“When I first came to China years ago,” a simmering voice said to his back, “I had a ballpoint pen that I left behind in a hotel room in Shanghai. Two days later in Beijing, my escort gave it back to me. Later I got him drunk and asked him about it. He explained that half the people who work for the government actually do the work of the government, the other half watch the first half and every foreigner who enters the country.”

Shan, the gau still in his palm, slowly sank onto the bed.

Yates pulled off the wool cap he wore. “So what kind of spy are you? Animal, mineral, or vegetable?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Do you spy for the Party, some economic enterprise, or just the police?”

Shan extended the gau. “Do you have any idea how rare this is, how old it is? Did you steal this too?”

“I’m no thief.”

“Show me your knuckles.”

Yates, confused, began to lift his hand, then glanced at it and hid it behind his back. But not before Shan had glimpsed its scratches and abrasions.

“You son of a bitch, Shan!” the American spat. “It was you up there last night.”

Shan dropped the gau into Yates’s hand. “Some of the older Tibetans say that with the right prayers inside such an amulet, the one who holds it is incapable of lying.”

“I asked people about you,” Yates snapped. “You’re one of those prisoners, one of the gulag outcasts with nothing to lose. Tsipon should have told me.”

Shan picked up the strange optical instrument, aiming it like a gun at the American. “I’ve got you. Theft of cultural antiquities is a serious charge. The constable will be overjoyed when I present you to him. Having a constable indebted to you is what every outcast dreams of.”

Yates bent the black tube downward, away from his chest.

“I’ve never seen one of these,” Shan said.

“It’s called a borescope,” the American explained in a sullen voice. Shan did not resist as Yates pulled the instrument from his fingers. “There’s a cult of climbers obsessed with finding evidence of expeditions from decades ago. A lot of people died then, disappeared without a trace. Some think they stuffed messages into cracks in the rocks, to avoid having them blown away. With this they can see inside the cracks.” Yates unscrewed the tube from the body of the instrument, putting the pieces on his bed. “The constable will be more inclined to believe me when I say I caught you stealing my things. What’s the word of an unreformed criminal against that of a valued American entrepreneur? Foreign currency buys instant respectability in this country.”

“Did you kill them, Yates?”

The American seemed to grow very weary. He settled onto the cot. “Kill them? You mean Minister Wu.”

“I mean Minister Wu and Megan Ross.”

Yates gazed at Shan without expression. “Minister Wu was killed by some deranged army officer. Megan Ross is away, back in a few days.”

Most people were scared of ghosts because they were dead but Shan was becoming scared of this one because she would not stay dead. “Everyone keeps saying Ross is alive, but no one can say where she is. Did you help her get away, did you take her to one of her secret mountains?”

“People are deported for such things. She says she won’t expose anyone else to that risk. Being banned from the Chinese Himalayas would be a deep personal tragedy for a serious climber.”

“Almost as tragic as being murdered in the Himalayas. Was she a competitor? Is that why she had to die? Didn’t want to share your piece of the Himalayan enterprise?”

“I told you. She is away on a climb. And she’s not a competitor, she’s a partner. She has a contract to help me with my expeditions this year, arranging the routes, handling the bookkeeping for the money going into China. She’s famous in climbing circles. She knows China better than I do.”

Shan gave an exaggerated shrug and gestured to the amulet, still in Yates’s hand. “I guess we have proved the gau doesn’t work on foreigners. Or maybe it’s lost its power after all these centuries.”

“Your boss is going to be very unhappy when he finds out I won’t be doing business with him.”

“But we found that missing body. Porters from the village are already arriving.”

“I was thinking more about whether I want to work with you.”

“The better question,” Shan rejoined, “is whether they will want to work with someone who steals from them, then insults them.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Taking the deities is bad enough. But giving them back damaged, that’s demeaning.”

The ember that had been smoldering in the American’s eyes was about to ignite. He pointed to the entry. “Get out!”

“I found the instrument you use to spy inside the statutes. Now all I need is a high-power drill. Where’s your workshop?” Shan paused, suddenly remembering the structure of cartons in the outer tent. He stood and backed away, ready to dodge the fist that Yates seemed about to throw at him. “I understand how the government handles these matters, Mr. Yates. Write a confession about the thefts and the murders. I’ll hold it for a day, long enough for you to drive across to Nepal.”

The American’s fury seemed to paralyze him as Shan slipped out between the blankets. He darted to the carton structure and began shoving the outer cartons away, quickly revealing a narrow passageway between the stacked boxes.

“No!” came a frightened gasp from behind him. Yates leaped at Shan, arms outstretched to grab him just as, from the corner of his eye, Shan saw movement at the entry.

“Shan!” Constable Jin stepped inside the tent. “Where are you, you bastard?”

Shan pushed forward, reaching a small, dark chamber in the center of the block of boxes as Yates seized him by shoulder, desperately trying to pull him away.

“Shan!” Jin called again. The constable began walking toward the boxes.

Three Tibetan men in tattered, soiled robes looked up at Shan with terrified expressions. Yates was hiding the fugitive monks.

Chapter Nine

Shan spun about and rammed his shoulder against Yates, shoving him out of the passage, lashing out sideways with his arms to collapse the entry to the hidden chamber before pushing the confused American, toward the constable. Yates stumbled, landing in a pile of long limbs and ragged hair at Jin’s feet.

“This foreigner,” Shan declared, with a furtive glance toward the cartons to make certain they gave no evidence of the hollow inside, “is a smuggler.” He hovered over Yates, as if to prevent his escape. “I have discovered that he brought several crates of food into our country and declared them as climbing equipment that would be reexported after the season. Evading the payment of customs fees is a crime against the People’s Republic.”

Jin seemed a bit frightened, glancing uneasily from Shan to Yates. Then he rose to the occasion as Shan began carrying full boxes from the front of the stack and dropping them at his feet. A case of powdered chocolate. A case of energy bars. A case of oatmeal.

“A serious crime,” Jin affirmed with a new air of authority as, with a tentative finger, he pushed open the top flap of a carton. “Smugglers go to prison in our country. If you are lucky, Mr. Yates, you will only be fined and denied future entry.”

“We can wait until we return to town to contact the Ministry of Tourism,” Shan stated in a sober tone.

“Tourism?” Jin asked uncertainly.

“At least three climbing expeditions will have to be cancelled,” Shan added. “But I know that won’t stop you from doing the right thing, Constable. And of course there’s the notification to Public Security.”

Jin’s face clouded. “I am fully familiar with procedures,” he interjected. The constable glanced nervously out the entry, toward the main track of the camp, where his truck was parked. Shan brought another box to the pile. Dried fruit. The constable took a step outside, surveyed the compound and returned, his chest inflated. “Perhaps I may be able to handle this administratively,” he suggested in an inviting tone. “But the contraband must be confiscated,” he declared. “You understand it is my duty, Mr. Yates.”