"Tell me something, Colonel. Is the skull cave an official project?"

"Of course. You've seen all the soldiers there. A big operation."

"I mean, does Beijing know about it?"

Tan exhaled a column of smoke. "That would be the responsibility of the Ministry of Geology."

"It's filled with cultural artifacts. The operation itself is the army's. How do Hu and the Ministry of Geology fit in?"

"They discovered it. They are responsible for exploitation. But they have only a small staff. As county administrator I offered the assistance of the army. A good field exercise."

"Who benefits from the gold?"

"The government."

"In this case, who is the government?"

"I don't know all the agencies which participate. Several of the ministries are involved. There are protocols."

"How much does your office receive?"

Tan bristled at the suggestion. "Not a damned fen. I'm a soldier. Gold makes soldiers soft."

Shan believed him, though not for the reason he gave. Political office, not money, was the source of power for a man like Tan.

"Perhaps there are those in the government who would not support looting tombs."

"Meaning what?"

"Did you know that Prosecutor Jao and Director Hu fought over the cave? The American woman was a witness. Now I believe Hu is trying to force her from the country."

A narrow grin appeared on Tan's face. "Comrade, you have been misled. You have no idea what Hu and Jao were fighting over."

"Jao wanted to stop what Hu was doing."

"Right. But not stop the cave, stop the accounting. He was arguing that a bigger share of the gold needed to go to the Ministry of Justice. His office. I have it on record. He wrote letters of complaint wanting me to mediate. Madame Ko can give you copies."

Shan sank into a chair and closed his eyes. It was not Hu. "What about his staff? Can we get their background files?"

Tan gave an indulgent nod. "Madame Ko will make a call."

"Whoever killed Jao was saying something about that cave."

"So ask him."

"The prisoner is not speaking."

"Then go ask your damned demon," Tan said irritably, moving to his desk.

"I would like to. Where do you suggest I look?"

"Can't help. I don't regulate demons." He picked up a file and gestured toward the door.

Shan stood up and suddenly realized exactly where he had to go. There was indeed someone who regulated demons.

Like so much else in Tibet, the weather was absolute. It was seldom dry without drought, seldom wet without a downpour. The sun had been shining brightly when he left Tan's office, but by the time they reached the offices of the Bureau of Religious Affairs on the north side of town, the weather had reversed itself. The sky began throwing tiny balls of ice at them. Shan had read once that fifty Tibetans a year died in hailstorms. He handed Feng a piece of paper before he stepped out of the truck. "Private Meng Lau from Jade Spring Camp. I need you to find if he was on the duty roster the night of the murder, for guarding the road to the cave."

Sergeant Feng accepted the paper without acknowledgment, uncertain how to respond to a request from Shan.

"You know who to ask. Even if I tried, they would never tell me. Please. Comrade Sergeant."

Feng tossed the paper on the dashboard and tugged at the wrapper of a roll of candy, taunting Shan with his disinterest.

Shan and Yeshe were ushered into an empty office on the second floor with a quick apology and the inevitable offer of tea. Shan wandered around the office. A tray on the desk held several magazines, the top of which was China at Work, a party organ that published glossy images of the proletariat. On the coffee table was a single book, entitled Worker Heroes of Socialist Carpet Factories. Shan lifted the magazines. On the bottom of the pile were several American news magazines, the most recent over a year old.

They were alone. "Have you decided what you will do?" Shan asked. "About the purbas." And the Americans, he almost added.

Yeshe nervously looked back to the door. He hunched his thin shoulders forward, his face twisted as if he were about to weep. "I am no informer. But sometimes questions are asked. What can I do? For you it is easy. I have my freedom to consider. My life. My plans."

"Do you really understand what the warden has done to you?" Shan asked. "You need to get out."

"What he has done? He is helping me. He may be the only friend I have."

"I am going to ask the colonel for a new assistant. You need to get out."

"What has Zhong done?" Yeshe pressed.

"You misunderstand the organs of justice. For you, a Tibetan, to be offered a job in Chengdu immediately after reeducation in a labor camp would not only be extraordinary, it would be impossible for Zhong to accomplish. Public Security in Chengdu would have to approve, after receiving an official request from Public Security in Lhasa. The new employer would have to approve without knowing you, which they wouldn't do. Travel papers would have to be issued, under the name of your new work unit, which doesn't exist. Zhong has no papers for you. He has no authority over such things. He lied to keep you talking with him, to tell about me. Then when it is finished, when they decide I have again failed the people by refusing to condemn Sungpo, he will accuse you of conspiring with me and have you detained again. Administration detention for less than a year requires nothing but the signature of a local Public Security officer. And Zhong has his valued assistant back."

"But he promised me." Yeshe twisted his fingers together as he spoke. "I have nowhere to go. I have no money. No recommendation. No travel papers. There is nowhere to go. The only real job I could get is at the chemical factory in Lhasa. They like to hire Tibetans, even without papers. I've seen the workers there. Their hair falls out after a few months. By the time you're forty you lose most of your teeth." He looked up. Instead of the bitterness Shan expected to see, there was a hint of gratitude. "Even if you're right, what could I do? And you, you are in the same trap, only worse."

"I have nothing to lose. A lao gai prisoner on an indefinite sentence," Shan said, trying hard to sound disinterested as he stepped to the window. "For me it may be intentional. But for you, it's just bad luck. Maybe youshould become sick."

The wind slammed hail against the glass. The lights flickered. The prisoners at the 404th always flinched when such weather began. Hailstones on their tin roofs sounded too much like machine guns.

"If they ask, I never saw the purbas," Yeshe said to his back. "But it's not just that. If the purbas are found to be helping Sungpo it will be taken as proof that the radicals were behind the murder, that Sungpo is one of them." His voice trailed off. An old Red Flag limousine, no doubt retired from one of the eastern cities years before, had stopped below them. A man with a tattered umbrella ran from the building to the car to escort the occupant in the back seat.

Two minutes later the Director of the Bureau of Religious Affairs burst into the room. He was several years younger than Shan, and wore a worn blue suit and red tie that gave him the air of an earnest bureaucrat. His hair was cut short in military fashion. On his wrist was a watch, its face an enamel depiction of the Chinese flag, the kind presented to dedicated Party members.