Huan stared at her in confusion.
Meng gave him a smart, but amused, salute. “Lieutenant Meng, down from the north. On the biannual law enforcement audit, at least when my good-for-nothing driver decides to work. Do you happen to have a driver, Lieutenant?” she asked Huan. “Can we switch? My report goes straight to Beijing,” she added in a self-important tone. Without waiting for a reply, she turned to Lokesh. “Look at you!” she barked. “Who knows how you ever landed a government job!” She draped the jacket, an old uniform coat of Shan’s, over his shoulders, then turned to Huan. “Carry on, Lieutenant.”
Huan hesitated, as if trying to decide to challenge Meng, then she turned toward Shan. “What a disgrace this town is, Constable!” she shouted. “You should be ashamed! You’ll be hearing from Beijing!”
Another lightless smile crossed Huan’s lips, and he turned back to his men. “Carry on,” he repeated.
The knobs were still questioning the detained men when Meng’s car emerged from behind the station and drove out of town. Meng had to go to Lhasa, she had said, but he knew first she would deliver Lokesh back to the farmhouse. He watched the car disappear, wondering again why Meng was so abruptly trying to be engaged in his life, but immensely grateful that she had chosen to do so that morning. He went around the station, into the quarters at the rear, half expecting to see the young girl Kami and Meng’s companion, but they too had gone, and he realized Meng may have taken them. He absently picked up the child’s clothing, strewn on the floor, and laid it on the bed. He paused, looking at the strange, tiny clothes. Children were not of his world, had never been of his world—not even his son, Ko, who had been raised by Shan’s long-divorced wife.
On the bedstand there was a book with several markers in it, titled Comrades of Tibet. It was an overview of the customs and historical culture of Tibetans, published more than twenty years before during one of Beijing’s short-lived liberalizing periods, when discussion of separate indigenous cultures had been more palatable. Inside the front and back covers, Meng had made notes about Tibetan food, weather, traditional clothing, and festivals. The marked pages described features of Tibetan temples, dakini goddesses, the Bardo death ritual, and traditional sky burial, when mortal remains were surrendered to vultures to be returned to the cycle of life.
Shan was deep in thought as he climbed the back step of the station, deeply worried about what to do with Lokesh, whose advancing frailty might make it impossible for him to return to his outpost deep in the mountains. He walked past the cells and opened the door, then paused for a moment as he saw Choden, transfixed with fear.
Lieutenant Huan sat at Shan’s desk, his boots on the paperwork. “Constable!” he greeted Shan. “At last I get to see you in your lair!” Huan gave an exaggerated wince. “Truly a dismal nest for such an overreaching bird, though I see now why you grope for greater heights.” He paused, studying with obvious disapproval the faded posters on the walls, the cracked tea mugs and peeling paint on the ceiling, then continued in his sneering tone. “Wasn’t there a fable about a crow who flew too close to the sun and burst into flame?”
Shan gestured Choden toward the door. “Time for a patrol, Deputy.” Choden backed away, groping for the doorknob behind his back, then quickly turned and darted out onto the street.
Huan laughed as he watched Choden nervously pass the knobs who stood in front of the station and run across to the square, where some of the released men sat on benches, being comforted by family members. Two of the knob cars were gone. The remaining knobs had gathered in front of the station, obviously awaiting orders.
“What a pathetic place this Buzhou is,” Huan said.
“Yangkar. The county government allows us to call it by the old name.”
Huan’s eyes widened. “Sounds reactionary,” he said in a mocking tone.
“What do you want, Lieutenant?”
“Just to show you something, comrade. My new photo collection.” Huan began laying out grainy photographs taken with one of the instant cameras all knob squads carried for recording arrests. The images were all of individual Tibetans, men and women of various ages in the clothing of farmers and herders. “Seventeen in my gallery so far. Maybe I’ll make a poster. ‘The Faces of Antisocialism.’” He fixed Shan with a pointed expression, then swirled his hand in the air, mimicking the act of signature, then made a backward motion like swatting a fly. A cold lump grew in Shan’s chest as he realized what Huan meant.
