CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Brilliant claws of gold reached across the dusk sky, as if a dragon were rising out of the sacred mountain. Shan sat outside the shepherd’s hut and arranged sticks on the ground. One six-inch-long stick with two shorter sticks underneath, over another long stick and another short pair, so that they made a square of a solid line, a broken line, a solid line, and another broken line. It was a tetragram, used to identify passages of the Tao te Ching, which he had memorized with his father as a boy. With slow, deliberate movements he disassembled the tetragram and built it again, dismantled and built it again, like a meditation practice. It invoked passage eleven, called “Using What Is Not.” “Clay is shaped to form a vessel,” it said. “What is not there makes the vessel useful. Take advantage of what is there by making use of what is not.”

It wasn’t simply that Shan had once misunderstood Jamyang. He was misunderstanding him again and again. First, Shan had known him as only a solitary, reverent hermit. Then he had grown to consider him as a lama in some mysterious exile, or a pilgrim doing penance. But he had also been a bureaucrat with a robe, an official who was fluent with computers. One of the agents trained to consume Tibet from the inside out. He had been all and none of those things. Shan had assumed his movements in his last few days had been actions to implement some plan, but they had all been reactions. He had missed the empty place, missed the phantom that gave everything meaning.

The realization had come slowly, a small dark thing gnawing at his gut since leaving Jamyang’s village. Some of the old lamas fervently believed that souls made sounds, that old hermits who suddenly found realization howled long syllables that could shake mountains. For Shan, the sound had come first, Dakpo’s anguished gasp before Jamyang’s aunt. He understood now that the monk’s reaction had changed everything. Dakpo had suddenly known, and collapsed, when Leshe had spoken of a man carrying a silver bell.

Shan had missed the phantom, the shadow that was always a step ahead, never there. It was time to use what was not there.

He rose and found the American by the little fire they had made to cook their evening meal. “I understand your need for silence, Cora,” he began. “But it must end. I want to help you but now you have to help me.”

The American woman struggled with her reply. There were still days, Lokesh said, when she did not speak at all. “There is no way out for me,” she said at last. “There is no one I can trust except Lokesh and Chenmo. And we can barely speak with each other,” she added with a bitter smile.

“And me, Cora. We can talk together. Together we are going to stop the murderer. Together we will get you home.”

“I should have been dead. I know that old Tibetans talk about not arguing with your fate, about embracing it. I was supposed to die that day.”

“No. You were supposed to live. You were supposed to become the way we stop the killer, the way word reaches the outside.”

“I’m always so afraid.”

“There are many things I have learned in Tibet,” Shan said to the American. “One is that your life isn’t about what others do to you, it is about what you do to yourself.”

“The killer wants me dead, doesn’t he?”

“I won’t lie to you. But Lokesh and his friends have taught me that you can’t let your decisions be determined by the cruelty of others.”

“I don’t know who the killer was. Just a monk.”

“It’s a puzzle, Cora. I know some of the pieces. You know some of the pieces. We have to fit them together. I should have asked you a question long ago. Did Jamyang come to you and Rutger sometime just before the killings?”

The American woman stirred the dying embers with a stick. “Two weeks before. With Chenmo. It was strange because he had always kept his distance, like he was very shy. Stayed away even from the other monks. Rutger said it must be because he was a hermit, that he had taken some kind of vow of isolation.”

“He came to your camp?”

Cora nodded. “He was no hermit that night. He said he understood we had taken pictures of the restoration. He wanted to know if they were the kind he could see on our camera screens. So we showed him. Rutger had been trying to get Chenmo to ask Jamyang to help name some of the old images on the walls and artifacts. A goddess playing a lute. A three-headed Buddha. A lion-headed god. We thought he came for that, and he did answer our questions. But what he wanted to see were photos of the monks who had come to help at the convent. He asked if we knew any of their names, and we explained we did not, that we kept our presence secret.”

“What happened? Did he show special interest in any of them?”

“He took the camera and scrolled through the pictures. He stopped at one and went very still. It was like he was scared by something he saw.”

“What was it? What photograph scared him?”

Cora shrugged. “Monks. Monks,” she repeated. “We came around the world to help monks. But now I know we must fear monks.”

“Did Rutger tell the abbess about this?”

