life-changing sacrifice for anyone from Yangkar. The yak fixed him with a soulful stare, and Shan understood he was looking at an ending, an act of contrition by someone in personal anguish. The red yarn was a confession of sorts, if only to the gods.
There had indeed been terrible acts committed in Yangkar, and the one who now repudiated them would know the final secrets that had eluded Shan. But the ransomed yak didn’t provide an answer, only another secret. The one who paid such a penance would never reveal himself to Shan, and the feral family that owned the yak was itself deeply secretive. They had been paid to never slay the great creature, to never harm it, to preserve it to the best of their ability, and they were unlikely to speak of it, partly out of fear of revealing the windfall they would have received, and partly because the gods always had a hand in ransoming.
Shan suspected the family had slipped away, back to their hidden life in the high ranges. But as he approached his house, he heard an unfamiliar rumble and saw a cloud of dust. Yara, standing by his door, was waving excitedly toward the track that led up to his house from town. Racing up the track was her grandfather, with Ati, laughing, clutched to his back. The old man was driving an orange motorcycle.
* * *
Jengtse was asleep in a cell when Shan returned to the station. He closed the door to the cell block, then rummaged in the back of a desk drawer and found a narrow strip of plastic, as thin as a credit card, which they had confiscated from a young burglar two months earlier. He stuffed it in a pocket and left the station.
More than once Shan had waited outside the building where Jengtse lived while Jengtse ran inside for something, but never had he ventured into the little second-floor apartment. He did not hesitate when he reached the landing, just inserted the strip between the door and the frame and swept it down, a skill he had not used since leaving Beijing. He heard a metallic click, turned the knob, and stepped inside.
The little tenement smelled faintly of garlic and beer. A surprisingly expensive television and sound system lay on a cabinet along one wall. A government-issued calendar was on a second wall, a poster of a military parade on another. With a self-loathing shudder, Shan began opening drawers and cabinets. In the only closet, the clothes he found were plain and simple, the kind a deputy might afford, but on a shelf above the hanging clothes a shoebox held a pair of shiny black loafers with tassels. Vanity, a forensic mentor once told him, started with shoes. Look for the shoes to find an edge of corruption.
Minutes later, in the back of a drawer of clothing, he pulled out what seemed to be a little bronze obelisk. Then he saw it was a souvenir, a replica of a clock tower. He held it under the light and stared at it for several long breaths. Along the bottom it said BIG BEN, LONDON.
Shan walked back to his office slowly, reconsidering every piece of the puzzle he thought he had solved. At the square he hesitated, then climbed up the old tower, where Lodi kept his vigil on the road. “That day the general came to town,” he said to the boy. “You took something from his aide. The bully with the scarred neck.”
“And didn’t Uncle Marpa yell at me! But they weren’t going to hurt a boy, not there, not then. I had to shout those words for my parents, to let them know I don’t forget. They need to know I am not afraid, not even of a Chinese general.”
“Yangkar, not Buzhou,” Shan said, repeating what the boy had said to Yintai.
Lodi shrugged. “People say it all the time. I mean…” He seemed embarrassed.
“You mean when Tibetans here see Chinese.”
Lodi gave a hesitant nod. “Kind of like a mantra.”
“You took something from Yintai,” Shan reminded the boy.
“I didn’t expect that. Uncle Kapo was pleased.”
“I don’t understand,” Shan admitted.
“Whenever I find a shiny object on the ground I snatch it up for him. He loves shiny things, buries them in his sand.”
“But you had a beetle.”
“In my other hand, yes. I was saving it to show Ati,” the boy replied with a mischievous grin. “For a moment I thought that Chinese believed in Tibetan magic.”
“What was it, your present to Uncle Kapo?”
“That? Just one of those tin discs the inn down the road passes out. You can exchange one for a free pot of tea. I’ve given Kapo four already, but he still buried it with joy.”
* * *
The little inn ten miles south of Yangkar was called the Long Wheels, for the long-haul trucks that made its existence possible. The plump owner, a retired Chinese teacher, always tried to ingratiate himself to Shan, who suspected him of paying bribes for his various permits, and offered a free meal as soon as Shan stepped into the cramped, dusty lobby.