The knob officer lifted a photo of a middle-aged Tibetan in a sheepskin vest. “This fool said, ‘What about my wife?’ when we snatched him. I said we will arrest her too. Then he said, ‘There’ll be no one to care for my mule.’ ‘No problem,’ I said and shot the mule in the head,” Huan reported with an oily laugh. “A good officer addresses the little details like that. Did you a favor. Can’t have an unclaimed mule wandering through your township.”
Shan, suddenly feeling unsteady, lowered himself into the chair in front of the desk. “You detained them all.”
“I launched them all into a more productive life. Next year they can graduate and join the proletariat. Meanwhile they have free meals for a year.”
“Where?”
“Camp New Awakening.”
“Where from?”
“We drove five miles along Ice Ball Alley and picked up anyone we saw.”
“Why?”
“Because you need to back off. Because you have no idea of the depths you swim in. Seventeen this time. Double that next time. Hell, keep it up and I’ll detain your whole damned township. And next time my men will have orders to shoot the animals of every detainee.”
“You have no authority in Lhadrung.”
“From Colonel Tan? I don’t need to consult that old dinosaur. His signature is obsolete. Your authority is obsolete. Five Claws is under national jurisdiction. If Tan tries to interfere, he will get a very unpleasant call from Beijing. He’ll end his days in one of those pathetic homes for cast-off soldiers.”
“Those people were miles from the dam site.”
“Indigenous people have been seen secretly observing the construction. There have been disturbing incidents that might be interpreted as disloyal, even sabotage. Religious Affairs has long suspected illegal anti-cultural activity in the area.”
“Anti-cultural?”
“From a new policy directive: ‘conduct of unauthorized indigenous cultural activity.’”
“They call it praying.”
“Praying! Exactly! The term reeks of reactionary conspiracy. Just a bunch of annoying whispers, as far as I can tell.” Huan raised a chastising finger and wagged it at Shan. “You let them leave one of those statues of their bald-headed god on your square. Have you heard of the marvelous discovery made by Religious Affairs recently? The bald-headed god is really a symbol of the Dalai Lama!”
“More like the other way around,” Shan said, looking down at the photos. Huan seemed not to hear him.
“So a statue of that old god is really a statue of the Dalai Lama. Such is the insidious personality cult that inflicts grave damage on our effort to transform the Tibetan people.” Shan cocked his head at Huan. The knob officer shrugged. “I attended a Religious Affairs seminar last month. Personality cults are like poison injected into the heart of our socialist paradigm. It was written right on the chalkboard. You are empowering the Tibetans’ personality cult.”
“We have a bust of the Great Helmsman at the other end of the square,” Shan observed. “And how surprising for you to invoke Religious Affairs. They probably need you in Lhasa. I hear they suffered a terrible arson fire last night.”
The words caused Huan to falter, but only for a moment. A cool gleam soon returned to his eyes. “Steady, Constable. I’m not sure there is a lower posting in law enforcement to which you could be demoted to, but Lhadrung is probably always in need of more garbage haulers.”
“And janitors,” Shan added.
Huan grinned again, then stood. “Stay away from F
ive Claws, Constable. Stay away from anyone working on the dam. Stay away from janitors and old men carrying secret messages. You’re a bug that someone might step on. Go find a distant corner and curl up in your shell.”
Shan returned his steady gaze. “I have one question, Lieutenant Huan. Do you know where Fujian Province is? Thousands of miles from here. Yet somehow you got the provincial governor’s signature on Metok’s death warrant during a week when he was at a Party conference in Fujian Province. Not to mention the seal of the Commissar.”
Huan smiled, seeming to welcome Shan’s defiance, then slowly, silently, gathered up the photos, one by one. “One thing about this empty countryside, miles and miles of open road with no witnesses. Little bugs must get squashed all the time.”
The knob picked up the blue windbreaker he had dropped on Choden’s desk and donned it before stepping outside. “Set your goals to match your abilities, Constable,” he said as he opened the door. “Like picking up the litter in your town square.”
