Текст книги "The Skull Mantra"

Автор книги: Eliot Pattison

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"Isn't it a breach of the monastic rules not to wear your robe?" Shan asked.

The man gave him a sour look. "When you do not hold a license you are not so fastidious," he said with a distracted tone. He was studying Yeshe. "What was your gompa?" he demanded.

Yeshe tried to push away. The man at his arm responded by squeezing the top of his shoulder. The motion seemed to take Yeshe's breath away. He bent over, gasping. It was a traditional martial arts pincer movement against a pressure point.

"What kind of monks-" Shan began, then recognized the scars. They were the kind left by Public Security batons, from a beating so savage it ripped open long gutters of skin. Sometimes Public Security glued sandpaper to their batons.

The man's companion held Yeshe by the upper arm.

"Purba!" Yeshe warned.

"Some say you are among the zung mag protected by Choje Rinpoche," the scarred-face man said. Zung mag was a Tibetan term. It meant prisoners of war. It was not a term Choje ever used. "Others say you are protected by Colonel Tan. It cannot be both. It is a dangerous game you play." He silently pulled up Shan's arm, unbuttoned the cuff and rolled up his sleeve. He pushed the flesh around the tattoo. It was a test used in the prisons for infiltrators. Recent tattoos would not lose their color because of the bruising underneath.

The man nodded at his companion, who relaxed his grip on Yeshe. "Do you have any idea of what will happen if you execute another of the Five?" Inside his sleeve another garment was visible. He was wearing a robe after all, Shan realized, under the herdsmen's clothes.

For some reason the man made Shan angry. "Murder is a capital offense."

"We know about capital offenses in Tibet," the purba snapped. "My uncle was executed for throwing your chairman's quotations into a chamber pot. My brother was killed for conducting rites at a mass grave."

"You are talking about history."

"That makes it better?"

"Not at all," Shan said. "But what does it mean for you and me?"

The purba glared at Shan. "They killed my lama," he said.

"They killed my father," Shan shot back.

"But you are going to prosecute Sungpo."

"No. I am making an investigation file."

"Why?"

"I am a lao gai prisoner. It is the labor assigned to me."

"Why would they use a prisoner? It makes no sense."

"Because I had a life before the 404th. I was an investigator in Beijing. That is why Tan chose me. Why he decided to do an investigation outside the prosecutor's office I do not yet know."

The rancor began to fade from the man's voice. "There were riots before, the last time the knobs came to this valley. Many were killed. It was never reported."

Shan nodded sadly.

"It seemed that they were beginning to move on. But then they started persecuting the Five."

"Prosecution. There was a murder in each case." As much as he disliked the man's violence, Shan desperately wanted to find common grounds with the purbas. "At least accept that murderers must be punished. This is not some pogrom against the Buddhists."

"Do you know that?"

No, Shan realized wearily, he didn't know that. "But each started with a murder."

"Strange words, for someone from Beijing. I know your kind. Murder isn't a crime. It's a political phenomenon."

Shan felt an unfamiliar fire as he stared back at the young monk. "What is it you seek? To warn me? To scare me away from a job I am forced to do?"

"There must be payment in kind. When you take one of ours."

"Revenge is not the Buddhist way."

When the monk frowned, the long gouts of scar tissue contorted his face into a gruesome mask. "The story of my country's destruction. Peaceful coexistence. Let virtue prevail over force. It doesn't work when virtue has no voice left." He grabbed Shan's chin and forced Shan to look as he turned his head slowly, to be certain Shan could see the ruin of his face. "In this country, when you turn the other cheek they just destroy both of them."

Shan pushed the purba's hand away and looked into his smoldering eyes. "Then help me. There is nothing that can stop this, except the truth."

"We do not care who murdered the prosecutor."

"The only reason they will release a suspect is because they have a better one."

The purba stared at Shan, still suspicious. "In the hut of Choje Rinpoche, there is a Chinese prisoner who prays with Rinpoche. They call him the Chinese Stone, because he is so hard. He has never broken. He tricked them into releasing an old man."

"The old man's name was Lokesh," Shan acknowledged. "He sang the old songs."

The man nodded slowly. "What are you asking of us?"

"I don't know." Shan's eyes wandered toward Khorda's hut. "I would like to know who has suddenly been asking for charms for forgiveness from Tamdin. A young girl. And I need to find Balti, Prosecutor Jao's khampa driver. No one has seen him or the car since the murder."

"You think we would collaborate?"

"On the truth, yes."