“A much smaller favor, comrade,” Shan suggested. “A room number.”
The man behind the plastic desk stiffened, then tilted his head to look out toward Shan’s truck. “You need a bed for an hour or two, constable?” he asked with an uncertain grin.
“A man named Yintai has a room here.”
The man’s breath caught in his throat. “No! No one by that name, no.”
“A big man with a long scar across his neck. A soldier, though maybe not always in uniform. Sometimes comes with one or two other men.”
A tiny groan escaped the innkeeper’s throat. His smile vanished. “No, no. Not that one.” He took a step backward and glanced at the door as if thinking of fleeing his own establishment.
Shan reached behind the counter and turned off the electric OPEN sign. “Get a jacket. Maybe a pillow. You’re coming with me for interrogation. I won’t have time to bring you back tonight, but I have a vacant cell.”
The man pushed the switch back on. “You don’t know him. His eyes are like ice. My chambermaid got in his way and he kicked her to the floor.”
“Just the number and the passkey. Or should I try every door?”
“If he knew…”
“Does he keep his window open?”
The innkeeper nodded.
“If he complains about someone intruding, say it must have been through the window. His own fault. You’re just going to save me the trouble of climbing in and out the window.”
“Number ten, at the back,” the innkeeper fearfully whispered.
“Does he have visitors often?”
“Three men have a key. They come and go.”
“Do you know the others?”
The man winced. “They come and go,” he repeated.
“How do they get here?”
“I don’t know,” the man whined.
Shan switched the sign off again.
The innkeeper groaned and switched it back on. “A truck painted olive. An orange motorcycle. Once a helicopter brought men in military fatigues.”
The room was surprisingly spacious, with a table in the center and two beds along opposite walls. The beds showed no sign of being slept in. One had military maps laid across it, depicting Yangkar Township and the land to the north, including the secret military base in the adjoining county. The table held maps of Tibet and glossy brochures of a seaside club in Hong Kong. On top of them was the death chart Shiva had prepared for Jake Bartram.
* * *
He parked his truck out of sight of the amchi’s house, downwind from the mastiffs, and made his way across the field to the dry riverbed, a lantern in one hand and a tire iron in the other. He found himself dodging puddles from the recent rain, and might have missed the little shed below the house, obscured as it was between two outcroppings, were it not for the rut of tire tracks that so plainly led up from the river. It was a compact, sturdy building, with a modern padlock on its heavy door. He edged the iron behind the hasp and with a single heave pulled it out of the wood.
The air inside was heavy with oil and gas fumes. Although the motorcycle was gone, cans of fuel and lubricant were on a mechanic’s workbench along the rear wall, as was a small case of Roman candles. The shed was otherwise empty except for four chests covered with a tattered piece of canvas. He opened the first and for an instant recoiled. An angry deity bared its teeth at him. The papier-mâché mask was intricately worked, so vivid and detailed that he knew it must have been another authentic festival mask taken out of a Religious Affairs warehouse. There were four masks in the first two chests, made for the Tibetan rituals in which monks wearing such disguises would dance around gompa courtyards until chased away by protector gods. In the remaining chests were the colorful robes that would have been worn below the masks. As he lifted one of the masks, a floor plank creaked behind him. He had begun to swing around just as something hard slammed into his skull.
* * *
He woke surrounded by flames. The shed and its contents were on fire. Oily rags had been piled by the door and cans of oil upended on the workbench. The old robes heaped on his chest had been soaked with gas, the masks scattered around the shed. He leapt up, knocking the robes aside, and desperately pushed at the door. It would not yield. One of the old masks burst into fire, its papier-mâché flames joined by real ones. Roman candles starting exploding, shooting balls of fire into the ceiling, the walls, the floor. He grabbed one of the robes out of an open chest and threw it over the box of fireworks, then used another to futilely beat at the fire, giving up a moment later to slam his shoulder against the door, again and again. He grew dizzy, short of breath, and realized he was on his knees now, pounding helplessly against the blocked door. Then his arms grew leaden and he could barely raise them.
He heard a trembling shout. “Ko! I’m sorry, Ko!” Shan recognized his own feeble voice, and the words seemed to come of their own accord. He collapsed against the door, returning the stare of the nearest demon, a smoldering tiger mask. Death was coming for him out of a particularly Tibetan hell, surrounded by demons.
