There was movement beside Je. The raven had landed an arm's length away.

"They are praying, my friends and teachers," Je began again. "All of them, and the bombs are beginning to fall. There is time to leave but they will not. I must take the young ones into the hills. The ones who stay are dying, just saying their rosaries and dying in the explosions. As I am leaving with the boys something is hitting me in the face. It is a hand, still holding its rosary."

It was 1959, Shan calculated, or at the latest 1960, when the PLA bombed the gompas from the air.

"Was it right?" Je continued. "That is always the temptation. To ask if it was right. It is the wrong question, of course."

Suddenly Shan realized that the old man knew exactly why Shan was there.

"Rinpoche," he said slowly, "I would not ask Sungpo to break his vow. I only ask him to join me in finding the truth. There is a murderer somewhere. He will kill again."

"The only one who can find the murderer is the murdered," Je said. "Let the ghost take its revenge. I am not worried about Sungpo. But Jigme. Jigme is lost."

Shan realized he had to let the old man lead the conversation. The wind increased. He fought the temptation to grab Je's robe, lest he be lifted into the clouds. "Jigme does not study at the gompa."

"No. He abandoned studies to go with Sungpo. He never belongs. Being a gompa orphan, it is like being a small bird forced to live all its life in a rainstorm."

A shiver of realization moved down Shan's spine. During the occupation of Tibet and again during the Cultural Revolution, monks and nuns had been forced, sometimes at bayonet point, to break their vows of celibacy, sometimes with each other, sometimes with soldiers. In some regions the offspring had been gathered into special schools. Elsewhere they formed gangs. There were several of the mixed-blood gompa orphans in the 404th, who had followed their priests to jail.

"Then for Jigme, help me bring Sungpo back."

The old man's eyes were closed now. "After the gompa was destroyed," he murmured, "I could see the rising moon better."

The truck had already begun the long climb toward the pass when Shan asked the name of the gompa at the head of the valley, the compound they had passed at dawn. Yeshe did not reply.

Feng slowed and read the map. "Khartok," he said impatiently. "They call it Khartok."

Shan grabbed one of the files provided by Tan, glanced at it, and threw his hand toward Sergeant Feng. "Stop. Now."

"There isn't time," Feng protested.

"You would rather leave before dawn tomorrow and come back here?"

"It is late. They will be preparing for last assembly, lighting the lamps soon," Yeshe said insistently. "We can try a telephone interview."

Feng turned, looked into Shan's eyes, and without another word turned and moved back down the valley.

Yeshe groaned and covered his eyes with his hand, as if he could not bear to see more.

It wasn't pastures he had seen in front of the buildings. It was ruins, fields of stone that began half a mile from the gompa. There was no order to the stones. Some were in piles, others scattered as though they had been thrown from the overhanging mountains. But every stone had been squared by a mason.

Closer to the gompa the foundations of several buildings had been turned into gardens. A dozen figures in red robes leaned on their hoes to gaze at the unexpected vehicle. As they eased to a stop Shan saw that new construction lay beyond the foundations. The main wall was being rebuilt and extended. Stacks of fresh lumber and pallets of cement wrapped in plastic were arrayed along the treeline.

Yeshe lay on the back seat, an arm thrown over his eyes.

"You know gompas. You know the protocols," Shan said impatiently. "I need you."

Feng opened the rear door. "You're not sleeping, Comrade." He pulled on Yeshe's arm. "Hell, you're panting like a cornered cat."

Shan ventured into the courtyard alone. The same structures he had seen at Saskya were there, but freshly painted and on a much larger scale. Not one but five chortens were arranged about the grounds, capped by suns and moons of newly worked copper. A better investment, Shan remembered. Director Wen of the Religious Affairs Bureau had said Saskya was not permitted to rebuild because the gompa in the lower valley was a better investment.

A middle-aged monk with a row of gold embroidery on his sleeve appeared on the steps of the assembly hall. He threw his arms out in a gesture of welcome and trotted down the steps. Shan watched as the other monks looked up at the newcomer. Some nodded deferentially, others quickly averted their eyes. The man was a senior lama, probably the abbot. But why, Shan wondered, didn't the man seemed surprised to see him? The lama interrupted a young student who was raking the gravel and dispatched him into the hall, then pointed toward an herb garden in the shelter of the wall. Shan silently followed him into the garden. Wooden benches were arranged in rows between the plant beds, as though for students receiving instruction. At the end of the garden an old monk was on his knees, pulling weeds.

"We will have the plans finished soon," the lama announced as soon as Shan sat on the front bench.

"Plans?" The young monk appeared with a tray of tea, poured it for them, and retreated with a hurried bow of his head.

"For the first restoration of the college buildings. Tell Wen Li that the plans are almost finished." There was something odd about the lama's demeanor. Shan searched for a way to describe it. Social, he decided. Almost urbane.

"No. We are here about Dilgo Gongsha."

The lama did not relent. "Yes, the plans are nearly complete," he said, as though the topics were connected. "The Bei Da Union is helping, you know. We are helping each other with our reconstructions."

"The Bei Da Union?"

The lama paused and looked at Shan as though for the first time. "Who are you, then?"

"An investigation team. From Colonel Tan's office. I am reviewing the facts of the Dilgo Gongsha matter. He was a resident here, was he not?"

The lama's eyes slowly surveyed Shan, then shifted to Feng and Yeshe, who were inching along the shadows of the walls. As the two passed a small gathering of monks, someone called out in surprise, as if in greeting. Someone else called, in a tone Shan didn't recognize at first. Anger. Yeshe moved behind Feng.

"The last time we saw Dilgo," a gentle voice announced from behind Shan, "he was passing into that peculiar hell for souls taken by violence." Shan's host stood and put his palms together in greeting. It was the old monk who had been tending weeds. His robe was stained from garden work, his fingernails filled with dirt. "We performed the rights of Bardo. By now he is an infant. He will grow to bless those around him once again." He had a twinkle in his eyes, as though the memory of Dilgo caused him joy.

"Abbot," the lama said with a bow of his head. "Forgive me. I thought you were in your meditation cell."

Abbot? Shan looked in confusion at the first lama.

"You have met our chandzoe," the abbot offered, noticing Shan's glance. "Welcome to Khartok."

"Chandzoe?" It was not a term Shan had heard in any of the winter tales.

"The manager of our secular affairs," the abbot explained.