For ten uneasy minutes Shan listened to the muffled clink of dishes and to footfalls passing the one doorway he had not been able to explore. For a moment he heard the dim, urgent beat of rock and roll. He paced the width of the room, studying it again, listening to the creaks of the floorboards, seeing now that although the furnishings were elegant, their construction was rougher than he had first realized. Finely trimmed boards had been fastened over crude planks. It had been built as a barracks, not a palace. But someone accustomed to palatial comforts, with palatial possessions, was living in it. He stepped to the window, fighting the urge to train the telescope on the distant installation below. It was not large enough for an infantry garrison and had none of the repetitive white ground hatches and mobile cranes that would indicate a missile base.
He became aware of Kohler standing expectantly at the far door, which now stood open. Shan stepped past him into a small, elegant dining chamber. The walls were of white plaster, and the paintings displayed on them of bamboo and snow and birds. On the table were four porcelain bowls of traditional Tibetan soup with noodles. Behind the door was a large framed work of calligraphy, one of the slogans handwritten by Chairman Mao, copies of which had once been framed and hung in every government office. STRIVE FOR THE PEOPLE, it proclaimed. It was, he suspected, also an original.
“I should wash,” Shan said.
Kohler tossed him one of the linen napkins from the table.
A youth burst through the swinging door bearing a bowl of steaming rice and vegetables. He was Chinese, perhaps twenty years of age. His long hair had a narrow blond stripe bleached along the left temple. His clothes were all black. Muffled music came from a pair of earphones hanging around his neck, connected to something small in his pocket. The boy paused, studying Shan for a moment, taking in his ragged clothes. A restrained laugh escaped his lips. He turned to Kohler, extended a finger to his brass-studded ear, and pulled the trigger of an imaginary pistol.
A moment later, the man Shan had seen doing meditation exercises entered, now wearing a neatly pressed white shirt and khaki pants. The youth stiffened, quickly removed his headphones, and disappeared into the kitchen. The man greeted Shan with a nod, his eyes showing not the contempt Shan expected but curiosity. Shan’s tattered work shirt was hard to miss, but he was looking at Shan the way Shan would examine a stranger, taking in the small scars on his hands, evidence of his years of manual labor, the freshly split fingernails that spoke of recent rock climbing, the small round nub of scar on his neck that, to the experienced eye, suggested the hospitality of the Public Security Bureau.
“I am Gao Hu Bo,” his host offered, gesturing for Shan to sit as he took his place at the head of the table. “Please,” Gao said, pushing the bowl of rice toward Shan. “You are no doubt hungry from your morning exertions. Few goats are up to that passage.”
“I was seeking a few other goats,” Shan said in a level voice.
Gao’s steady gaze did not drop but a thin smile formed on his lips. “Officially this entire valley is a military reservation. Officially, Heinz and I are supposed to call friends below should intruders appear. Their response time averages eleven minutes. They would convey you to a rather unpleasant place.”
“Of course,” Kohler interjected, amused by the conversation, “what is unpleasant to one man may be mere routine to another.”
The youth in black reappeared, carrying a teapot, and slid into the last empty chair.
“Officially,” Shan said, every nerve alert, acutely aware of the treacherous ground he trod on, “this would not be an approved place for a general to retire to.” For Gendun’s sake, he could not afford to be arrested.
The youth choked back a laugh. Then, eyes lowered, he began to noisily consume his soup.
“Since you are as yet unacquainted with us,” Dr. Gao replied in his smooth, refined voice, “we will not take that as an insult. Generals are seldom invited to this table.”
“Still,” Shan said, “I can’t help but wonder if your invitation to lunch means I am to be the main course.”
Gao’s laugh was genuine. He rose and extended his hand. “I like you, comrade. When I saw you coming down the slope in the open sunlight I said, there is a man without fear, the rarest of creatures.”
Shan hesitantly took the man’s hand. “I am called Shan,” he said, “and in the world I inhabit fear is as common as salt.”