The monk did not reply. Sergeant Feng's voice could be heard now, calling for Shan and Yeshe above the bleat of the goats.

"Here-" The purba in front spun about and dropped a small goat into Yeshe's arms. His disguise.

Feng was raising the whistle to his lips as Shan and Yeshe stepped out of the doorway.

Shan glanced back. The purbas were gone.

Yeshe was silent as they returned to the truck. He sat in the back and stared at a piece of heather, like those worn by the people in the market. "A girl gave it to me," he said in a desolate tone. "She said to wear it for them. I asked who she meant. She said the souls of the 404th. She said the sorcerer announced they were all going to be martyred."

Chapter Eight

The lampposts leading out of town were being painted silver, no doubt for the honored guests soon to arrive from Beijing and America. But a high wind was blowing, so that sand particles adhered to the poles as quickly as the workers applied the paint, making the poles appear even shabbier than before. Shan envied the proletariat its ability to embrace the most important lesson of their society, that the goal of any worker was not to do a good job, but to do a correct job.

The kiosks that housed public phones were being painted, too, although Sergeant Feng could not find a single phone that worked. He followed a wire to a musty tea shop at the edge of town and commandeered a phone.

"No one will stop you," Colonel Tan replied when Shan told him he needed to inspect the skull cave. "I closed it down the day we found the head. What took you so long? Surely you're not frightened of a few bones."

As the truck climbed the low gravel foothills that led out of the valley, Yeshe seemed more restless than usual. "You should not have done it," he burst out at last. "You shouldn't meddle."

Shan turned in his seat. Yeshe's gaze moved unsteadily across the skyline as they headed toward the huge mass of the Dragon Claws. Giant cumulus clouds, almost blindingly white against the cobalt sky, had snagged on the peaks in the distance.

"Meddle with what?"

"What you did. The skull mantra. You had no right to summon the demon."

"So you believe that's what I did?"

"No. It's just that these people…" Yeshe's voice faded away.

"These people? You mean your people?"

Yeshe frowned. "Summoning is a dangerous thing. To the old Buddhists, words were the most dangerous weapon of all."

"You believe I summoned a demon?" Shan repeated.

Yeshe cut his eyes at Shan, then looked away. "It's not so simple. People will hear about the words you spoke. Some will say the demon will possess the summoner. Some will say the demon has been invited to act again. Khorda was right. Ruthlessness follows the name of the demon."

"I thought the demon was already released."

Yeshe looked with pain into his hands. "Our demons, they have a way of becoming self-fulfilling."

Shan considered his companion. He had never known anyone who could sound like a monk one moment and a party functionary the next. "What do you mean?"

"I don't know. Things will happen. It will become an excuse."

"For what? Telling the truth?"

Yeshe winced and turned back to the window.

Only one thing the sorcerer had said made sense. Follow the path of Tamdin. The Tamdin killer had gone from the 404th, then over the mountains to the skull cave. And Shan had to follow the path, had to return to the horrible, holy place of the dead lamas.

A single army truck with two drowsy guards sat at the turnoff to the skull cave, stationed there while Tan kept the project closed for the investigation. Startled by the sudden appearance of visitors, the soldiers grabbed their rifles, then relaxed as they saw Feng at the wheel.

The air was strangely still as they drove into the little valley. Overhead clouds scudded quickly by, but as they reached the small plateau with the solitary tree, Shan saw that no wind touched its branches. He climbed out of the truck with a strange apprehension. There was also no sound. There was almost no color other than the browns and grays of the rock and shed, except for a new sign in bright red characters. DANGER, it said, ENTRANCE FORBIDDEN BY ORDER OF THE MINISTRY OF GEOLOGY.

Yeshe exchanged an uneasy glance with him, then followed Shan toward the cave entrance. Feng hung back as they checked their flashlights, conspicuously examining the tires as though they suddenly required his attention.

The two men walked silently through the entrance tunnel, Yeshe lagging farther behind Shan with each step.

"This is not-" Yeshe began nervously as he joined Shan at the edge of the main chamber. In the dim, shaking light of their handlamps the huge figures on the walls seemed to dance, staring angrily at them.

"Not what?"

"Not a place where-" Yeshe was struggling, but with what Shan was not certain. Had he been asked to stop Shan somehow? Had he perhaps decided to quit his assignment?

The figures of the demons and Buddhas seemed to be speaking to Yeshe. He cocked his head toward them, his face clouding, but it wasn't fear of the images, nor hatred of Shan. It was just pain. "We should not go here," he said. "It is only for the most holy of people."