“The abbess came to Rutger later. She was excited about what we were doing, about our photographing the internment camp. She encouraged us, gave us information about what went on in the camp, asked if she brought people who had been prisoners whether we would put them in our cameras. That’s how she said it. ‘Put them in our cameras.’ She said we needed to know what happened in those camps.” Cora broke off, biting her lips, looking into the embers. For a moment Shan thought she was going to weep again. She had seen for herself what went on in such a camp, had been tied inside one of its death shrouds.

“The day before Rutger died, she came back. She said there was something new, that he could film a different secret of Beijing. Rutger thought she meant he should go to the convent to film someone who had suffered at one of those gulag camps.” She pushed the embers and watched the sparks fly into the darkening sky.

“What did Jamyang ask you to do with the photos he saw?”

“He said we must keep them safe.”

“Did you?” Shan asked. “Did you keep them safe?”

“Sure. Rutger has special aluminum cases. Waterproof, even fireproof.”

Shan recalled the empty cases he had found at the campsite. They had not been demon proof.

*   *   *

“Om mani padme hum,” Meng intoned as she gave the prayer wheel a shove. “Isn’t that what they say?”

Shan nodded. He was not certain why she had asked him to go with her to the convent ruins. The things they needed to say were not for the police post but they had not needed to drive several miles to find a private place. “It invokes the compassionate Buddha,” he explained, and showed her how the words were inscribed in raised script along the rim of the bronze cylinder. “It makes a new prayer each time it spins.”

She replied with a strangely somber nod and spun the wheel again, then again. “I’ve been in Tibet for years,” she said, “and I have never tried to learn about such things.”

The police cleanup squads had been thorough. There were no more yellow police tapes cordoning off crime scenes, no more red paint and blood. A pile of fresh sand had been dumped by the front gate, with buckets and tubs beside it. A trail of footprints showed where the sand had been hauled and raked around the chorten. Even the loose stone at the base of the chorten had been pushed back in, though it seemed to be working its way out again.

“It was here,” Meng said, “here was where the abbess was killed. The first to die that day.” The lieutenant ran her hand along the wall, as if trying to remind herself where the arc of paint had been, then placed her palm at its center, where the blood had stained the wall. The surface had been scrubbed clean and painted. Everyone in the valley was doing their best to eradicate the murders.

“Lung Ma was the first to die,” Shan corrected her. “He was the most dangerous. He carried a gun.”

Shan led her to the rear of the compound and positioned himself at the crumbling gate. “The monk parked his bicycle outside, hidden in the rocks,” he said in a slow voice, considering the landscape as he spoke. “He took his time, watching at every step. The abbess had sent him a message, saying she wanted to speak of Dharamsala. Every Tibetan knows it like a code word. Speaking about it was always in secret. But she had never spoken to this monk about it. This one thought it was a warning, for he harbored his own secret about the exile capital. He was suspicious. I think he watched the convent from the hill and saw Lung’s truck arrive. There was no possible reason for the abbess and Lung to be together. Lung held the secret of the plan to smuggle the killer across the border. The abbess held the secret of the strange lama who had been roaming the hills, who the killer knew now to be a threat to his plans.”

Shan let the weight of his words sink in as he led Meng to the little chapel where the farmers had stored tools. “For some reason he suspects the message from the abbess, so he comes from the rear, for the advantage of surprise.” Shan stepped inside and showed Meng the brush hook he had found earlier. “He has no weapon but he knows of the heavy blades stored here. Lung was at the front, at ease, having a cigarette, considering his best angle for his target when the man comes in the front gate. On her own the abbess never would want to kill the man, just confront him, shame him. But Jamyang was certain he had caused a killing that day. He knew the leader of the Jade Crows carried a gun, and had told him who had killed his son. Jamyang used the abbess because he knew her message would bring the monk, and used Lung because he knew Lung would kill the man who killed his son.” It was the final agony Jamyang had suffered. The lama had been certain he had arranged a killing. He was convinced the killing was necessary, but also convinced he had to take his own life for doing so.

“So the killer has to be careful, ready for anything. He picks up the brush hook and steals along the far wall, using the cover of the buildings. The abbess has her back to him as she works on the prayer wheel, with the German helping her.” They walked in silence along the path Shan indicated, to the place by the corner of the front structure where the pool of Lung’s blood had been found. “He nearly takes Lung’s head off with his first blow. Then he takes Lung’s gun.”

