“But they had instruments.”
Marpa, eating again, nodded. “There was one of those symbols, a logo they call it, on the door of their van.” He dipped a finger in his tea and drew three inverted, interlocked V shapes. “Three mountains. Mapmakers is my guess. The government’s never really had proper maps of this area.” He paused as a look of chagrin crossed his face. “Too bad, but it was always going to happen. Once it happens in Lhasa, folks say, it’s bound to catch up with Yangkar in thirty or forty years.” He saw the query in Shan’s eyes. “Once you have good maps, civilization isn’t far behind,” he explained in a doleful voice. They were both aware of what Beijing’s notion of civilization meant for Tibetans. More roads. More boarding schools for Tibetan children who would be assigned new Chinese names. More factories and mines where Tibetan workers would be overseen by Chinese managers. More patrols by Religious Affairs, to snatch up photographs of the Dalai Lama and ensure no unauthorized monks or nuns roamed the countryside.
Marpa raised his mug of tea then paused, cocking his head upward. Ice seemed to materialize in Shan’s belly as he heard the increasingly loud thump-thump-thump from the sky. The proprietor’s expression turned grim. “They work fast,” he murmured.
CHAPTER THREE
One of Colonel Tan’s young staff officers, Lieutenant Zhu, was leaning against a boulder as Shan rode up on his bicycle. Zhu greeted him with a disappointed expression. “Your truck is broken?” he asked as he motioned Shan toward the waiting helicopter.
“My deputy may need it today. Where are we going?”
Zhu did not reply, gesturing to his ears as the engine began to whine and the long rotor turned. Even when Shan repeated the question after they had buckled in and donned their headphones, Zhu only motioned toward the southwest. Ten minutes later they began to follow the Lhasa highway.
Shan found himself watching for the Potala Palace, and as it came into view, a dark ruby against the distant snows, he found himself grinning. Despite Beijing’s relentless efforts to turn Lhasa into a Chinese city, the old Tibetan fortress still dominated the landscape, the rest of the city just a gray smudge below it. He turned away as the expanse of Western-style buildings grew more distinct and watched the outline of the Himalayas on the horizon until the helicopter banked, crossing over the Lhasa River before it began its descent.
The Lhasa Railway Station was only a few years old, built as a temple to Beijing’s ambitions. The huge stone and concrete structure was the terminus of the railway from Qinghai Province in the north, where it connected with trains to the eastern cities. As he studied the squat, heavy building, it looked not so much like a proud public work as another fortress. Construction of the railway, highest on the planet, had been one of the most controversial projects ever undertaken by Beijing. It had sliced into pristine wilderness, cut off ancient migration routes for the wildlife of the high plateau, and most importantly for its Beijing planners, provided fast, easy access into central Tibet for both Chinese immigrants and soldiers.
The parking lot outside the station looked as if it had been built as a vast staging area. Another helicopter already sat in a corner of the massive paved lot. Half a dozen police cars, some with lights flashing, were lined up by the station entrance, the kind of reception usually reserved for visiting dignitaries. At the end of the station half a dozen army trucks waited.
Zhu hurried Shan into the cavernous hall and toward a train which had been isolated at the rearmost platform by an outer cordon of police and an inner cordon of armed soldiers. Colonel Tan was standing by the sleek, green American-made locomotive, an impatient frown on his face, as a man in a business suit harangued him. A second man in an unfamiliar uniform, probably the engineer, listened nervously a step behind the stranger.
The colonel brightened as he spotted Shan and his escort. “Comrade, I commend you to the able hands of my brightest staff officer, Lieutenant Zhu,” he declared, and pulled Zhu in front of the irate man. “I have been explaining to the stationmaster,” Tan said to his lieutenant, “that his train may not leave on the return service until we give him permission. Please,” he added with a hint of amusement, “continue the dialogue, Lieutenant Zhu.” Shan saw now that a soldier with a submachine gun hanging from his shoulder blocked the entrance to the locomotive cab. Tan sobered, and unexpectedly touched his open hand to his temple. “We salute the Chairman’s wisdom,” he said. It was a slogan from one of Beijing’s newest posters and had become a warning to anyone who would challenge the government.