Gao held his hand for a moment as he gazed at the row of numbers tattooed on Shan’s forearm. Shan mentally raced through the possible explanations for his host’s presence there. One moment Gao seemed like a monk, the next a gloating bureaucrat. Gao was not a soldier. Senior politicians were sometimes disciplined with internal exile, but never in such comfort.
“My nephew, Feng Xi, is visiting from Beijing,” Gao explained as he sat again and began to eat. “Summer vacation from his labors at the university.”
The youth acknowledged Shan with a disinterested nod. “Thomas,” he interjected. “My name is Thomas.” Even before Shan had been sent into exile, to the gulag in Tibet, it had become popular among certain of China’s globally connected youth to adopt Western names.
Gao offered the boy a patient smile and spent several minutes describing the nest of lammergeiers they had been observing. Kohler took over the conversation, speaking about the weather, recent news reports describing the cloning of a dog, the announcement of a new Chinese space mission, and even, to Shan’s mute surprise, a new movie about invaders from outer space.
“Of course, if it were true, the aliens would have had to travel thousands of years to get here,” Thomas interjected.
“Hardly seems worth the trouble,” Kohler rejoined.
“It is impossible to travel faster than the speed of light,” the youth added with a hint of pride. “We’ve done the calculations.”
“Nearly as difficult,” Shan offered, “as trying to bridge the worlds on the two sides of this mountain.”
“We know of no one else who has traversed the old pass, if that is what you seek to learn. No one crosses without our knowledge since, as you see, we are situated like a gate across the path.”
“There are miners.”
“The miners are the perfect buffers for us. They may be terrified of us but everyone else is terrified of them.”
Shan declined a serving of what the boy described, in English, as French fried potatoes. “I know that for some men, forbidding them something only makes it more desirable.”
Kohler set his utensils down. “At our table, we are the ones allowed to prod and pry. Why are you here?” he asked.
“Because two men were murdered on the other side.”
“And are you playing policeman?”
“A man may be punished although there is no proof of his guilt. A lama is being punished for not condemning the man.”
“Rapaki?” Kohler asked. “Who would want to hurt a crazy hermit? Good court jesters are hard to come by.”
Shan did not correct him. The conversation was beginning to get interesting. It was the first time he had heard that name.
Gao proclaimed in a contemplative voice, “Proof is a dangerous concept. The essence of science is showing that most truth is opinion.”
“A dangerous proposition,” Shan said, “when your government is dedicated to the opposite.”
Gao lowered his cup. “I’m sorry?”
“You’ve lived in Beijing. The stronger the opinion, the greater the truth.”
Kohler glanced at the doors-a habit, Shan suspected, from a career spent worried about who might be listening. “Truth is what the people need,” the German said in a pious tone. It was an old slogan, one blazoned on public walls.
“Who are you?” Gao’s question, though whispered, was as sharp as a blade. The promised dissection had begun.
“Just someone else who has difficulty adjusting to the rest of the world.”
Kohler gazed at Shan as if trying to decide whether to take offense. “We conquered the
rest of the world,” Kohler declared, “and are enjoying the fruit of our labors.”
Gao, still staring at Shan, seemed not to hear the German. As a female appeared and began removing dishes, the older man rose and silently followed her into the kitchen.
Thomas’s silence was one of amusement, but Kohler’s was becoming one of unease. He seemed to have seen something in Gao that disturbed him. Down in the valley, beyond the small white buildings, a squall brewed.
“How many years have you and Dr. Gao been in Tibet?” Shan inquired.
“Draw a radius of five hundred miles and we have spent almost our entire careers inside it,” Kohler said.
“Which makes you very good at doing something the government finds important,” Shan observed. The circle Kohler described included most of China’s key nuclear weapon research and missile establishments.
