He rose and stepped around the sleeping Tibetans and through the grey light toward the gates. A solitary guard leaned against one pillar. Electric lights illuminated the assembly hall. Monks were filing out of the sleeping quarters that lined the two side walls of the gompa and entering the lhakang.
"Two long cars came in the night," a voice said at his shoulder. Somo. "Red Flags I think," she added, referring to the limousines used by many of Tibet's senior officials.
"The Bureau of Religious Affairs," Shan said. "The ones Tenzin said were coming from regional headquarters."
They watched from the truck as the monks streamed out of the lhakang an hour later, carrying benches and cushions to the courtyard in front of the administrative building. A table was brought from the dining hall to the building entrance and by fastening boards to it several monks converted it to a makeshift speaking platform with a wooden crate for a step. A man in a shirt and tie appeared in the doorway with another Chinese flag, which he affixed to the front of the platform. Shan followed the first group of Tibetans into the gompa, the guard watching not the Tibetans now but the officials at the entrance.
The window of the upstairs office opened and a large loudspeaker appeared in it. Anthems began to play, until abruptly someone was addressing them. "Citizens of China," a thin voice said. "We salute you. It is you, the children of industry, who have made us a great nation and who will make us greater still." It was the radio. Someone had patched in the May Day speeches from Beijing. A murmur shot through the courtyard. It was the supreme Chairman himself, addressing the nation.
Padme, wearing his robe over a pair of blue jeans, appeared in the door with an uncomfortable expression, studying the disorganized crowd. He glanced up at the window as though debating whether to turn the radio off, then quickly ordered everyone in the courtyard to be seated on the benches and carpets and listen. It might appear unpatriotic not to stop and listen while the Chairman spoke, and even more so to turn the radio off now that the speech had started. Padme dispatched the guard to command the Tibetans outside the gates to attend, darted inside, and reappeared a moment later, without his jeans, to sit in one of the chairs on the podium. Shan remembered the blue jeans they had seen at the burned patch of herbs, and how Winslow had given the monk the yellow nylon vest from the burned meadow to wear. When they had arrived at the gompa with the injured Padme, he had been recognized from a distance. Because the vest, like the jeans, had belonged to Padme.
A tall distinguished Tibetan appeared, grey-haired, wearing a business suit, closely followed by a stocky Han in nearly identical attire, hurriedly straightening his tie. Emissaries from the Bureau of Religious Affairs. The two mounted on the podium and sat beside Padme. Dropka and rongpa began to arrive in family groups and sat on the carpets near the wall.
Then, as the crowd dutifully stared at the loudspeaker in the window, Shan watched as two men in light blue uniforms carried a stretcher with an old man from behind the central building toward the medical station. He sighed with relief. Tenzin had understood the bargain he had to reach with Khodrak. Shan gestured to Gyalo and the two men inched their way along the wall.
Ten minutes later, neatly attired in the white tunics of the kitchen workers, Shan and Gyalo approached the medical team and announced to a technician sitting by the door that they had been sent for the old man with the bad foot. They waited another ten minutes, then the door of the station opened and a man in blue, a stethoscope around his neck, motioned them inside.
"He's sedated. A bad fall, that one. Had to put on a walking cast to stabilize the bone. He'll need crutches for a month at least." The man hovered over a clipboard with an incomplete form, then someone called for him to join the celebration. Chairman Khodrak was waiting with his visitors. The doctor sighed and tossed the clipboard on the table. Suddenly the technician appeared in the door. The man ignored Shan and Gyalo at first but then he stilled and slowly faced the monk. "He's one of those!" the man cried out, pointing at Gyalo. "One of the banned ones! The chairman must be told!"
The doctor gaped in confusion then stared at the radio handset that sat on the table six feet away. He was leaning forward, seemingly about to reach for the radio, when a rope materialized and settled over the technician, pinning his arms to his side. Before the man could cry out, a wooden post hit him on the head, one of the stanchions that had held the rope outside the clinic. The man slumped to the floor, colliding with the doctor as he leapt for the radio. A long, lanky form sprang through the air and Winslow was on top of the doctor, straddling him. The doctor fought for a moment, tearing at the American's clothes. The American launched an arcing blow with his fist that connected with the doctor's jaw and the man fell back, limp.
Winslow grinned at the two unconscious men and then at Shan and Gyalo. "Like I've been saying all along, what this country needs is a few good cowboys." He was wearing a chuba, with a military wool cap covering his light hair. His cheeks were darkened with dirt. In the early hours of the morning the American and Nyma had climbed a tree at the rear wall and dropped inside.
They quickly bound the two men together with medical tape, taped their mouths, and carried them into the shadows at the rear of the clinic.
The rear of the compound was empty. They quickly carried Lokesh past the stable and into the meditation cells, where hands reached out to help him as the secret door swung open. Shan carried the empty stretcher back to the medical station, leaning it against the wall with three others. Moments later he returned to the hidden closet, now lit by Winslow's electric lamp. Lokesh lay asleep on the cushions Shan had seen the day before. Winslow stood with Nyma at the opposite end of the chamber, studying the shelves. In the light of the electric lamp their contents were clearly visible: Peche, over a dozen Tibetan books, were stacked there, each wrapped in a dusty red cloth. Shan fought a momentary urge to examine the old books, took one more look at Lokesh and stepped out into the cell, closing the secret door behind him.
He lingered outside the cells a moment, wondering if he should risk appearing back at the assembly, where his arrival might be conspicuous now that the Chairman was well into his speech. He wandered around the rear of the gompa and worked his way toward the rear of the office building. On the front side of the building the Chairman was still speaking, now about the importance of electronics production, citing factory names and specific worker heroes. Shan had personally attended a dozen May Day speeches in Tiananmen Square in Beijing. They could last an hour or more. He stepped inside. In the entry room a small table was littered with food dishes. A Party newspaper had been dropped in haste on the table. A blue suit jacket hung on a peg in the wall. Slipping it on, he quietly stepped out into the corridor and up the stairs. He passed the office with the loudspeaker in the window and continued to the meeting room, pausing a moment as he saw a sixth robe that now hung on the pegs for dead monks, an addition to the row since his first visit. Gyalo, it said in large script, a deserter from Buddha.
He searched the empty conference room methodically. The closet in the corner was filled with boxes of the plastic dorjes and other small trinkets, as well as a stack of familiar little books with red vinyl covers. Scriptures from Beijing. A black leather satchel sat on a chair beside more maps like the one the carpenter had given him, marking the progress of Norbu's campaign against the old order. The top map was in a plastic jacket, clipped to a large envelope bearing the address of Religious Affairs headquarters in Lhasa.