The stationmaster, suddenly looking worried, promptly repeated the slogan.
Tan led Shan down the platform. “You can get on this train and in two days be in Beijing,” he said. For a moment Shan wondered if he should take the words as a threat. “It shouldn’t be so easy. My first time it took me three months to get to Lhasa.”
“Battle tanks do tend to travel more slowly,” Shan observed. Tan’s first experience in Tibet, he knew, had been as commander of one of the armored brigades that had invaded Tibet. His words brought a nostalgic gleam to Tan’s countenance, and they spoke no more until they reached the line of soldiers that blocked off the last car of the train, the only car without a line of windows along its side.
“They call it the utility car,” Tan explained, “mostly used for freight and supplies for the train.”
Shan saw now the angry men, some in Public Security uniforms, some in blue police tunics, who were being kept away by Tan’s commandos. A knob officer and a police officer were having two separate, heated arguments with Tan’s deputies.
“It is possible that there are differing perspectives on jurisdiction here,” Shan suggested.
“Nonsense. The first Lhasa detective who arrived got a broken lip from one of my sergeants,” Tan said as he returned the salute of the soldier who admitted them through the line of guards. “That ended any dispute. They’re just expressing their disappointment now.”
Shan had never been on one of the trains, had only watched in chagrin with crestfallen herders as one had sped over their ancient pastures. Consistent with the boasting in countless newspaper and magazine articles, the car was the epitome of modernity, everything made of shiny metal and plastic. Tan made a point of showing Shan the two chambers for train staff, each with a narrow upper and lower berth, and the tiny washroom they shared, then entered four digits on a wall keypad and with a hiss the door to the rest of the car opened. It was sharply colder in the cargo compartment. Shan could see his breath.
Tan pointed to an electronic control panel on the wall inside the door that had been smashed. “Door controls, temperature controls, oxygen controls all inoperable from this side,” he explained.
Oxygen. Shan remembered reading how oxygen was pumped into the train compartments to ease the altitude sickness many passengers suffered, in addition to the individual oxygen access at every passenger seat. It was why advertisements for the train sometimes claimed the train was pressurized.
They passed racks of food supplies in cartons and large cans, two of which were bulging after enduring the railway’s huge changes in elevation and air pressure, then reached stacks of wooden crates marked prominently with the insignia of the People’s Liberation Army and the words “Munitions, Lhadrung Depot.”
“Most of these are special fuses for the new generation of howitzer shell,” Tan stated in a tight voice. “I keep telling them we should move them in military convoys, but some clerk always comes back with proof of the great savings to be had by rail transport. Just a way to make up some of the train’s operating losses.”
“Surely no one would try to steal your munitions,” Shan stated.
The colonel did not reply. He continued to a space where a single large crate had been packed between the higher stacks, creating a little alcove. Quilted packing pads, used to cushion cargo, had been piled in a heap on the solitary, four-foot-high crate. Tan lifted the pads and tossed them in the aisle. Shan froze, then stepped back.
“My men
were on board for the cargo as soon as the train stopped. They called me immediately.”
The dead man sitting on the crate was Chinese, in his forties. His arms were wrapped around his knees. His fingertips were dark blue, his fingers a lighter shade. His face, contorted in pain, had a distinctly bluish tint. His eyes stared out in silent anguish.
“He’s blue,” Tan observed.
“Cyanosis,” Shan said. “Pulmonary edema.”
“Meaning?”
“His body couldn’t adapt to the low oxygen at the high elevation. Fluid built up in his lungs. Although with the heat off in here he may have frozen to death before the fluid killed him. Was he an escort to your cargo?”
“No. The cargo was checked and the gate locked in Xining. Nearly twenty-four hours ago. The entry can be opened only by entering the code on that keypad.”
