They stood for several minutes at a rusting war memorial by the entrance to the stadium, Beijing’s monument to the fierce battles that had taken place in the region, Chinese divisions pitted against small brigades of Tibetan resistance fighters.

“I take it,” Gao said reluctantly to Shan, “you are about to propose that I lead this fragile expedition.” As he spoke he cocked his head toward the street. Hubei was running away.

“It would be suspicious for a man of your renown not to be,” Shan suggested. “Not to mention that we have neither money nor friends here. Not even a street map.”

“A street map,” Gao replied, “is one thing you don’t require in Tashtul.” He pointed to the squat block structure two hundred yards away, in front of which a tire was being changed on a decrepit bus by means of a cable slung over a tree limb, pulled by a tractor. “The transportation center.” He pointed to an open-air pavilion beside a row of buildings with glass storefront windows, then to a four-story building, the highest in town, that sported a Chinese flag and a dozen antennae. “The center for food and the center for authority.”

They walked past half a dozen barracks that had been converted to school rooms, behind which were five or six blocks of residences, a mix of old wooden structures and stucco bungalows. Shan did not miss the way Gao, finished with his orientation lesson, gazed back at the flagpole on the government center. Below the flag waved a long red-and-black banner, an unfamiliar ornament, the kind traveling armies used to fly.

“Where should we-,” Yangke began. Then Hostene decided the question for them. Without a word he began jogging toward the bus station. Shan clenched his jaw against the pain in his ribs and followed as quickly as he could. By the time he caught up, the Navajo was already in the station, extracting a photo of his niece from his wallet, gesturing toward it as he approached people waiting on benches, the sleepy vendor at the news kiosk, a wide-eyed girl selling dumplings from a steaming bucket.

As Shan reached his friend he caught several wary glances in his own direction. He had not changed his clothes since he’d been attacked. His pants were torn at the knee, his shirt mottled with dried blood. He drew Hostene into the shadows, calming him, hoping none of the Tibetans had paid attention to his urgent words in Chinese about an American woman.

Gao went out into the sparse crowd now, passing out small-denomination notes, asking softly about a woman who had become separated from a mountain-climbing party after an accident and might be seeking transport to Lhasa.

Too late Shan saw the gray uniforms among the throng of men at the disabled bus. The Public Security officers, often called knobs for the ornaments on their shoulders, were led by a man who, though middle-aged and overweight, had the sharp predatory eyes of every knob Shan had ever known. The officer’s steely gaze fell on Yangke and Shan. With a hand on the radio at his belt he approached. Yangke sank helplessly onto a bench.

Suddenly, Gao was at Shan’s side, thrusting a dark brown souvenir sweatshirt into his hands. XIZANG, it said in gold letters- Western Storehouse, the Chinese name for Tibet-arranged in an arc over overlapping images of a mountain, a yak, and a truck. Shan turned it inside out and pulled it over his soiled, torn shirt. He was heading for Yangke when he froze, every instinct sounding alarms. The station had nearly emptied. The dumpling vendor sat as if paralyzed, knuckles white on the rim of her bucket. The wall behind her began changing colors-dirty brown, then dirty blue, then brown, then blue. He overcame his paralysis to take another step as Hostene was guided by a knob to Yangke’s side, then he felt a firm grip on his lower arm. He did not speak, could not speak, as another knob led him to a bench and pushed him down.

“You can’t take them!” The words, meant as a shout, emerged from Shan’s throat like a moan. With a patient, businesslike air the knob at his side withdrew a baton from his belt. The sight of the weapon sent a new ripple along Shan’s ribs. He could not take another beating, not now, not without the risk of injuries that could force him off his feet for days.

Yangke and Hostene offered no resistance as they were manacled together and led into the prisoner wagon that waited, blue lights flashing, at the front of the station. Shan struggled to his feet, his wrists in front of him, to accept manacles. Then, when none were presented, he staggered toward the wagon. He had caused this. He had to be with them. But the knob at his side grabbed him again, pulling him back, as the doors of the van closed. The last thing Shan saw inside was Hostene, pressing his sacred feather against his forehead.

Chapter Ten

Shan collapsed onto a bench as the prisoner wagon sped away, disappearing in the direction of the government center. There would be holding cells in its basement-dim, damp places with insects and mold and dark, ominous stains on the walls. The two men had come to Tashtul because of Shan’s wishes and now they would be photographed, fingerprinted, and sprayed with disinfectant. Then the knobs would begin their entertainment.

Gradually he became aware of his surroundings, of people filing back into the station, of the girl hawking her dumplings in an unsteady voice, of the first set of knobs who had been in the station going to their car, then driving slowly down the road, of Gao sitting on a bench across the street, calmly reading a copy of the Lhasa Daily.

“Yangke won’t have a chance,” he said as he lowered himself onto the bench beside Gao. “Once they discover he was ejected from a monastery they will be like dogs fighting over fresh meat.” Shan spied something at Gao’s feet. Hostene’s pack.

“They overlooked it,” Gao said.

Shan unzipped the front pocket and saw the American’s passport. “Without this they’ll assume he is one of the old Tibetans. You know what that means.” Hostene would become part of the Ax to Root campaign. They called the special reeducation camps for such men sausage grinders, for the way so many types of Tibetans were thrown into them, only to emerge two or three years later, unrecognizable, in neat homogeneous forms. “Or else he will start speaking Navajo and they’ll declare him crazy. They’ll feed him through a slot in a cell door for the rest of his life.”

Gao gestured to a brown sedan that had pulled to a stop at the curb. A short, stout Chinese man in a blue cardigan sweater and white shirt climbed out of the driver’s seat, offered Gao a quick bow, and opened the rear door. Gao rose and, taking Hostene’s bag, stepped into the car then waited with the door open. It took nearly a minute for Shan to decide to join him.

For much of the drive Shan’s eyes were fixed on the central structure of the town, its front clad in faux marble, as he made quick calculations. How fast could he reach the basement of the building if he leaped out of the car? How long would it take Yangke and Hostene to be processed before they were thrown into the cells and the torment began? Where could he flee with them if he could somehow effect their escape? He was responsible for them, and, blinded by everything except the need to help Abigail and Lokesh and Gendun, he had led them into a trap. He had trusted Gao and now Yangke and Hostene were paying for his mistake.

“On my very first day of training as a physicist,” Gao declared, “my professor, an elderly Russian, told me, ‘Never trust reality.’ He wrote it on the chalkboard in Chinese and Russian. ‘You will spend the next few years learning that the reality you have always experienced is a myth,’ he said. ‘You will spend the rest of your lives proving that all the important forces of the universe are unreal.’ ” Gao gazed from the car at the banner floating above the government center.