Suddenly the door fell away behind him. As the fresh air added a new ferocity to the flames, someone roughly dragged him out by his collar and dropped him on the ground. He gulped the fresh air, then crawled away from the inferno until he reached a little pool in the river bed. He thrust his face into the water and then, with what seemed like a great effort, propped himself up against a boulder.
His rescuer sat on another boulder, a few feet away, two of his mastiffs with him.
“It’s not easy, saving someone you hate,” Shan observed. His throat stung as he spoke. “It shows character.”
Dingri spat in his direction.
“I’ve had to do it myself more than once,” Shan said. “An old lama once said it was my karma, the price I pay for the hatred I have pushed deep inside.”
“Cao ni ma!” Dingri muttered under his breath. Fuck your mother. The big dog at his foot looked up at Shan and showed his teeth.
“At least you had already disposed of your motorcycle,” Shan pointed out. His breaths were short, as if his lungs were clogged.
“I should have told the old fool just to use it up in the mountains.”
“How long were you in the Snow Tigers?”
In the movement of the flames Dingri’s wrathful face danced like one of the demons. “Only eight years. I fractured my leg jumping out of a helicopter. They were going to put me on some desk job in Manchuria. It would have been the end of me.”
“But General Lau had a different idea.”
“Yintai came first, said I was one of the few Tibetans who had served in the Tigers. He wanted to confirm I could still speak Tibetan, then said he had an offer. The next day the general appeared, the famous man whose photographs were always on the wall of our barracks. He said he could arrange for me to go out on full disability. He needed a special kind of man in Tibet. Only occasional work, just make reports about any strangers in town and keep the taboo alive. There would be prospects for great wealth, Yintai said. Only catch was that I had to live in Yangkar.”
“It must have been amusing, turning into a demon every few weeks.”
“The night festival. That’s what we would call it. Time for another night festival. Should we be a skeleton or a blue bull?”
“One thing I never understood. Why leave the phone with the dead lama?”
“Not me. He’s always the damned joker. I told him he shouldn’t mock old saints, dead or alive. Who would have thought anyone would call before the battery died? Or that anyone would hear it?”
“Nyima never would have heard if you had put the stone all the way back.” Shan saw the anguish in Dingri’s eyes. Shan could walk away and the Tibetan would still pay a terrible price. His life revolved around Dorchen, and once the truth was known, Dorchen may never forgive him.
“I know where the rest of the treasure is,” Shan said.
Dingri stared at his dogs for several breaths. “I don’t want to know. I’m done.”
“I’m going to tell you. And you’re going to see they are there at noon the day after tomorrow.”
“Why?”
“I want the killing to stop.”
“Why would I help you?”
“Because although you work for killers you are not one yourself. I saw you that day with Nyima, helping her. Dorchen thought you were acting like a dutiful son, but it was guilt. You knew who attacked her, and you felt guilty because he was your partner. Now Yintai and the others are here. They mean to kill again.”
“Red work, they call it.” Dingri sighed. “Those two soldiers. The American. I never signed on for that. Just watch and send reports, they said, and keep the taboo alive.”
“Until today I never would have believed you,” Shan said. “But today you sacrificed your prize possession to ransom a yak.”
Dingri grimaced. “They’ll kill you, Shan. By the time they’re done, you’re going to wish I left you in the fire. You never should have meddled. None of your concern.”
“And you—” a fit of coughing choked off Shan’s words. He held his head, suddenly dizzy. “And you,” he said when he had recovered, “still have a chance at the fat life in Hong Kong. You will be Lau’s hero when you tell him where those thirty mules went.”
“They won’t believe me.”
“Of course they will,” Shan said, then tossed a gleaming object to Dingri’s feet. “You’ll give them a sample.”
Dingri picked up the little golden Buddha and stared at it.
“But first,” Shan said, “help me up to the amchi. Tell him some oily rags caught fire. Spontaneous combustion. I saw the flames from the road and foolishly tried to extinguish it. You pulled me out just in time.”
“Sometimes,” Dingri observed in a hopeful tone, “people die hours after a fire, just from breathing in the smoke.”