“Why the front gate?” Meng asked “Why would Lung assume the man was coming in the front gate?”

Shan hesitated. It was point he had overlooked. “Because he didn’t expect the bicycle, or a man arriving on foot.”

“You mean he expected someone with a vehicle,” Meng concluded. “A monk who had access to a vehicle. How many monks in the monastery can even drive?”

“Probably only a handful,” Shan admitted. “Maybe just one or two.”

Meng set the pace now, back toward the prayer wheel. “He kills Lung, leaves the body to collect later and goes to the abbess. Just a terrible accident for Rutger to be there.”

“No. Rutger knew. The abbess invited him. Jamyang told Lung and the abbess because he needed both. The abbess would guarantee the monk would arrive, because no one turns down an abbess. And once there, Lung would exact his revenge. But Jamyang didn’t gauge the depth of the abbess’s anger. She had her own weapon in mind. She had become a believer in what the foreigners were doing, had grasped how painful it would be for the government’s covert plan to be exposed publicly. So she invited Rutger and his camera. Rutger would not have appreciated the risk. A photographer tends to think of his camera as a shield.

“The abbess and Rutger were together. Rutger was probably taking photos of her as she restored the wheel. The killer walked right up to them, immobilized Rutger with a quick shot, then shot the abbess an instant later. When he saw Rutger was not dead he dragged him to the chorten and finished him with the hook then took off his face so he could not be identified.”

“And the girl was here the whole time,” Meng ventured.

Shan nodded. “Always near Rutger. She was sketching the interior of one of the chapels in the back. She appeared in time to see the killer finishing his work.”

As they continued walking they fell into a heavy silence, as if feeling the presence of the killer.

Meng stopped and put her hand on the crumbling stucco of a chapel. “They say these old ruins are filled with ghosts,” she said quietly.

Shan hesitated, then realized they were standing exactly where they had first met. “People lived here for centuries,” he said, remembering his reply. “Lived and died.”

“It wouldn’t have been such a bad life,” Meng said after a moment, an odd longing in her voice. “Like a big reverent family. I had uncles who always went to the temple,” she added after a moment.

He said nothing.

“I’ve been thinking, Shan,” she said abruptly with an awkward glance. “I could get a job as a constable. Lower pay but I would stay in the county. No reassignments a thousand miles away.”

He knew how difficult it was for her to have said the words. It had been why she had brought him here. He offered a small, tight smile. “There’s still a murderer to catch.”

He wasn’t sure if Meng had heard. With a finger she traced the dim shape of the eye painted beside the door. “I remember being told by a teacher once about how the eye of the Chairman was always on us. But we knew he was dead. It scared us. This was different, I think.”

“This is different,” he replied.

When she looked up, her expression had become somber. “Is that why I feel we need to be outside if we’re going to talk more about killers?”

Shan stared at her, confused, as she stepped away. Then he realized she meant outside the convent, outside the sacred ground.

Five minutes later she unfolded a map on the hood of her car.

“The mystery of the murders is really just the mystery of Jamyang,” she said. “I have been thinking about that, about how he got here. He was seen on the Lhasa highway. He was going to Drepung, by Lhasa. Hundreds of monks. Thousands of tourists. A likely place for a graduate of the Peace Institute. But after he saw his aunt he hated himself, hated what he had been turned into.”

She ran her fingers along the map to the east and north. “Maybe he was trying to find a way to go home, back to the mountains of his youth. To do penance.”

“He was doing his penance here,” Shan suggested.

“A route home would take him through Lhadrung. There are buses that run to Baiyun once a week. He could have ridden there and started walking.”

Shan bent over the map beside her. “He couldn’t risk being stopped by police. The constant convoys and patrols would have driven him up into the hills,” he added. It was the likely explanation for Jamyang’s arrival on the upper slopes. “He was broken. He just wanted a place to crawl into and hide, where he could begin to heal, to construct a new life, the one his uncle had intended for him. He would never have known about another Institute graduate being assigned to a mission in the valley.”

“Of course not. Every assignment would be secret, the agents unknown to one another. But we don’t know for certain there was another agent here.”

