"Should be there in thirty minutes," Feng said as Shan returned to the truck. He started the engine, then barked in protest as Shan grabbed a pair of binoculars from the back seat and moved back up the path.

He was still focusing on the red patch when Yeshe spoke at his shoulder. "A pilgrim."

Instantly Shan saw that Yeshe was correct. Although the distance was too great, he fancied that he heard the clump of wooden hand and knee blocks on the ground as the man kneeled, prostrated himself, and touched his forehead to the ground. Every devout Buddhist tried to make a pilgrimage to each of the five sacred mountains in his or her lifetime. When they traveled by the 404th, the prisoners would break discipline to call out a quick word of encouragement or snippet of prayer. Sometimes a man or a woman would take a year off just for such a pilgrimage. By bus one could travel from Lhasa to the most sacred peak, Mt. Kailas, in twelve hours. For the prostrating pilgrim it could take four months.

Sergeant Feng appeared. "The Americans! We are supposed to go to the Americans."

"I am going across to the crest of the ridge on the other side," Shan said.

Feng put his hand to his forehead as though suddenly in great pain. "You can't cross over," he growled. He grabbed the map, then brightened. "Look for yourself," he said with a triumphant grin. "It doesn't exist." Years earlier Beijing had condemned all the old suspension bridges. Most, because they eased the movement of resistance fighters, had been bombed by the People's Air Force.

"Fine," Shan said. "I am going to walk across this imaginary bridge. You stay here and imagine I am right beside you."

Feng's round face clouded. "The colonel didn't say anything about this," he muttered.

"And your duty is to assist me in the investigation."

"My duty is to guard a prisoner."

"Then let's return. We will ask Colonel Tan to clarify his orders. Surely the colonel would forgive a soldier who was confused by his orders."

Sergeant Feng looked to the truck in confusion. But Yeshe's expression was one of impatience. He took a step toward the vehicle, as though anxious to move on. "I know the colonel," the sergeant said uncertainly. "We served together a long time, before Tibet. He arranged my transfer when I asked to come to his district."

"Hear me, Sergeant. This is not a military exercise. This is an investigation. Investigators discover and react. I have discovered this bridge. Now I will react. From the crest of that ridge I think I will see the 404th worksite. I need to know if it is possible for someone to have climbed down, if there is a route other than the road." Climbed down, Shan thought, and climbed back up, carrying a human head. From where they stood the skull shrine was perhaps an hour's walk, and only a few minutes' drive.

Feng sighed. He made a show of checking the ammunition in his pistol, tightened his belt, and started toward the bridge. Yeshe moved even more reluctantly than Feng.

"You can never help him, you know," Yeshe said to Shan's back.

Shan turned. "Help him?"

"Sungpo. I know what you think. That you must help him."

"If he is guilty let the evidence show it. If he is innocent, doesn't he deserve our help?"

"You don't care because you don't mind being hurt. All you can do is get the rest of us hurt. You know you can't save someone who's already formally accused."

"Who are you trying to be? A little bird looking for a chance to sing to the Bureau? Is that what you live for?"

Yeshe stared at him resentfully. "I am trying to survive," he said stiffly. "Like anyone else."

"Then it's all been a waste. Your education. Your gompa training. Your detention."

"I have a job. I am going to get permits. I am going to the city. There's a place for everyone in the socialist order," he said with a hollow tone.

"There's always a place for people like you. China is filled with them," Shan snapped and pulled away.

Feng was already at the bridge, trying not to show his fear. "It's not- we can't-" He didn't finish the sentence. He was staring at the frayed ropes that held the span, the missing foot-boards, the swaying of the flimsy structure in the wind.

There was a cairn of rocks nearly six feet high at the foot of the bridge. "An offering," Shan suggested. "Travelers make an offering first." He plucked a stone from the slope, placed it on the cairn, and stepped onto the bridge. Feng looked toward the road as though to confirm there were no witnesses, then hastily found his own stone and placed it on the cairn.

The boards creaked. The rope groaned. The wind blasted down through the funnel of the Throat. Three hundred feet below, a trickle of water flowed through jagged rocks. Shan had to will his feet forward with each step, force his hands to relinquish their white-knuckle grip on the guide ropes to find their next purchase.

He stopped at the center, surprised to find a clear view of the new highway bridge, Tan's proud achievement, where the Throat emptied into the valley. The wind tore at his clothes and pushed at the bridge, giving it an unsettling rocking motion. He looked back. Feng was shouting, his words lost in the wind. He was gesturing for Shan to continue, not trusting the bridge with the weight of two men. Yeshe stood where Shan had left him, staring into the ravine.

On the other side of the gorge they walked up the steep slope for twenty minutes, with Shan in the lead as Sergeant Feng, older and much heavier, struggled to keep up. Finally the sergeant called out. When Shan looked back the pistol was out. "If you run, I'll come for you," Feng wheezed. "Everyone will come for you." He pointed the pistol at Shan but then quickly withdrew it with a startled look, as if the movement scared him. "They will bring your tattoo back," he said between gasps. "That's all they need. The tattoo." He seemed paralyzed with indecision. He gestured with the pistol. "Come here."

Shan moved slowly to his side, bracing himself.

Feng pulled the binoculars from Shan's neck and began moving back down the slope.

Shan surveyed the long slope of the ridge to the south. The patch of red that was the pilgrim was nearly out of sight. Above him, over the ridge, would be the 404th. He kept climbing. As he reached the top of the ridge Shan felt a surprising exhilaration, a feeling so unfamiliar he sat on a rock to consider it. It wasn't just satisfaction from his discovery of another route to the worksite, which was in plain view below. It wasn't just the awesome top-of-the-world view that stretched so far he could glimpse the shimmering white cap of Chomolungma, highest mountain of the Himalayas, more than a hundred miles away. It was the clarity.

For a moment it seemed he had not only reached the top, but entered a new dimension. The sky wasn't just clear, it was like a lens, making everything seem larger and more detailed than before. The clutter in his mind seemed to have been stripped away by the wind. His hand reached back and touched the spot where the lock of hair had been clipped. Choje would have said he was storming the gates of Buddhahood.

And then he realized: It was all because of the mountain. Jao could have been killed anywhere, certainly anywhere on the remote highway to the airport. He had been lured to the South Claw because someone wanted a jungpo to protect the mountain. Someone wanted to stop the road. Many had motives to kill Jao. But who had a motive to save the mountain? Or to stop the immigrants who would colonize the valley beyond? Jao had been with someone he knew and trusted. Those he knew and trusted would be interested in building, not blocking roads. The murder had an air of violent passion, yet obviously the killer had painstakingly planned his act. It was as if there were two crimes, two motives, two killers.