As Huan bent to enter his car an unshelled walnut slammed into the fender beside him, accompanied by a peal of high-pitched laughter. Shan spun about to discover Kami, standing in the alley by the station with another walnut in her hand. Huan instantly straightened, hand on his gun, then laughed as he saw who had thrown the projectile. With a desperate cry, the girl’s caretaker darted out of the shadows and dragged her down the alley. Huan made the shape of a gun with his hand and fired imaginary shots in Kami’s direction before climbing into his car.
Shan watched as Huan and his men drove away, realizing he had asked Huan the wrong question. On the windbreaker had been the same embroidered emblem he had seen on the one the deputy director had been wearing, a red hammer over the white chorten, encircled by the words Safety in Serenity. “There’s a school for children with behavioral problems in Lhasa,” came Choden’s voice. His deputy was approaching from the square. “For those too young for incarceration. I checked, Constable. The civil authorities have the power to send a child there.”
A shriek of laughter caused them both to turn toward the square. Somehow the girl had already circled back around them and was now trying to mount one of the sheep a herdsman was guiding through town.
Choden glanced at Shan with a hopeful expression. “I left the form on your desk, Constable. Please,” he implored, then darted off to catch the girl.
Shan wandered back toward the cells, lost in thought, then saw the disheveled cot in the cell where he had spent the night. As he stripped away the bedding the sweater Meng had been wearing fell out. He lifted it and sat on the bed, staring at the sweater. She had pried open a part of his heart that he had thought forever closed. He was more confused than ever about her. He had felt an instant of revulsion when she had appeared in her Public Security uniform, but he knew she had saved Lokesh’s life. In the middle of the night she had clung to Shan as if she had glimpsed something that terrified her, then had paraded onto the square like one more arrogant knob.
He stared out at the square, empty except for half a dozen Tibetans praying at the chorten, thinking of the disaster that had been narrowly avoided and the disasters likely to come. Maybe Meng was still at the farmhouse, he realized, and grabbed his keys.
Her car was gone when he reached the farm, but he tossed his uniform tunic onto the seat and walked up the ragged lane. Lokesh was in the back room again, chanting the death rite. Lhamo was standing in the doorway, holding a bowl of barley porridge.
“He won’t eat,” the old woman groused.
Shan took the bowl from her and stepped inside. He sat beside Lokesh, the bowl between them, and joined in the rite. When Lokesh paused after a few minutes to sip from the crock of water in front of him Shan lifted the bowl. “You’ll like Lhamo’s porridge. She adds heather honey to it.”
Lokesh hesitated, then Shan pushed the bowl into his hands. Shan began speaking of Jampa, in the tone of a eulogy, and after a moment Lokesh nodded and began eating. Shan described how brave Jampa had been in coming to the colonel with a message from the jail. “Jampa brought you to Lhadrung,” Shan said. He motioned to the clothing on the low table, arranged in the shape of the dead man. “He would be devastated if you were lost, too. It was a close call this morning.”
Lokesh swallowed another spoonful before replying. “I am ready, Shan. Do not worry about me.”
“Ready?”
“If the choice is to die for being a failed Chinese citizen or as a true Tibetan, there is no choice at all.”
The words sent a chill down Shan’s spine. “Please, old friend. You know you can’t go back to your mountain home. I can get you to a cave in the nearby mountains. I promise to visit you two or three times a week.”
“I was ready today. I have a small card with the Dalai Lama’s photograph. On the back I wrote my name, and my job in his government. If they ask for my identity card, that is what they will get.” The old man, sensing Shan’s frustration, stared at the dead man’s effects. “Lha gyal lo,” he whispered.
“You will never know freedom again if you do.” Most of the old man’s life had already been spent in prison.
“The gods have always looked after me, whether inside or outside the razor wire.”
“I need you, old friend,” Shan said.
“You need me to be true,” Lokesh replied and took up the chant again.
Shan felt numb as he drove back to the station. He could not bear to lose the old Tibetan but he could not stay with him to protect him. He had just sat down at his desk when a dog began barking. Someone shouted in alarm. As he stood, something thunderous rushed in from the south, swooped over the station and receded toward the edge of the town.