She was trying so hard not to understand. He gazed at her a moment, then pointed to the map. “And what direction did Liang come from?” he asked.

“I’m sorry?”

“It’s always the most obvious things that are overlooked in an investigation. You need to find out when Liang arrived at your district headquarters.”

“Right after the murders were reported of course.”

“No, Meng. He was at the murder scene with the first party of police to arrive. You and I saw him. He was already in the district. His role as some larger-than-life investigator is a cover.”

“Nonsense. Liang is just the son of a bitch thug he appears to be.”

“Check it. You’re going to find he arrived a day or two after Jamyang used a computer in Baiyun to access the Institute’s database. It would have been a week before the murders.”

Meng went very still.

“He only cares about the murders because his agent is connected to them, and they set into motion events that could threaten that agent’s mission. What sent him running to this valley was that threat, not the murders. He’s not interested in finding a killer, he is interested in finding the American woman, he’s interested in me, and anyone interfering with the mission. You said it yourself. These agents can take years to prepare. The investment in such an agent is huge. Nothing can be allowed to interfere. Liang is a handler, a field troubleshooter for the Institute. No doubt he was once a special investigator for the Bureau. But like he told us, he was promoted. He knew how to go through the motions, knew he had to react when the bodies were stolen. It was perfect pretense for him because he also had to make sure no one else investigated thoroughly.

“You were the only knob truly probing the murders. He gave you free rein. He used you because he never thought you were capable of finding the truth. You became part of his cover. What he does is the opposite of an investigation. He knew who the killer was from the beginning. He knew the evidence, and set about to erase or obscure it. He never had tests done on that bullet, he just wanted to be sure no one else did. He wanted you to believe he was seeking the American because she might be a witness but he wanted to find her so he could kill her. From the moment he arrived everything he has done has been to protect the killer.”

Meng staggered backward as if she had been physically struck. She lowered herself onto a flat boulder. “Impossible,” she said. “I would have—”

“Would have seen it? Been told? Avoided helping him? It’s what he does, Meng, what they do. Manipulate people like you and me. Cover up. Enlist you to build the lies.”

The color was slowly draining from Meng’s face. “I don’t believe you, Shan. You mistrust everything. You mistrust yourself. I understand you had a terrible experience. It was all so unjust. But you see poison everywhere now. I tried to give you a gift and you hated me for it. Like I had something to do with what happens to these poor Tibetans.”

He returned her stare without speaking. When she broke away, tears were in her eyes.

“Check the records,” he said. “Speak to people at headquarters. The arrival of Major Liang would not have been missed. There’s no doubt a house for government visitors. They would keep records of who stays overnight. If you can’t find the records talk to the housekeepers.”

She turned away from him. He waited several minutes, then began walking down the road.

He had gone nearly a mile when he heard the wheels on the gravel behind him. The truck eased by and stopped.

She began shouting before her feet hit the ground. “You think I am just another damned puppet! You think I don’t care about anything!” As she pulled her uniform cap from her head hairpins went flying, so that her long tresses whipped about in the wind. She shook the cap at him. “I am tired of your damned self-righteousness! You think no one can see the truth unless they’ve suffered for it!” She threw her cap on the ground and stomped it into the dust.

Her words came out in sobs now “I am no puppet, Shan Tao Yun! I hate the way Tibetans look at me! I am no animal! I am real! I am—” Tears were streaming down her face. “I just want…” Her words broke into sobs.

He laid a finger along his lips, then put his arms around her. She clung to him as if she were drowning. From somewhere in the hills behind them came the deep-throated call of a prayer horn.

*   *   *

Dawn was seeping over the mountains as Shan crept cautiously along the path behind the gompa. When he had taken Dakpo back to Chegar the monk had asked to be left with Patrul, saying he did not wish to disturb the gompa at such a late hour. Only later he realized it was more likely that Dakpo feared going back into the monastery. He could not shake the feeling that he owed the monk more, and could not forget he had only two days until the full moon.

The former abbot was sitting before his simple altar in the big barn when Shan approached. Shan was standing ten feet away when the blind man raised a hand over his shoulder and gestured for him to come forward and sit.

“It was good what you did for Dakpo,” Patrul said. “You have a habit of rescuing creatures in distress.”

