Shan pulled his hat low, turned his face away as he donned one of the coats, not daring to look back toward the entry road, half expecting Tsipon to appear and pull him away from the gatehouse.
“By my count you have less than a day left. I need those porters,” the Tibetan had growled when Shan found him in his office late the day before.
“I know where the body is.” Shan had then produced a ragged sheet of paper from his pocket then scribbled something and handed it to the Tibetan.
Tsipon’s face sagged as he read Shan’s words. “You have suffered a complete mental breakdown. I hear it is common among former prisoners.”
“And I hear you want to buy an apartment in Macau. You won’t be able to afford a broom closet without those American dollars.”
Tsipon frowned. “My little bird Kypo sings too much,” he snapped, then stood, lit a cigarette, and gazed out his window. “I promised you I’d get you inside the spa. If I grant your request, this is it. Your one and only chance inside. I’m done bending rules for you. You can go in for that damned colonel now or for your son later.”
Shan had expected it would be the bargain Tsipon offered, but now, hearing the words, something inside frantically urged him to reject it. He spoke looking down at his feet. “They go in before dawn, every other day.”
“How do you know?”
“I’ve seen them,” Shan said. He was not about to tell Tsipon that at least once a week he found a way to steal onto the remote ridge by the yeti factory and watch, praying for a glimpse of his son at a window or exercising on the grounds.
“If you are discovered,” Tsipon declared in a tentative tone, “I won’t even return the call when Public Security tries to reach me.”
“If they arrest me there,” Shan rejoined, “they won’t bother to make any calls.”
The thought seemed to encourage Tsipon. He waved the paper toward Shan. “These people you want to use for cover,” he added with a perverse grin, “they are like animals. They even scare the knobs.”
Shan had indeed been counting on the guards’ discomfort with the fleshcutters. The soldiers who handed out the lab coats seemed not nearly as interested in screening the workers as quickly getting rid of the shabbily dressed, low-caste Tibetans.
Moments later they were inside, retrieving stainless steel buckets and two large laundry tubs on wheels from a janitor’s closet before disappearing down a dimly lit corridor.
The Tibetans did their accustomed chore with silent determination, moving from one surgical room to another, emptying several sacks of bloody towels into one of the laundry tubs, then tossing in stained cloth bundles from canisters marked CONTAMINATED before looking to Shan with an air of anticipation. He had known several ragyapa before. They were people of few words and fewer fears. He had met them before dawn to explain his goal that morning, and had listened and agreed to their rules about touching even the smallest of mortal remains. Unknown to the knobs, the ragyapa did not burn the body parts as they were instructed to do, but took them to consecrated grounds for dispersal to the birds. Touching the dead was not taboo to them; it was a sacred duty.
The oldest of the men now took the lead, walking down a corridor marked Kitchens. A woman in a nurse’s uniform saw them and scurried away. A janitor with a broom muttered an oath, then ducked into an unlit room. Many in modern Tibet regarded the fleshcutters with disdain but others knew them to be special emissaries of the Lord of Death.
Four of the party took up positions at each of the kitchen entry doors as the others watched Shan enter the large walk-in refrigeration unit at the back of the room. He moved toward the heavy racks at the rear. Slabs of beef and pork. Boxes of fresh vegetables beside dressed chickens. Like sailors on submarines, the staff at such remote sites were well fed and well paid to offset the hardship.
He studied the pipes that carried the coolant, noting how they disappeared through the side wall, then spoke in low, urgent tones to his companions. Soon kitchen staff would arrive to begin fixing the morning meal. A minute later they stood at a set of double swinging doors in a short corridor behind the kitchen, secured not by locks but by a single small sign. Morgue, it said, in Chinese. Shan left two of the men at the entrance to the corridor, then gestured for the others with the empty laundry tub to follow, pushed open the door and trotted to the heavy metal door at the back of the chamber, an identical match to that in the kitchen. Turning on the light switch by the entry, he stepped inside.
There were four bodies under sheets in the huge refrigerator, laid out on long metal shelves that lined the walls. Shan hesitated a moment, knowing that two of the bodies must be inmates, then saw the red tags extending from the two bodies laid out at the rear wall, a warning not to tamper with Public Security evidence. One body was obviously female. He pulled the sheet from the face of the second.
Even though he had come expecting to find Tenzin, his gut still wrenched at the sight. The compact, swarthy Nepali was much grayer than when Shan had wrapped him in canvas the week before but he was still recognizable as the steadfast sherpa Shan had known at the base camp.
He whispered a greeting to his friend then stared at him awkwardly, thinking perhaps there were other words that should be said. “I’m sorry,” he muttered, and had extended his hand to untie the red tag when a hand grabbed his elbow. The old ragyapa whispered a reverent greeting to the dead man then pulled Shan back. Shan was about to protest when the Tibetan lifted Shan’s hands, palms upward. He placed his own fingertips on Shan’s palms as if passing something very fragile to him, then spoke words that were so fast and low Shan could not understand. The man nodded solemnly and motioned for Shan to continue. Shan pointed to the cardboard box under the shelf, which contained familiar clothes, but as one of the Tibetans lifted it away he reached out and extracted a blue wool cap, the cap the driver said had been pulled low on dead American’s head after she had died. He tossed it back into the box, turned to remove the sheet and froze. Tenzin had been shot.
He quickly bent over the two near-perfect circles in his chest, examining the flesh around them. They were positioned roughly where the wounds on Megan Ross had been, but the flesh had never been stained with blood. It was part of the disguise the knobs had given him. Witnesses from afar had seen two bodies; closer ones had seen two victims dead of gunshots, one with a blue cap on. Just as they had placed the cap on Tenzin, they had also put two bullet holes in his chest after his body had been switched for that of Megan Ross. He leaned over the holes once more, gauging the size with a fingertip. They were large, huge, compared to the holes made by the 9 millimeter bullets of most Chinese pistols.
Shan realized no one was moving behind him. He turned to see the ragyapa standing, staring at him. He motioned them forward.
The ragyapa worked with their usual silent efficiency, lifting Tenzin’s body to the floor, rolling him in a sheet taken from a stack by the door before dropping him into the large tub on wheels and covering it with the cardboard box of clothing and bloodstained refuse. As they began to wheel it away Shan stopped them and uncovered the box, pulling away an envelope taped to one of its flaps, marked Evidence. Inside was a Public Security form confirming that the contents had been removed from Unnamed Accomplice, and two heavy bullets. He closed it and left it on one of the rear shelves. Unnamed Accomplice. Tenzin had had quite a career since dying.
Shan stared uneasily at the two dead prisoners hidden by the sheets, then forced himself toward them. It seemed to take all his strength to lift the sheets and glance at each of the faces. Having confirmed that neither was his son, he stepped back, gasping. He did not realize he had been holding his breath.