The helicopter’s passengers were still climbing out when Shan pulled up to meet them. He was not surprised to see Colonel Tan, but had not expected Amah Jiejie, who laughed as she stumbled on the thin rail-like step and fell against Tan. The colonel patted her affectionately on the back, then straightened as he saw Shan and marched toward his truck.
Minutes later they were at the station, where Tan conducted a brief search as if for eavesdroppers, then pulled the cell room door tightly shut and gestured Amah Jiejie forward. The cell phone she produced was of surprisingly recent vintage. “Lieutenant Zhu has only my number for calling from Hong Kong,” she explained. “Seemed safer that way.”
Zhu. Shan had almost forgotten that Zhu had gone to Hong Kong.
The text message under the video said simply: For Shan and the Colonel only. The image was of a Public Security officer with a bloody lip. “So the Hong Kong knob admitted lying?” Shan asked.
“Something like that,” she said and tapped a button.
Zhu, the careful professional, had orchestrated what sounded like a video witness statement. The frightened officer confirmed that he had signed two statements related to the Metok Rentzig case. The first was a confirmation of a bank account and the second an eyewitness confirmation that he had seen Metok.
“Officer Daoli, did you in fact see the account records and the subject Metok?” Zhu asked off camera. The Public Security officer was standing in front of a brick wall. Car horns and truck engines could be heard in the background. They seemed to be in an alley.
“I complied with orders,” the forlorn officer said, his gaze dropping toward his feet. Zhu snapped his fingers and his head shot up.
“Orders?” Zhu asked.
“She showed them to me.”
“She?” Zhu was clearly surprised.
Daoli glanced up with an oddly sheepish expression then looked away toward what sounded like a busy street. “The Public Security officer who came to interview me. The orders were from a famous soldier, a legendary officer in Tibet. Colonel Tan of Lhadrung County, who runs all those prisons. I hear that in the army they call him the Tibetan Mastiff, after the dogs that rip people apart.”
“You saw the orders from Tan?” Zhu asked.
“Affirmative. Issued by Tan and signed by his adjutant Major Xun.”
Although Tan had obviously seen the video already, Amah Jiejie nervously kept her hands pressed tightly around the phone, as if she expected that Tan might smash it.
The layers of deception ran deeper than Shan had expected.
“I’ll rip Xun apart with my bare hands,” the colonel hissed.
“You can’t,” Shan said. “Inserting your name was an insurance policy. If someone ever dug into Metok’s case, they would discover evidence that you were implicated. And if one of them went missing, the others would say it was your conspiracy, which would ring true because you rank higher than them. This knob’s testimony would prove it. He wasn’t lying, he was just obediently following orders from a renowned army officer.”
“Surely you don’t suggest we sit back and do nothing?” Tan snarled.
“I’m not saying that,” Shan replied. Amah Jiejie looked at him with a frightened expression. She understood. “What I’m saying is that they all have to be taken down for something other than what they did to Metok.”
“Huan and Xun, you mean.”
“Plus Deputy Director Jiao. And I suspect there’s someone else in Lhadrung involved, someone who has authority to order military supplies. You really don’t understand, do you?” Shan asked.
“I understand lying, overambitious pricks committing murder.”
“Metok and Jampa were just nuisances for them, minor obstructions they had to swat away. They have a much larger goal.”
“Speak plainly!” Tan snapped.
“Xun now has control over all government buildings and personnel in the county. Huan is getting authority in the county through his deployment on the Five Claws. Jiao is already acting like he is the supreme government in the Five Claws region. They didn’t kill Metok because he was slowing down the dam, they killed him because he was interfering with their bigger plan. Killing the professor and his American student was little more than an afterthought. Metok was criticizing their project, and trying to bring in Religious Affairs, which they don’t control. They destroyed him, then they thought they were destroying every connection Religious Affairs had to Lhadrung and the project by burning down that building. Religious Affairs isn’t a sister agency to them, it is a competitor.”
Bones of the Earth Page 22