“The ruler who brings a nation’s enemies to their knees is beloved of his people,” Kohler replied, “but the men who give that ruler the means to do so are beloved of the ruler. Gao was never interested in public displays of affection.”
“Beloved enough to dictate the terms of his retirement.”
“A small price. An infinitesimal price.”
Shan gathered up several dishes and darted into the kitchen, before Kohler could protest. Gao was nowhere to be seen.
“Tashi delay,” he greeted the housekeeper in Tibetan. She replied in kind with a polite smile.
He asked her if she was from Drango village. She did not answer and hurried away as Kohler appeared to herd Shan back to the dining room. The youth was at the window, watching the storm below. He hesitantly answered Shan’s questions, explaining that he had lived in Shanghai until his uncle had arranged for him to study astrophysics at Beijing University.
“Perhaps you can compare notes about the faculty,” a cool voice interjected. Gao had returned, and fixed Shan with an analytical stare. “Or perhaps,” he said to his nephew, “you should start by asking our guest what kind of fool rejects the offer of a senior Party status sponsored by a minister of state.”
Shan’s gut began to knot.
Gao came closer. “You netted a unique specimen, Heinz,” he observed. “A special investigator for the Ministry of Economy, in charge of secret cases for the State Council. Cases of great importance. Once an official Hero Worker, privy to the most confidential matters of state.”
Gao had focused on Shan’s tattoo for no more than five seconds, yet he had not only memorized the numbers but in the span of a few minutes been able to reach one of the very few cadres left in Beijing who knew how to locate Shan’s file.
“A highly strung pedigreed hunting dog who turned on his handlers,” Gao continued, studying Shan suspiciously. “After a few years of hard labor he was let loose in the Tibetan wilderness by a colonel he did a favor for. He defies the laws of physics. In an age when scientists can turn dirty rocks into diamonds, he is the diamond who became a dirty rock.”
“In Beijing there are so many diamonds their radiance was blinding,” Shan replied. He eyed the exits, mentally gauging how quickly he could make it to the pass, comparing that to the response time of Gao’s soldiers, and wondering how good a shot Kohler might be when his target was moving.
“You thought you could send one of the most powerful ministers in Beijing to the gulag. A personal friend of the Great Helmsman.”
“I started tracking the dollars he had sent to secret accounts in Switzerland. I lost count after twenty million.”
“Where is he today?”
“He died in office and was given a hero’s funeral while I was in prison.”
Kohler laughed first, but Gao soon joined in, followed by young Thomas. Shan stared out the window. His gaze settled on the lammergeiers’ nest. The predators on top of the food chain on this particular mountain liked to consume their prey while it still breathed.
Eventually he became aware that the others had left the room. When he tried to follow he found that the doors were locked. He pressed his ear against each door, but no sound betrayed his captor’s activities. He paced around the table, then slipped his shoes off and sat, lotus style, atop the bare table, his eyes on the mountain across the valley, his hands folded into a mudra. His fingers were intertwined, the index fingers raised and pressed together like a steeple. It was called Diamond of the Mind, for keeping focus.
He wasn’t aware of the door opening, only of Thomas appearing in the chair nearest him, holding two bottles of water. The youth, new excitement in his eyes, handed Shan a bottle, a peace offering.
“How many criminals have you killed?” Gao’s nephew asked.
Shan shuddered. “I never carried a gun,” he finally replied.
Thomas seemed disappointed.
“But my investigations sent over a dozen men to firing squads,” he offered.
Thomas brightened. “I have told my father and uncles that I plan to enter the Academy for Forensic Science.”
“I once taught there,” Shan said, slipping off the table to sit close to the youth, eye to eye. “A guest lecturer.”
Thomas saluted Shan with his bottle. “My uncles tell me I am destined for great things. They want me to become an astronomer, for when China has its own space station. Uncle Heinz calls me the first citizen of the new world. He says they can get me into the astronaut corps when I finish university. But when I arrived here this summer I told them I wanted to enroll in the forensic academy, because that is where science and real life come together. They laughed at me.” He took a swallow from his bottle. “But they’re wrong. I saw the head of a murder investigation squad in Beijing, driving a Mercedes. In America they have red convertibles.”