“Did he carry identification?” Shan asked.
“No one wanted to touch him. One of my soldiers said he had been possessed by one of those blue-faced demons you see in old Tibetan temples. No one went near after that.”
“Public Security will have procedures they will want to follow.”
“To hell with them. It’s not the first time someone has died on these trains. They will just reprint the usual press release, lamenting another accident caused by the ill health of the passenger and issue a reminder to the public to consult the doctor on board when they travel. I don’t need that. I need the truth. You’re my Special Investigator. What are your procedures?”
“There’s a doctor?”
“Every train from Xining has one.” Tan anticipated Shan’s next question and turned to the officer who was waiting down the aisle. “Find the doctor,” he called out.
Shan clenched his jaw and reached out. The dead man’s limbs would not move, though he could not be sure if it was from rigor mortis or from being frozen. If he was going to find a wallet, he would need help moving the body. He pulled back the man’s heavy sweater and explored his shirt pocket, extracting a worn identity card and two business cards.
“Sun Lunshi,” he read from the official identification, then confirmed that the same name was on the topmost business card. “From the Institute of Applied Geophysics.” He stared at the logo of three interlocked mountains on the card, exactly as Marpa had described it from the van in Yangkar.
Tan took it from his hand and cursed as he read it.
“You know them?” Shan asked as he glanced at the second card. Dakini Delights, it said, over the legend Exotic drinks, exotic dancers, exotic adventures.
“I know the Institute. They show up at every big infrastructure project.”
“Infrastructure,” Shan repeated. “Like the Five Claws project.”
Tan frowned. “Half the Institute’s people are real scientists and engineers, the other half politicos who make sure the scientists plan their projects in a manner that achieves Party goals.”
“Which was he?” Shan asked.
“No idea.”
“Four of his colleagues were in Yangkar yesterday.”
Tan’s anger was instant. For a moment Shan actually thought he was going to slap the dead man. “They’re supposed to clear travel in Lhadrung with me,” he growled. “What the hell were they doing?”
“If you recall, Colonel, I was with you, watching a Tibetan hail chaser. They apparently took fixes on nearby mountains and photographed much of the town, including my station.” Shan looked back at the crate the man sat on. It did not have the army markings. “Were they shipping something with your munitions?”
“Of course not!” Tan snapped, then cursed as Shan pointed to a label on the crate bearing the Institute’s logo. The colonel summoned another staff officer, and as the officer received his orders and stepped away, Shan stopped him with one more request.
Tan remained in front of the dead man, fixing the body with a baleful stare, as Shan explored the cargo compartment. Tan was, Shan suspected, furious that the man had not survived to receive the colonel’s wrath. The quilted pads yielded nothing but a few bloodstains. The stacked crates were heavy, but two near the rear door had been knocked askew. On the small window of the rear door, beyond which soldiers waited with hand trucks, Shan discovered a smear of blood, six feet from the floor.
The doctor and the conductor both looked like they would try to flee at any moment were it not for the two fierce-looking soldiers who herded them toward Tan. The uniformed conductor was angry, and the tall, thin doctor clearly frightened.
“You have no authority over the railway company!” the conductor growled as he approached. “Our schedules are set by Beijing! They may not be disrupted! Our sky train is a national treasure! The stationmaster is calling a general in Lhasa this very minute!”
Tan smiled and stepped aside, revealing the frozen corpse. The conductor gasped and staggered backward, colliding with the crates behind him. The doctor clutched his belly, ran to the rear door and opened it in enough time so that most of the contents of his stomach made it on the tracks outside. The waiting soldiers erupted with laughter.
“Do you recognize him?” Tan asked the conductor. “A passenger? Or perhaps a stowaway?”
“Look at him!” the conductor sputtered. “How could I—” his words choked away.
“Imagine him less blue,” Tan suggested.
