They watched, Winslow taking two more of his pills, as the purba runner advanced on the youth, but when Somo was still two hundred yards from him, the boy dropped out of sight below a ridge. When Shan and Winslow crested the ridge the American gave a shout of glee, one of his strange cowboy hoots. Somo was sitting with the boy three hundred yards away. As they approached they could see the boy was stuffing the chips into his mouth, speaking in a relaxed fashion with Somo. But before they were within earshot the youth stood, waved at the two men good-naturedly, and began running again.
"He had a bottle of water," Somo said in a meaningful tone. "Only a small bottle of water, for the Green Tara."
They followed the path the boy had taken until, with an hour of light left, Somo raised her hand in alarm. A noise like thunder was echoing off the mountain in front of them. Shan gestured her forward, and five minutes later they stepped onto an open ledge that revealed the source of the thunder far below. Shan pointed toward a tiny line of shadow on the towering rock monolith above them.
"That damned goat trail," Winslow said. "The one Chemi led us on into Yapchi." They stood at the edge of a broad U-shaped chasm filled with mist, the place Chemi had shown them the week before from far above, the place where clouds were born.
Somo pointed downward. On the other side of the gorge, far below, they could see the boy again, following a trail that spiraled down into the mist. Half an hour later, daylight almost gone, they were on the trail, at the edge of the mist, descending toward the thunder sound, warily hugging the wall as they sought footing on the slippery path. What had Chemi said of the place? Some people believed a demon lived there.
"We can't climb back up in the dark," Winslow warned, rubbing his temple again.
Shan eyed the treacherous path uncertainly. "The boy didn't come back," he said, and stepped forward into the mist.
In another few minutes the mist began to clear, and they looked out over a roiling mass of water, a narrow, powerful river that tumbled into the chasm and then, in a violent maelstrom, seemed to boil itself away. There was no outlet. Water was not leaving the gorge, except in the small clouds they had seen drifting skywards.
Somo stared at the strange sight with wide, frightened eyes. "It could be what they said," she offered in a near whisper, meaning, Shan knew, that the strange, powerful place could indeed be home to a demon. He fought a temptation to step back into the mist, to hide in the clouds.
Suddenly a sharp cracking sound joined the thunder, and a piece of the rock wall beside him burst into fragments. An instant later a patch of wall on the other side, by Winslow, split open followed by the sharp whine of a ricochet. Someone was shooting at them.
Chapter Fifteen
Winslow dropped to his knees, pointing toward a hole in the side of the gorge below them, where the barrel of a rifle protruded from the shadow. He began fumbling with his pack, cursing under his breath. Shan, suddenly remembering that the American carried Lin's pistol, pushed Winslow's arm down.
Somo removed her green jacket and called out. "Lha gyal lo!" she cried, one hand in the air, the other conspicuously grabbing the gau around her neck.
A Tibetan man burst out of the shadows, brandishing a long rifle. He stared at them, acknowledging Somo with an angry frown, then motioned them forward with the tip of his weapon. As he stepped down the sloping trail Shan saw that the hole in the rock was actually a wide undercut, ten feet high and thirty long, where the river must have once eroded part of the wall. The man waited for them, exchanged a few whispered words with Somo, and led them toward a deeper patch of shadow which proved to be a heavy blanket hung from a timber wedged in the rock.
They followed a short tunnel, through another hanging blanket, and stepped into a cavern with a high vaulted ceiling, perhaps forty feet wide, lit by several bright gas lanterns.
The boy they had seen above sat near the entrance watching, round-eyed, the activity in the chamber. Two young men, one of them a purba Shan had seen with Tenzin, huddled over a map spread across a flat rock. On a table made of long planks laid across two stacks of flat stones a portable computer sat open, its screen displaying what seemed to be a three dimensional cross-section of a mountain, in many colored layers. Several rifles leaned against the back wall. Beyond the computer, he saw two middle-aged Tibetans bent over two microscopes. A third figure, in a green jacket, leaned over a rack of test tubes, scribbling in a spiral notepad.
Winslow froze and made a small choking sound. The figure in green straightened and turned slowly. It was a woman with unkempt, curly reddish blond hair gathered in a short braid at the back. She opened her mouth as though to speak, but only stared at Winslow, her green eyes puzzled.
"Dr. Larkin, I presume," Winslow said softly in English. For the first time since Shan had known him the American seemed at a loss for words. He just stared at the woman with a small, self-conscious grin. She was shorter than Winslow, though not by much, and perhaps ten years younger. Her high cheekbones would have given her an elegant appearance, but for a sprinkling of freckles on each.
The woman glanced peevishly at the two Tibetans at the map, then at the sentry standing at the entrance. "You're the one from the embassy," she said in English. She stared at Winslow strangely. Not in anger, or frustration, but as if there was something about Winslow that perplexed her. "The one the Tibetans call the cowboy. They said you were gone."
"I was," Winslow said, still grinning. "I came back. To warn you," he added after a moment.
Melissa Larkin frowned, and glanced at the men with the map again. "We are in no danger," she said. "Comrade Zhu did me the favor of already reporting me dead," she added.
"Only to clear the field," Winslow declared. "Comrade Zhu wants you dead again," and then, switching to Tibetan, he began explaining what they had learned in Golmud. The American geologist remained silent as Winslow spoke- pouring three mugs of black tea, but keeping her eyes on Winslow the whole time. One of the men at the map darted to the back wall, returned with an automatic rifle, an army weapon, and disappeared behind the blanket at the entrance.
"A trap?" Larkin asked. "Sounds a bit melodramatic."
"I've worked in China for over five years," Winslow said. "And you have been in China and Tibet almost as long. What part don't you believe? That the venture's given up on you? That the Chinese would want to stop you from working with certain Tibetans? That Comrade Zhu would go to the trouble of coming back into the mountains and not just send the army in? All the others might think you're dead. Zhu knows better, because he planned it, because he lied to me, lied to Jenkins, lied to everyone to make us think that."
Larkin smiled as if amused by Winslow's words. The expression made little indentations on either side of her mouth. Shan searched for the word in English. Dimples. She gestured Somo toward the man who remained at the map, and stepped away to join the purbas in hushed, urgent dialogue.
Shan stared at the computer and racks of test tubes. On the table was another map of the region, with thick lines drawn in several bold colors. He inched closer and studied it. Each line had a number inscribed at its end. One, two, three, through six. He looked up and found the woman in the green jacket, with the green eyes, standing three feet away, staring at him.