“Killing the censor,” Shan said.
“Yes. The emperor stepped out of the shadows and bowed to Yuan Yi. The gate through which mandarins left after receiving honors from the emperor was thrust open and the emperor escorted him to it. Politics prevented him from arresting the governor but honor prevented him from killing a man for speaking the truth. As Yuan Yi reached the arch he pulled off his badge and handed it to the emperor. Kangxi bowed to him and handed it back. Then Yuan Yi stepped through the gate and fled the capital. He found his way back to Manchuria and formed a group of men who began raiding the caravans carrying the governor’s riches. He spread the riches all over the province, to needy families, to temples, to schools. He was an outlaw the rest of his life, but the emperor would never sign the warrants for arrest sent by the governor. For the rest of his years he lived the life of the bandit, helping those who suffered at the hands of the corrupt.”
“The years have a way of embellishing stories, Professor.”
Yuan only smiled, then gripped the towel and ripped it apart. There had been two towels, sewn together.
Shan’s heart stopped beating for a moment when he recognized what was inside. It was impossible.
Yuan held up the secret treasure, a square of silk worked with exquisite embroidery. For hundreds of years, spanning multiple dynasties, there had been nine ranks of official mandarins, each with its own badge of office worn as a square of cloth over dark blue ceremonial robes. The peacock at the center of Yuan’s silk was the emblem of the esteemed third rank. Arranged around the bird were the clouds, peonies, and bats that traditionally brought good fortune to the wearer. Yuan was holding the badge of office his ancestor had worn nearly three centuries earlier, the badge touched by an emperor.
“A lesser man would have burned this after what the emperor did,” the professor declared. “But Yuan Yi kept it as a token of honor. He said his duty was to the people, that he kept the badge for all those who served the truth no matter what the government said. My family preserved a letter from him, for over two centuries, until the Red Guard burned it. My father used to read it to me. Yuan Yi wrote it as an old man to a grandson. In it he said the most important thing he had ever done was step through that arch, the Mandarin Gate, that the most good he ever did for the people was in leaving the government behind.”
Shan’s hand trembled as Yuan handed the silk badge to him. “My father would have been speechless to behold such a thing,” he said. “As I nearly am.” With a racing heart he held the badge closer, examining its intricate artistry, seeing also now butterflies and a sun, and a dark blotch that could have been a very old bloodstain.
“My grandfather would hold this and describe the processions of the court officials before the emperor,” Yuan explained. “I could close my eyes and hear the drums and smell the incense.” He held up his hand when Shan extended it back to him. “For now this is yours. I loan it to you, until the crisis in the valley is resolved.” He cast a pointed gaze at Shan. “It will not be resolved, my friend, except by you.” He extended his open hand downwards, toward the earth. “I say this with the mountain as my witness.” The professor was learning something of the Tibetan ways.
Shan had no words. “I am just the ditch inspector,” he said at last. “A very bad one, since I have neglected my duties for many days.”
“You are the one who keeps clear water flowing. Clear water keeps us alive.”
“I am the one who is arrested and beaten and tortured. I cannot be trusted with this. Liang would burn it, just to spite me. You think I can walk through that gate but I can’t.”
“You must understand something,” Yuan said in the voice of an old lama. “It isn’t valuable because it is so old. It is valuable because of all the risks taken for it, and with it, for so very many years. There are still censors that keep the government in check. We need them more than ever. I think, my friend, you stepped through that gate on the day Jamyang died.” Yuan handed the pieces of towel to Shan. “There is so little I can do. Let me at least do this. One of my great-uncles kept it on him in the last war. He said it made him bulletproof.”
“You think too much of me, Yuan. I can’t even understand who Jamyang was.”
The professor extended a piece of paper to Shan. “Sansan found this. The symbol on Jamyang’s paper. A hammer and a chorten.”
Shan studied what looked like a printout of a website page, with the hammer and chorten featured prominently at the top. He looked up in confusion. “The Chinese Tibetan Peace Institute?”
“In Chamdo. On the grounds of an old monastery.”
Shan shrugged. “He was trying to build bridges between people. The Bureau of Religious Affairs has many such places.”
“You misunderstand. Sansan dug deeper. There is no connection to Religious Affairs. The institute is an arm of Public Security.”
* * *
Lung Tso and Jigten were waiting with his truck at the stable when Shan arrived.
“That last date on the paper Jamyang gave your brother is the night of the full moon,” Shan stated.
“What of it?”
“You spoke about a young monk you dealt with at the monastery,” Shan said. “Dakpo. He ran away three days ago but he has to be back for the full moon, because that is when you have a truck taking a cargo for India. I think he is party to your secret business with Chegar. Where did you take him?”
“Ah yi,” Lung muttered. “You never stop.”
“Not until the killer is caught, no.”
“Damn it, Shan. My world is based on secrets.”
“So is the killer’s. Where is he?”
Lung glanced at Jigten, who waited by the truck. “Fine,” he spat. “Chamdo. He knew we run to Chamdo twice a week, to the warehouses where shipments arrive from the east. He was desperate to go, said he would help with the loading of the truck if need be. He borrowed some work clothes and rode in the back.”
Shan had somehow known. He pressed the badge of Yuan Yi, sewn back into its towels and tucked inside his shirt. “Then I am desperate too. When is your next truck to Chamdo?”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
They were twenty miles up the highway when Jigten flipped his cigarette out the window and cursed. “They’re following us. I slow down, they slow down. I speed up, they speed up.”
Shan leaned to look out the side mirror and his heart sank. The grey Public Security vehicle was the only car on the empty road but it was hugging the rear of their big cargo truck. “Pull over,” he told Jigten.
“To hell I will. We’re going to Chamdo,” the shepherd spat with unexpected vehemence. Genghis had been scheduled to make the run to the remote city but at the last minute had been seized with terrible stomach pains. Jigten, lingering in the garage, had readily volunteered to replace him.
“I admire your spirit but I doubt they are here for you.”
Jigten frowned but began to downshift. The truck eased to a halt with a hiss of air brakes. As Shan opened his door to confront his tail, the top of his head felt as it were burning again.
But there was no team sent to retrieve him for Liang. A solitary figure in a rumpled uniform climbed out of the car.
“Lieutenant Meng, we left your district miles ago,” Shan declared.
“I recall that your registration papers don’t allow you out of the county,” she replied.
“We have already established my scofflaw tendencies. But what’s your excuse?”
Something like defiance burned in her eyes. “Three people were murdered in my district. One of the men assigned to Liang says the bullet we took from the murder scene is just sitting on his desk. You were right. He never sent it to the lab. And yesterday there was a general notice, an alert for all Tibetan offices, about an official German delegation arriving in Lhasa to recover the body of a victim in a climbing accident three hundred miles from here. They took Rutger and dropped him off a cliff. The only one who is doing anything about solving those murders is you.”