“Sun Lunshi,” Shan offered. “His name was Sun Lunshi. Search your manifest.”
The conductor still stared, so transfixed that Shan was not sure he had heard. Then he extracted an electronic device from his tunic pocket.
The doctor summoned enough courage to bend over the dead man, muttering under his breath. “I can’t be responsible for someone who hides!” he protested. He looked up at the colonel. “You must make it clear this one did not seek any assistance!” The physician was clearly not as concerned about the death as he was about his own reputation.
“How many deaths have you had on board the trains?” Shan asked.
The doctor shrugged. “Several each year. They usually just stop breathing in their seats. Older people mostly, out for a little adventure in Tibet. They don’t bother to read our literature that points out that Beijing has an elevation of one hundred forty feet and the train takes them to sixteen thousand feet. We very clearly recommend in our brochures that they spend two or three days acclimatizing in Xining but almost no one does.” He lifted one of the man’s hands, which seemed to be thawing. “Look at the cyanosis!” He grew more eager. “Can I take photographs?”
“When the army is done,” Shan said.
“Coach B, Seat 21A,” the conductor announced behind Shan. “One-way ticket.”
The doctor bent to examine the dead man’s eyes. “One-way is right,” he murmured.
“So he was a paying passenger,” Shan said, glancing at Tan. “One of the lieutenants will go with you to collect any luggage and belongings at his seat.” Tan nodded his approval.
“Of course,” the conductor said, with obvious relief. By now it was not clear if he was more uncomfortable with the dead man or with the colonel.
Shan turned to the doctor. “It was pulmonary edema then?”
“Yes, of course. Look at the fingers.” He pointed to the mouth, where a pink crust was melting. “Look at the color of that sputum. A textbook case.”
“Which makes it natural causes,” Tan said to the doctor, though he was pointedly looking at Shan, warning him not to argue.
“Yes, yes. The autopsy will find his lungs full of fluid.”
“Thank you, Doctor. You may share your conclusion with the detectives waiting outside so they understand no crime was committed. The body may be removed as soon as we clear out my cargo.”
“They will want to see the scene just as he was discovered,” the doctor said.
Tan gestured toward the crates that bore the insignia of the People’s Liberation Army, then leaned toward the doctor and lowered his voice. “National security, comrade,” he stated. “National security.” The doctor’s e
yes went round, and he vigorously nodded. “When Public Security asks, it was natural causes, an accident.”
“His employer had cargo here,” Shan inserted, pointing to the large crate. “He came to check on it. He didn’t recognize the onset of his altitude sickness. He became dizzy and fell against the control panel after the door behind him closed. Unfortunately, there was no way for him to get out, no way for him to alert someone to save him. He couldn’t go out the rear door with the train speeding through the mountains. He sat and piled blankets around him, thinking he would just ride that way to Lhasa. But to be complete, you will have the usual tests done and report back to Colonel Tan with the results.”
The doctor began backing away. He looked frightened again. “Of course,” he agreed. “Very straightforward.”
“Excellent,” Tan observed to Shan as the doctor hurried down the corridor. “The simplest stories are always the best.”
“Just so long as you don’t confuse it with the truth. Two people were in here. They fought, probably just with their hands. Crates were pushed about. Someone hit the back window, probably with his head, leaving a smear of blood. It wasn’t Sun. His head shows no such mark, and he wasn’t tall enough to leave a smear so high on the window.”
“Another passenger, you mean.”
“The train is essentially sealed. It’s like a spaceship for the last twelve hundred miles. Yes, another passenger, though I have no idea how the second man escaped with the inner door jammed and the train racing through the night.”
“The other passengers are all gone.”
“Your cargo is intact. It’s the Institute’s loss, not yours. Do you really want to push harder?”
“The Institute invaded my county, and my military transport. Now they’re probing your town. Yes, I want the truth.”
“Then I want to know exactly why Metok Rentzig was executed and who prosecuted his case.”
* * *
Bones of the Earth Page 4