A dozen rejoinders came to mind, but as Shan sifted them, realization burst upon him. “Give me your opinion of the murders.”
Thomas glanced nervously toward the closed doors.
Shan said in a quiet, conspiratorial tone, “Surely there is only one other person on this mountain who knows how to treat a murder scene. The trick with the glue, that shows great resourcefulness. Did you use a spoon and match?” It was an improvisation Shan himself had used more than once in his prior life. The isocyanate of the industrial glue adhered to the oils in fingerprints, producing a print of gray raised ridges.
Thomas flushed. Then he admitted, “I took photographs. I took fingerprints. Everything. I put particles of bone in plastic bags. I am making a special portfolio for my academy application, to guarantee my admission.”
“Everything?”
“You know. Tissue samples, for DNA. Blood samples The dirt from their boots. I recorded the direction of the wind, the time of sunrise, air temperature. The entry wound to the back of Victim One was inflicted by a heavy-edged weapon and probably severed the spinal cord. The puncture wound in the skull of Victim Two could have been from a large-caliber bullet.”
“I think the killer stood right beside his victims,” Shan explained. “I doubt if he used a gun. Did you see any stippling on the skin around the hole? When a gun is fired at close range particles of burning gunpowder leave traces.”
Thomas’s eyes widened. He pulled a piece of paper from a pocket and scribbled a quick note, then began to brag again. “I took a fly larvae out of the flesh and froze it. We can correlate the life-stage development of the larvae with other indicia, to confirm my finding of the time of death.”
“And how exactly did you make your finding?”
“Rigor mortis. The hardening of the skeletal muscles begins within two to three hours and begins to dissipate within twenty-four hours. When I found the bodies in the morning the stiffness was just disappearing.”
“It may be dangerous to rely on such criteria when the limbs have been severed.”
“The hands. Only the hands were cut off at first. I do wish I had the hands.” Thomas fixed Shan with a meaningful gaze. “Even if the flesh of the fingertips was deteriorating we could inject them with saline solution to raise the ridges enough for prints, right? And
I could probably match the hands to the bodies from my photographs and even draw inferences about their professions.”
Shan went very still. “Are you saying you have photographs?”
Without another word the boy leapt up and shot out the door. He returned panting, extending a small silver digital camera. “I haven’t printed anything out, but you can view them right here. The hands were gone when I discovered the bodies. When I returned with my equipment the bodies had been dismembered and some of the limbs were missing.”
His camera held a dozen photos, and though the small screen did not display much detail, there was enough. Shan had to calm himself before taking a second look. Unfortunately, Thomas had taken pictures only of the small clearing where the bodies had been, not of the campsite itself, and none of the two men’s faces. Their clothes were blood drenched. The shirt on one of bodies also bore soil stains showing its wearer had been dragged. One appeared to be younger; on his back was a long wound, as Thomas had described. The flat rock in the center of the little clearing still had one arm stretched across it, in the direction of the low sprays of blood. Shan pointed to the puncture wound on the older man’s skull. “The edges are not uniform enough for a bullet entry.”
Thomas nodded. “And there was no stippling. You have changed my theory of the case.”
“You have a theory?”
Thomas nodded again. “I have to have a case theory, a hypothesis, for my project. The criminals were runaway soldiers, that was my first idea, deserters turned bandits. But if there was no gun, then I will say the culprits were Tibetans, a gang of hooligans with axes and hammers.” He looked up, his eyes brighter. “Ragyapa! It could be a gang of criminal fleshcutters. This could be a movie script!”
“Ragyapa remove the clothes from corpses before cutting them up,” Shan pointed out. “And they don’t take away body parts. They leave them all at the scene. And they crush the bones.”
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