"I am speaking of the only foreign investment in Lhadrung. The largest in eastern Tibet. I am speaking of American tourists who are scheduled to visit a model investment project in ten days. They are going to see a disaster unless we do something."

"Your demon," Shan said suddenly. "Does he have a name?"

"I don't have time to-" Fowler began sharply, then quieted. "Does it matter?"

"A similar sighting was made on the South Claw. In connection with a murder."

Tan stiffened.

Fowler did not immediately respond. Her green eyes fixed on Shan with a penetrating, hawklike intensity.

"I was not aware of a murder investigation. My friend Prosecutor Jao will be interested."

"Prosecutor Jao was quite interested," Shan offered, ignoring Tan's glare.

"So he's been informed?"

"Shan!" Tan rose and slammed a button at the edge of his desk.

"Prosecutor Jao was the victim."

A curse exploded from Tan's lips. He shouted for Madame Ko.

Rebecca Fowler sank back in her chair, stunned. "No!" The color drained from her face. "Dammit, no. You're kidding," she said, her voice breaking. "No. He's away. On the coast, in Dalian, he said."

"Two nights ago, on the South Claw"- Shan watched her eyes as he spoke-"Prosecutor Jao was murdered."

"Two nights ago, Jao and I had dinner," Fowler whispered.

In that instant Madame Ko appeared.

"I think," suggested Shan, "we need some tea."

Madame Ko nodded solemnly and moved back out the door.

Fowler seemed to try to speak, then she slumped forward, dropping her head into her hands until Madame Ko reappeared with a tray. The hot tea revived her sufficiently to find her voice. "We worked together on the investment applications," she began. "Immigration clearances. All the approvals." The words came out in a taut, nervous whisper. "He was interested in our success. He said he would buy me dinner if we brought in production before June. We made it. At least, we thought so. He called up last week. In a celebratory mood. Wanted to do the dinner before his annual leave."

"Where?" asked Shan.

"The Mongolian restaurant."

"What time?"

"Early. About five."

"Was he alone?"

"Just the two of us. His driver was in the car."

"His driver?"

"Balti, the little khampa," Fowler confirmed. "Always hovering around Jao. Jao treated him like a favorite nephew."

Shan studied Colonel Tan. Was it possible that Tan had actually forgotten such a vital point, had forgotten a possible witness?

"Where was he going after dinner?" Shan asked.

"The airport."

"Is that what he said? Did you see him leave?"

"No. But he was going to the airport. He showed me his ticket. It was a late-night flight, but it can take two hours to the airport and it was not a flight he would risk missing. He was very excited about leaving."

"Then why would he drive in the opposite direction?"

She did not seem to have heard. She appeared to be possessed by a new thought. "The demon," she said, her face suddenly gaunt. "The demon was on the Dragon Claws."

There was a hurried knock and Madame Ko appeared again, in front of the bespectacled Tibetan Shan had seen at the cave driving the Americans' truck. He was short and dark, with small eyes and heavy features that somehow distinguished him from most Tibetans Shan had known.

"Mr. Kincaid," the Tibetan blurted, extending an envelope. He saw Tan, and instantly turned his gaze to the floor. "He said give you this right away, don't wait for anything."

Rebecca Fowler stood and slowly, reluctantly, extended her hand. The Tibetan dropped the envelope into it and backed out of the room.

Tan watched him go. "You have a flesh monkey working for you?"

That was it, Shan realized. The man was a ragyapa, from the ancient caste that disposed of Tibet's dead.

"Luntok is one of our best engineers," Fowler said with a chill. "Went to university." Then her eyes moved to the paper and she started in surprise. She lowered the paper and glared at Tan, then read it again. "What's the matter with you people?" she demanded. "We have a contract, for Christ's sake."

She looked at Tan, then to Shan. "The Ministry of Geology," she announced in a tone that suggested Tan must already know, "has suspended my operating permit."

The empty barracks at Jade Spring Camp that had been made available to them was in such disrepair Shan could actually see the tin roof shudder and lift with each gust of wind. Sergeant Feng claimed the solitary bed typically occupied by the company's noncommissioned officer, and with a sweep of his hand offered Shan and Yeshe their choice among the twenty steel bunk beds that lined the remainder of the barracks. Shan ignored him, and began to spread his files on the metal table at the head of the columns of beds.

"I'll need a key to the building," he announced to Sergeant Feng.

Feng, rummaging through a cabinet for bedding, turned for a moment to see if Shan was serious. "Fuck off." He discovered six blankets, kept three, handed two to Yeshe and threw one to Shan. Shan let it drop to the floor and paced along the beds, looking for a place to hide his notes.

Less than thirty yards across the parade ground was the guardhouse. A tumble of withered heather blew across the grounds. A loudspeaker, dangling by a wire from its broken mount, sputtered a martial air, a military anthem rendered unrecognizable by static. Clusters of soldiers had gathered along the perimeter, resentfully studying the new guards posted at the brig.

"Knobs," Yeshe warned Shan as they approached the structure across the yard, his voice filled with alarm. "They don't belong here. It's an army base."

"We were expecting you," the Public Security officer in charge snapped to Shan at the entrance. "Colonel Tan advised us you would commence interrogation of the prisoner." He surveyed the three men as he spoke, not trying to conceal his disappointment. His eyes rested a moment on Sergeant Feng's grizzled face, passed over Yeshe, and fixed upon Shan, who still wore the anonymous gray pocketed jacket of a senior functionary. The officer hesitated a moment in front of the door, as though confused about his visitors, then finally shrugged.

"Get him to eat," he said, and stepped aside. "I can keep the bug from escaping," he went on as he unlocked the heavy metal door to the cell block. "But I can't keep him from starving himself. Gets too weak, we'll put a tube into his stomach. He'll have to be on his feet."

Spoken, Shan considered, like one seasoned in the choreography of the people's tribunals. The prisoner was expected to stand in front of the court, head bent in remorse. The exquisite drama of a capital trial was always heightened by a show of physical strength on the part of the accused, so it could be more obviously broken by the will of the people.

The corridor, dank with the smell of urine and mildew, was lined with cells on either side, separated by concrete walls. The only light that reached the cells was from dim bulbs hung along the center of the corridor. As his eyes adjusted to the grayness Shan saw that the cells were empty, containing only metal buckets and straw pallets. At the end of the corridor was a small metal desk at which a single figure slumped, asleep, his chair leaning against the wall.