“With Dakpo, Rinpoche, I am not sure if I rescued him or pulled him deeper into the mud.”

“He is young but he has learned enough to know there is no purity without impurity.”

“I would like to find a way to speak with him. Did he find his way back to the gompa?”

The old teacher shook his head. “He fears what he would do to it.”

Shan turned for a moment to look at the storerooms along the corridor of the long barn, then weighed Patrul’s words. “What he might do to it?”

“I think you understand how the truth is the most painful weapon of all. The truth you armed him with would devastate the monks.”

Shan gazed up at the Buddha on the makeshift altar. He was the blind man here. He knew how much the monks of the struggling gompa revered their abbot. Norbu was their hero, their savior. Norbu had resurrected Patrul out of the oblivion of the gulag. To tell them the truth would be telling them they had been used, that they were a sham, that they were puppets of Public Security.

When he turned back to Patrul the big shaggy mastiff was by the old lama, gazing at Shan. “You were serving ten strings, Rinpoche,” Shan said after a long silence. “No one gets early release when they’ve opposed loyalty oaths. Trinle said it was because you went blind.”

Patrul offered a sad grin. “He’s a good boy. Always looks for the best answer, if not the true one. He forgets I was nearly blind when they arrested me.”

“Bringing back the silver bell to Chegar would have made Norbu welcome but arranging for you to be at his side made him a hero.”

“They called it a humanitarian release,” Patrul said with a bitter laugh. There was pain in the teacher’s voice. He had already realized that he too had been a puppet.

“But still you are here,” Shan replied. “Perhaps there was the hand of a deity in this.”

“No matter what happens my Chegar suffers.”

“I don’t think so. You are its protector. You have always been its protector. No matter what happens there will be no abbot from Beijing here for many months, probably a year or more.”

“A gompa needs an abbot.”

“They have one, the best they ever could hope for. In a way he never left.”

“I am old and blind.”

“You are wise and shrewd. If Tibet can have a shadow government, then surely Chegar can have a shadow abbot.”

“Lha gyal lo.” The words came in a whisper from the shadows.

Shan lifted a butter lamp and stepped to the storage room behind them, the door to which was open. Dakpo sat propped up on a bed of straw. He bent over the monk, feeling his forehead, then his pulse.

“I am well enough, Shan,” the monk said bravely. “A few cracked ribs are worth the cure you have given us. But I worry,” he added. “Trinle came last night to say Norbu has the monks stirred up, talking about their duty to the Dalai Lama. I can’t confront him. I am not sure I would be believed. And now the full moon comes. The tentacles will reach across to Dharamsala. I can’t.…” The monk’s voice faded away.

“I understand, Dakpo. It is nearly over. You need to continue being his student so he does not suspect. Nothing has changed.”

“Everything has changed.”

Shan grinned. “Exactly.”

Suddenly the calm of the dawn was disturbed by the ringing of a bell. It was not a call to worship. Shan stepped to the shadows of the entry to see monks emerging into the courtyard of the gompa, trotting toward the row of bicycles along one wall. He called out a hurried farewell to Patrul and Dakpo, then ran out the back of the barn.

Minutes later he was standing in the back of his truck, watching the monks through his binoculars. They made a thin line of maroon along the flat road, an arrow aimed down the valley. Shan followed the path of the arrow, trying to understand its target. It could be the convent ruins. It could be Baiyun. It could be some pilgrim’s path selected for clearing.

By the time he drove back onto the main road he saw that others were traveling toward the center of the valley. Figures on bicycles, on tractors and donkeys, were converging not on the ruins or the town but on a crossroads that marked the intersection of the main road with a dirt track that led to farms in the hills. He sped up as he reached the pavement, soon passing the monks, noting several familiar faces, including Norbu near the front.

A small crowd was already at the intersection as Shan coasted to a stop in front of a newly erected mileage sign. His heart sank as he read it. The sign was only in Chinese. A farmer was standing on the seat of his tractor haranguing the assembled Tibetans about how he didn’t live on a Chinese road, he lived on a Tibetan road.

“Just because you call a leopard a mule doesn’t make him one!” a man brandishing a scythe shouted.

