“There is no reason for you to miss your engagement in Rutok, Major,” Shan suggested. “The Bureau’s perpetrator is dead. Case closed. Political discord once again ends in tragedy.” It was the parable-like ending that Beijing always coveted.
Liang’s lips curled into a thin, frigid smile. He studied Shan as if trying to decide if Shan was goading him. They both knew there was another reason the major could not leave. The Jade Crows had taken two bodies. The knobs had secretly taken away the body of the third, a foreigner, but his American companion was unaccounted for. Shan clenched his jaw so as not to betray his sudden realization. Liang could deal with the murders in any number of ways. But no matter which way he chose, the American woman still posed a direct threat.
“Of course if there were loose ends because of possible conspirators.” Shan shrugged and lowered his voice. “Then you should consider going north.”
“North?”
“Any foreigner involved in this mess would know they had to flee the county, run as fast and far as possible. Everyone would expect them to head to the nearest border, to the south. Which is why if someone like that needed to get away quickly, with minimal notice, the train would be the answer,” Shan explained. “No one would expect a foreigner to flee deeper into China. The army patrols against saboteurs, but on-board security is said to be lax. There are stories of stowaways. Or someone could bluff their way right through the gate with the right paper.”
“Paper?”
“Say a big currency note and an American passport.”
Liang leaned forward. Shan had his attention.
“Getting to the station in Lhasa would be the difficult part for a foreigner. The road to Lhasa runs the length of Lhadrung County, where Colonel Tan maintains permanent security checkpoints. The only safe answer is to wait for night to slip around the roadblocks. But that adds two or three days to the trip. So a theoretical conspirator would be arriving in Golmud,” he said, referring to the northern terminus of the railway, “tomorrow night or the night after. Theoretical,” he repeated. It was tempting bait, Shan knew. The Armed Police, not the knobs, were responsible for security on the train. If a fugitive escaped there would be another government office to blame. “Of course, if there is a foreigner involved, no doubt it’s best to let them go. If someone is here illegally, there’s no need to account for them. Good riddance, right?”
Liang inhaled deeply on his cigarette, frowned, crushed out the cigarette and left the table in a cloud of smoke. As Shan watched him leave the room, a new question occurred to him. How could Liang have known Jamyang’s name?
Shan looked up to find Meng gazing at him. She touched Liang’s file. With a single finger she lifted the top flap. The passport photo on top was weak and grainy from having been faxed and scanned multiple times, but finally Shan had a face for the phantom he sought. Her thin face had high cheekbones and a strong chin. MISSING PERSON read the caption in English. Under the photo was the name Cora Michener. The notice was from the American embassy.
* * *
The Thousand Steps that gave the name to the nuns’ hermitage were worn and cupped from centuries of use. Shan had climbed half the long stairway before pausing, breathing heavily, to study the little complex. The old buildings clung to the steep hillside as if part of the mountain. The narrow tower and slanting walls of the outermost structure hung at the edge of a cliff, evidence that the little compound had started life as a dzong, one of the hilltop forts that had once dotted the Tibetan landscape.
He had left his truck out of sight far below so as not to frighten the nuns, and as he neared the buildings he paused at each of the little shrines erected along the final flight of steps, reciting mantras in the traditional fashion.
His prayers were to no avail. The first nun who spotted him was kneeling with a bucketful of water over some sprouting plants at the edge of the courtyard. She rose in alarm, backing away, then turned and ran around the corner of the nearest building. Shan halted, resisting the urge to follow. This was a hermitage, where nuns made vows to meditate or chanted mantras for hours every day, sometimes not breaking the cycle for weeks or months. He would not be the one to disturb such reverence. Stepping to the little garden plot, he lifted the ladle in the bucket and continued watering the plants. By the time he had finished he felt unseen eyes on him. He settled in front of the little chorten in the center of the yard, legs turned under him in the lotus fashion, then extended his right hand downward in what was known as the earth-touching mudra, a traditional hand prayer that called the earth as witness. Out of the corner of his eye he saw movement on a path higher up the slope. Several nuns were hurrying away. They were fleeing because of him.
More than a quarter of an hour passed before a middle-aged woman with hair cropped close to her scalp appeared at the base of the old tower, staring at him in cool appraisal before stepping closer.
“You are the Chinese who helped Jamyang,” she declared. Her voice was not welcoming. Another woman approached, hanging back like a retainer to the nun. Shan recognized Chenmo, the young dropka who had been raised by the abbess. Three more robed figures appeared from the tower, following uncertainly.
“I was a student at the lama’s foot,” he replied. He paused, unable to hide his surprise. The three other figures were monks.
“You are the Chinese who gloated over our abbess’s mutilated body at the ruins.”
Shan’s hand folded, losing the mudra. These were not the gentle words he had hoped for. He rose and straightened his clothes. “I was but the first to mourn her. I closed her eyes.”
“You stole her gau.”
Something inside Shan sagged. Once he had always been welcomed by nuns and monks. “Public Security likes to open such amulets. They would photograph it and catalog its contents. Often they find evidence that leads to investigation of the owner’s friends and family.”
The nun glared at him. She seemed ready to shove Shan back down the steps. The oldest of the monks, a man in his late forties, stepped forward as if to intervene. His voice was more level, almost friendly. His face was strong and intelligent. “There are stories of a white-haired uncle who wanders the upper valleys like an ancient yak. They say he has a Chinese companion.” The monk wore a pale yellow belt loosely around his robe. Hanging from it was an ornate pen case, a traditional trapping of a Tibetan teacher.
Shan offered a hesitant grin. “I have learned much from that old yak.”
“I have heard those two stand in ditches covered with mud sometimes.”
“Lokesh says cleaning ditches is purifying. He says the magic of the earth gods begins with soil and water.”
The monk turned to the nun, who still studied Shan with cool disapproval. “Surely, Mother,” the monk said, “we could all join in some tea.”
The nun moved only a single hand, a gesture to Chenmo. The young novice darted toward a door where a brazier stood and disappeared inside.
“My name is Shan,” he offered.
“I am called Trisong Norbu.”
Shan looked at him in surprise. He recognized the name. “Abbot Norbu,” he acknowledged with a slight bow of his head. What was the abbot of Chegar gompa doing at the remote hermitage?
The abbot seemed to have read Shan’s mind. “You and I may have different questions but I think perhaps we seek the same answers. The valley will never find peace again until those terrible deaths are reconciled.” Norbu gestured to a group of stools in a sunlit corner of the little courtyard, overlooking a vista of jagged ridges and slopes that blushed with flowers. The nun sat silently with them, the reluctant hostess. Another nun appeared and began spinning a heavy prayer wheel mounted on the opposite wall, warily watching as if the hermitage would need protection from Shan.