"Someone has asked you to buy a charm. Someone who thinks they offended Tamdin."

Merak swept his hand toward the buildings below. "Why would we need them?"

"The ragyapa do not believe in demons?"

"The ragyapa believe in vultures."

"You didn't answer my question."

"First you tell me."

"Tell you what?"

"You're from the world," Merak said, nodding toward the valley. "Tell me you don't believe in demons."

The sound of scuffling arose further up the trail. Shan looked up, and instantly regretted it. Two vultures were engaged in a tug of war over a human hand.

Shan gazed down into his own hands a moment, his fingers rubbing his calluses. "I have lived too long to tell you that."

Merak gave a knowing nod, then silently led Shan back to the village.

"The American mine," Shan told Feng. There was another ragyapa, he remembered, one who climbed the high ranges that were the home of Tamdin.

Yeshe, in the back seat, extended a child's sock toward Shan as if it were a trophy. "Didn't you see?" he asked with a meaningful grin.

"See what?"

"The missing military supplies I had been cataloging for Warden Zhong. The hats, the shoes, the shirts. And everyone wore green socks."

"I don't understand," Shan confessed.

"The lost supplies. They're here. The ragyapa have them."

"No," Shan said as they turned from the highway onto the access road to Jade Spring. "The American mine."

"Right," Sergeant Feng said. "Just one stop. Not long."

He pulled up next to the mess hall and, to Shan's surprise, opened Shan's door, waiting. "Not long," he repeated.

Shan followed, confused, then remembered. "You were talking to Lieutenant Chang."

Feng grunted noncommittally.

"Has he been reassigned? He isn't spending much time at the 404th."

"In a lockdown? With two hundred border commandos camped there? What's the point?"

"What did he want?"

"Just talking. Told me about a shortcut to the American mine."

In the mess hall soldiers were gathered in small groups, drinking tea. Feng surveyed the room, then led Shan toward three men playing mah-jongg near the rear.

"Meng Lau," he called out. Two of the men jerked their heads up and stood. The third, his back to them, laughed and set down a tile. The others fell back as Feng put his hand on the man's shoulder.

Startled, the man cursed and turned. He was young, a mere boy, with greasy hair and hooded, lightless eyes. Headphones, turned upside down under his chin, covered his ears.

"Meng Lau," Feng repeated.

The sneer on the man's face faded. He slowly lowered the headphones. Shan unbuttoned his pocket and showed him the paper provided by Director Hu. "You signed this?"

Meng glanced at Feng and slowly nodded. There was something wrong with his left eye. If drifted, unfocused, as if perhaps it were artificial.

"Did Director Hu ask for it?"

"The prosecutor came and wanted it," Meng said nervously, rising from the table.

"The prosecutor?"

Meng nodded again. "His name is Li."

"So you signed one for Li and one for Hu?"

"I signed two."

So it was true, Shan realized, Li Aidang was compiling a separate file. But why go through the trouble of providing Shan a duplicate statement? To ensure that he finished as quickly as possible? To deceive Shan? Or maybe to warn him that Li would always be one step ahead?

"They said the same thing?"

The soldier looked at Feng uncertainly before he answered. "Of course."

"But who put the words on the paper?" Shan asked.

"They are my words." Meng took a step back.

"Did you see a monk that night?"

"The statement says so."

The words seem to deflate Feng for a moment. Then anger grew on his face. "You damned pup!" he barked. "Answer him straight!"

"Were you on duty that night, Private Meng?" Shan asked. "You were not on the roster."

The soldier began to fidget with his headphones. "Sometimes we switch."

Feng's hand came out of nowhere, slapping the soldier across the mouth. "The inspector asked you a question."

Shan looked at Feng in surprise. The inspector.

Meng looked at Feng vacantly, as if he were used to being hit.

"Did you see a monk that night?" Shan asked again.

"I think because I'm a witness for the trial I am not supposed to speak with anyone."

Anger rose again on Feng's face, then quickly faded, though not before the soldier had seen it and stepped further back. "It's political," he muttered, and bolted away. Feng stared after him, looking no longer angry, but hurt.

The sergeant drove moodily, roaring through the gears, barely braking at the crossroads, until they began the long climb up the North Claw toward the American mine.

"Here," he mumbled finally, pulling a cellophane bag from his pocket. "Pumpkin seeds." He handed the bag to Shan. "Good ones, not the moldy shit from the market. Salted. Get them at the commissary."

They chewed the seeds slowly and silently, like two old men on a Beijing park bench. Before long Feng began leaning forward, watching the shoulder of the road.

"Chang said it would save an hour," Feng offered as he swung onto a rutted track that seemed little more than a goat path. "Back in time for evening mess this way."

In five minutes they were following the track toward the crest of a sharp ridge. To the right, barely three feet from their tires, the path fell away over a nearly perpendicular cliff face, ending in a tumble of rocks several hundred feet below.

"How could this reach the Americans?" Yeshe asked nervously. "We'd have to cross this chasm."

"Take a nap," Feng grumbled. "Save your energy for all that work back at the 404th."

"What do you mean?" Yeshe asked, alarm in his voice.

"Like you asked, I talked to the warden's secretary. She said no one is doing the computer work. Warden said just stack it up, someone's coming in two weeks."

"It could be someone else," Yeshe protested.

Feng shook his head. "She asked one of the administrative officers. Said the warden's Tibetan pup was coming back."

There was a tiny moan from the back. Shan turned to find Yeshe nearly doubled over, his head in his hands. With pain, Shan turned away. He had already told Yeshe. It was time for him to decide who he was.

Suddenly Shan held up his hand. "There-" he said as Sergeant Feng slowed down, pointing to a set of fresh tire tracks that veered from the path and disappeared over the crest of the ridge.

"So we're not the only ones who use the shortcut," Feng said with a tone of vindication.

Lots of people, Shan thought- like Americans searching for old shrines.

Shan opened the door and carefully eased around the truck, mindful of the sheer dropoff. He picked a stem of heather from the tire tracks and handed it to Feng. "Smell it. This was crushed not even an hour ago."

"So?"

"So I'm going to follow this fresh trail. Your road curves around that rock formation to the crest. I'll meet you on the other side."