More vehicles arrived, mostly bicycles and tractors, some pulling wagons with families. A cargo truck approached, blaring its horn at the crowd that blocked its passage. An aged tractor pulling a cart with goats and several more farmers arrived. Shan opened the door of his truck, well aware of the angry stares aimed at him.

The first monks who appeared were younger ones, who began to fuel the anger with calls for Tibetans to remember what it meant to be Tibetan. Sirens rose in the distance. One of the figures with the goats emerged and Shan looked in alarm at the man.

“Yuan!” he called out. The professor and his daughter with three other Baiyun exiles were threading their way through the crowd.

“You should go,” Shan said. “These people are furious.”

“I promised the goats a trip in the country,” Yuan said with a spark in his eyes. Shan looked back at the tractor, the beat-up old community vehicle kept in the Baiyun market ground, then saw the defiant glint in Yuan’s eyes. They were more than five miles from the town. The professor had not come in reaction to the disturbance, he had set out before it had started. “You knew about this?”

“Jigten drove past the police crew that was installing this last night. Each one that’s been installed in the past three months has brought a demonstration by Tibetans. The valley doesn’t need more disturbances.”

“Police crew? Not a road crew. Are you sure he said that?”

Yuan offered a pointed nod as Norbu mounted one of the wagons.

“We must not give them cause to make more arrests,” the abbot implored the Tibetans. The police cars were visible now, an Armed Police troop truck led by two grey vehicles. The driver of the cargo truck, now stopped, got out and stood on the hood. It was one of Lung’s men.

While the attention of the Tibetans was fixed on Norbu, Yuan moved through the throng, his daughter close behind, holding a small pail. The professor extracted a brush from his jacket, dipped it in the pail and began writing with yellow paint on the blank back of the sign, carefully consulting a piece of paper held up by his daughter. The letters were in Tibetan and though his hand was unsteady the letters were legible.

Shan gasped. A Tibetan boy gave a startled laugh. At the end of the word Yuan painted an arrow, pointing south.

As Norbu climbed down he called on the Tibetans to rally behind him, so he could be their shield against the police, now climbing out of their vehicles. But another Tibetan, and another, stepped behind the sign to look at Yuan’s handiwork. Each gazed for a moment then laughed. “Lha gyal lo,” a woman called, smiling at Yuan. Shan’s alarm changed to fear as a bullhorn crackled.

“Unless you have a permit to assemble,” came Liang’s voice, “you are committing a crime. Disperse now or you will be arrested.” Shan studied the major, and the uneasy way the police looked at him. There was no official reason the special officer from outside the district should be supervising what for them was a routine security detail.

Norbu’s voice at first rang out clearly. “We are but farmers going about our business,” he called back. “The police have nothing to fear from us. We seek only your respect as the original inhabitants of this valley.”

A woman beside Shan groaned. “No, he mustn’t,” she cried. “Not our blessed abbot. We can’t let them throw another abbot in prison.”

Norbu spoke again but the growing murmur of the Tibetans who hurried to look at the back of the sign swelled over the abbot’s words. Yuan stepped back so all could see his work.

Dharamsala, he had written by the arrow, first in Tibetan then in Chinese. He had pointed the way to the capital of the free Tibetans in India.

An old Tibetan woman grabbed Yuan as he tried to go to Shan and embraced him. Shan could not hear Liang’s words but the anger in his tone was unmistakable. Four policemen with truncheons left the major’s side. A Tibetan farmer grabbed Sansan and pulled her into the crowd. The Tibetans were in trouble enough, but if Liang grasped what had happened his venom would be directed at the exiles.

Shan eased back into his truck. He turned on the ignition and pressed the accelerator so that the old engine sputtered loudly, then he fumbled with the shifter and clutch, noisily grinding the gears. Those around the truck cleared away. Liang roared out angry orders. Truncheons were being raised. Shan caught Norbu’s gaze and held it with cool intensity. Then he shoved the truck into gear and shot forward.

The sign exploded as he hit it, sending splinters into the air. The post was thick and well set. It bent his bumper and knocked the radiator ajar before snapping. He climbed out, staring in mock confusion at the steam rising from his damaged truck, casting furtive glances to confirm that the Tibetans, now satisfied, were leaving.

Norbu studied Shan a moment uncertainly, then trotted to his side. “We pray you were not hurt, Comrade,” the abbot offered loudly, then turned to the police. “Once again the gods have intervened for Tibetans,” he called out defiantly.

