"It was an honor to be invited to the university," Yeshe said in a hollow voice.

A tiny shove, a mild gust of wind would be all it took. Yeshe could just slip and fall against Shan, and he would drop. On a night like this maybe you never hit the bottom. There would only be blackness, then a deeper blackness.

"But why would Yeshe Retang be invited? An unknown monk in a remote gompa?"

Yeshe moved beside him now, as if willing himself to take as much risk as Shan.

"They didn't start reconstruction at Khartok until after you left," Shan pointed out. "The chandzoe, he treated you like his hero. Like he owed you. As if Khartok received favors after you left."

"I promised my mother I would be a monk," Yeshe said to the stars. "I was the oldest son. It was the tradition for Tibetan families, until Beijing came. The oldest son would have the honor of serving in a gompa. But I wasn't a good monk. The abbot said I had to reduce my ego. He gave me work in the villages, to see the suffering of the people. Twice a week I drove a truck to bring sick children to the gompa."

A nighthawk called out on the slope behind them.

"He was just lying there, by the road. I thought I could save him. I thought I should push him over to get the pebbles out so he could breathe. I tried. But he was already dead."

"You mean you discovered the body of the Director of Religious Affairs."

"I never understood why he was up there all alone," Yeshe whispered.

"And Dilgo of your gompa was executed for it." Shan remembered the missing sheets from the files. Witness statements.

"When I turned him over it was there. I recognized it immediately."

"You mean the rosary belonging to Dilgo?"

Yeshe didn't respond.

"So you were a witness against him."

"I told the truth. I found a dead Chinese. He had Dilgo's rosary under him."

It was such a perfect parable. Antisocial cultist condemned by the testimony of a member of the new society, who happened to belong to his own gompa. Proof of how evil the old order was and how virtuous the new could be. "They sent you to the university as your reward."

"How could I refuse? How often does a monk get offered university? How often does any Tibetan get offered university? They said it wasn't a reward. They said my actions had simply demonstrated that I belonged in university, that I was a leader who should have been there all along."

"Who gave it to you?"

"Prosecutor Jao. Religious Affairs. Public Security. They all signed the paper."

It meant nothing about who killed Jao, or who might be trying to manipulate Yeshe again. Granting such rewards was all in the course of business in administering Chinese justice. Someone might have used Yeshe, knowing he had a pattern of driving on the route. Or his involvement might have been entirely coincidental. What mattered was that Yeshe had proved himself susceptible, and someone else was seeking to influence him in the same manner now. Not Zhong. Warden Zhong was just a conduit, just cooperating to secure Yeshe's labor for another year.

"I said it first," Yeshe offered, as if it was an urgent afterthought.

"First?"

"I gave the statement long before they offered the university to me."

"I know."

"They said it was for being a good citizen." He was whispering again. "Only thing is," he added forlornly, "I don't know what it means anymore- to be a good citizen."

As they watched the stars, the pain seemed to drift out of their silence.

"After we saw Religious Affairs," Yeshe said, "after Miss Taring said artifacts were still being discovered and put in the museums, I wondered. What if someone had found a second rosary like Dilgo's? What if I had lied and didn't know it?"

Shan put his hand on Yeshe's arm and eased him back from the edge of the cliff. "Then you need to find out."

"Why?"

"For Dilgo."

They sat on a boulder and let the silence wash over them again.

"Do you think it's true what they say?" Yeshe asked.

"What is true?"

"That Jao's ghost is staying here, seeking vengeance."

"I don't know." Shan looked out into the night. "If my soul were set adrift," he said slowly, "I'd never look back."

They spoke no more. Shan had no idea how long they sat. It could have been ten minutes, or thirty. A shooting star arced across the sky. Then, just as abruptly, there was a loud sound, a wrenching, haunting half-moan, half-scream like he had never heard before. It came from below them, and seemed to pierce the skin around his spine. It was not the sound of a human.

Suddenly there were three gunshots, then dead silence.

Chapter Ten

The two soldiers came for him as in a dream, seizing him as he slept in the dark, dragging him out of his bunk and putting on manacles. They did not speak as they shoved him into the car. They did not answer his questions, except to slap him viciously after the third one. Shan willed his body upright, fighting the pain, reminding himself what to look for. They were not Public Security, but infantry. Soldiers had more rules to follow. He was in a staff car, not a truck. They would not shoot him in a car. They were going out into the valley, not into the mountains where disposals were made. He leaned against the window, letting the glass hold the weight of his head, and watched where they were taking him.

It was the crossroads below the Dragon Claws, where Colonel Tan stood silhouetted against a dull gray sky. The two escorts dragged him toward Tan, released his wrists and moved back to the car, where they stood and lit cigarettes. One man muttered something. The other laughed.

"He said you would do this," Tan said. "Zhong said you would mock me. Try to use me."

"You'll have to be more specific," Shan muttered through a cloud of pain. "I only had three hours' sleep."

"Stirring up the separatists. Conspiring to breach public security. Leading soldiers into ambush."

Shan became aware of a dull rasping sound. Beyond Tan's car he saw a familiar gray truck. The rear hatch door was open, revealing the two booted feet of a sleeping figure.

"Is that what Sergeant Feng told you?" Shan's jaw felt numb. "That he was ambushed?" He touched his lip. His fingers came away smeared with blood.

"He had orders to call when he returned last night. Woke me up. Completely frantic. Asked for reinforcements. Says to give you to Public Security." Tan glanced to the north. A column of trucks was approaching.

"Perhaps he didn't tell you how he shot one of the tires," Shan said. "Or how he climbed onto the roof of the truck and wouldn't come down? Or that I had to drive back because he was too hysterical?"

The convoy overtook them. Shan recognized it at once, although there were twice as many trucks as usual. The extras were filled with knobs. He watched in despair. They would go to the South Claw. The knobs would set up their machine guns. The prisoners would walk up the slope and sit, working their makeshift rosaries, waiting.

As the dust of the column settled Shan saw that two of the trucks had stopped. A dozen bone-hard commandos leapt from one truck and formed two lines at the rear of the second. A Tibetan prisoner was thrown out of the shadows and landed between the lines, groaning in pain. Others began to climb out. Shan realized Tan was not looking at the prisoners, but at him.