Liang’s eyes stabbed at Shan. After Tan’s intervention he knew he could not arrest Shan, not with so many witnesses, not for what could be characterized as an accident. He raised his bullhorn to his lips, turning to point at Norbu.

“Chegar monastery is behind this!” the major shouted, then in an uncertain tone he spoke again. “Those who refuse the embrace of the Motherland must suffer the consequences!” It was the sound of a seasoned actor trying to salvage a disrupted script.

*   *   *

For the first time the little café in Baiyun had a light, almost cheerful atmosphere. Tables had been carried outside into the golden afternoon sun.

Shan had looked for Professor Yuan at his house but found only his daughter working at her computer on the kitchen table. “It was a reckless thing you did this morning,” he told Sansan.

“I tried to talk him out of it. He had found a quote from Mao that he decided to embrace. ‘The only way to have a true government of the people is to engage in constant revolution.’ When Jigten came to pick up medicine and mentioned the sign, the Vermilion Society was here. My father suggested it as a joke but one of them said he knew where to find paint. They were like boys planning an adventure. They are still celebrating at the teahouse. I’ll go with you.”

To Shan’s surprise there were Tibetans sitting with the usual patrons at the little café. They cast uncertain glances about the street. One of the professors was trying to cajole the Tibetan waitress into joining him for a game of checkers. Shan found a seat at a rear table and tea was brought to him. It was a rare hour of camaraderie between Tibetan and Chinese. They had enjoyed the tiniest of victories over the government and though it would not last it was worth savoring. But for Shan the taste was sour.

He had managed to drive his crippled truck to Lung’s garage but the repairs would take more than a day. Lokesh knew enough about his unpredictable life in the valley not to worry if he did not reach their little hut that night. But tomorrow was Sunday, the first Sunday of the month. For the past week the voice inside his head had been growing louder and more insistent. Ko is waiting for you. Ko needs you. He can’t think you’ve given up on him. Nothing must prevent you from seeing your son.

For a few moments as he stared at the southern horizon he told himself he would walk. More than a few Tibetan families walked two or three days to visit loved ones in prison. But even if he walked all night he would not make it over the steep mountain roads before the visiting hours ended the next morning. He would have to sleep in the stable and write a letter, praying it would reach his son.

The cheerful banter suddenly died. He looked up. A public security car was parking on the opposite side of the road. Liang and Meng climbed out with two knob soldiers behind them.

As Shan saw the glint in Liang’s eye his gut tightened. The major had been defeated at the crossroads but now he strutted across the street with a smug, satisfied air. Liang seemed to make a show of searching the tables, then he nodded to Shan.

Shan pushed back his chair, thinking of slipping away, but Liang had anticipated him. One of the soldiers had circuited to the rear of the tables, behind Shan. Meng held back, looking at him with pain in her eyes.

“Comrade Shan!” Liang called out loudly as he reached Shan’s side. “At last we have found you! Good news! Everything about that splittist Jamyang has been confirmed! Your payment is approved!” The major reached into his tunic and extracted a stack of currency notes, bound with a rubber band. “One thousand is the going rate. A rare bargain for the body of another outlaw lama.”

Liang dropped the money on Shan’s table, offered a stiff bow, then spun about and marched back to the car.

There was no more jesting, no more talking at all. Every person at every table stared in shock at Shan, some with hatred in their eyes, others with disgust. Shan had just been publicly declared a bonecatcher.

All but one of the tables were quickly vacated. The thin grey-haired man who remained slowly rose and stepped to Shan’s side, placing a hand on his shoulder as his daughter appeared at his side. “Come with us,” Yuan said.

Shan said nothing but stood and followed the professor. His daughter picked up the money where Shan had left it, untouched.

“It is just Liang’s way,” Yuan said as he poured tea for Shan in his kitchen. “Those in Baiyun will soon realize it. They know you better.”

Shan had trouble speaking. Liang had tried, and failed, to imprison Shan. It had been parry and thrust since the two men had met. Now Liang had inflicted the crippling blow. When he finally spoke his voice was hoarse. “By this time tomorrow,” he said, “there won’t be a Tibetan in the valley who will speak with me.”