"You're refusing to continue on religious grounds?"

"No," Yeshe shot back defensively. He fixed his eyes on the floor of the cave, refusing to look at the paintings. "I mean, this is only meaningful for the religious minorities." He looked up, but refused to look Shan in the eyes. "The Bureau of Religious Affairs has specialists. They would be better qualified to engage in cultural interpretations."

"Odd. I thought a trained monk would be even better."

Yeshe turned away.

"I think you're scared," Shan said to his back, "scared that someone will accuse you of being Tibetan."

A sound, something like a laugh, came from Yeshe's throat, but there was no laughter in his eyes as he faced Shan again.

"Who are you?" Shan pressed. "The good Chinese who craves losing himself with a billion others just like him? Or the Tibetan who recognizes that lives are at stake here? Not just one, but many. And we are the only ones who have a chance of saving them. Me. And you."

Yeshe looked back as though with a question and froze. Shan followed his gaze. There were lights at the opposite side of the chamber, and voices raised in excitement.

Instantly they extinguished their own lamps and stepped back into the tunnel. Tan had shut down the cave. No one else was authorized to enter. There had been no other vehicles outside. Whoever the intruders were, they were running a grave risk if captured.

"Purbas," Yeshe whispered. "We must leave, quickly."

"But we just left them back at the market."

"No. Their ranks are large. They are very dangerous. There is a decree from the capital. It is a citizen's duty to report them."

"So you want to get away from me to report them?" Shan asked.

"What do you mean?"

"We were with Sergeant Feng since seeing the purbas in the market. You said nothing to him."

"They are outlaws."

"They are monks. Are you going to report them?" Shan repeated.

"If we get caught working with them it will be conspiracy," Yeshe said in anguish. "At least five years lao gai."

Shan realized the intruders were not in the skull tunnel, but a smaller alcove in the center of the far wall. He pushed Yeshe toward them, moving silently along the perimeter of the huge chamber. Suddenly, when less then thirty feet separated them, a brilliant strobe exploded.

The camera flash was aimed toward the wall paintings beside him, but caught Shan in the face, blinding him. A high-pitched scream split the air, then was abruptly stifled. "Son of a bitch," someone else groaned in a lower voice.

Shan, shielding his eyes against another flash, switched on his light. Rebecca Fowler, her hand clutching her chest as though she had been kicked, stared at them numbly.

"Jesus, boys," the man with the camera said. "Thought you were ghosts for sure." Tyler Kincaid gave a quick, forced laugh and aimed a high-powered beam behind them. "You alone?"

"The army is outside," Yeshe blurted out, as though in warning.

"Sergeant Feng is outside," Shan corrected.

"So here we are," Kincaid said, and took another picture. "Thieves in the night, you might say."

"Thieves?"

"Just funny– I mean, you sneaking around without lights. Doesn't exactly feel official."

"And when asked, how should I say this cave relates to your mining project, Miss Fowler?" Shan asked.

Kincaid's comment seemed to have restored her confidence. "I told you. The UN Antiquities Commission. Who's going to ask?" She cocked her head. "And why are you here?"

Shan ignored the question. "And Mr. Kincaid?"

"I asked him to come. For the photos."

Shan remembered the photographs of Tibetans in the American's office.

"And how much have you seen?"

"This," Rebecca Fowler gestured around the main chamber with a look of awe. "And we're just getting to the records."

"Records?"

She escorted him into the alcove, which was partially concealed by a canvas sheet hung over the entrance. Three makeshift tables had been erected on planks over wooden crates. One table held cartons of paper files, another empty beer bottles and ashtrays overflowing with cigarette butts. The third, much cleaner, had a cloth thrown over it, with small cartons containing computer disks, a pad to accommodate a portable computer, and an open ledger.

Kincaid kept snapping photos as Shan and Fowler examined the ledger. Beginning a month earlier, it recorded the removal of an altar and reliquaries, offering lamps and a statue of Buddha. Dimensions, weight, and quantity were fastidiously recorded.

"What does it say?" Fowler asked. It was not unusual for foreigners learning Chinese to study only the conversational, not the written language.

Shan hesitated, then quickly summarized the contents.

"How about books?" Tyler Kincaid asked. "The old manuscripts. Jansen says they are usually well preserved, the kind of thing that can easily be saved."

There was a page recording the removal of two hundred manuscripts. "I don't know," Shan replied. He knew about recovered manuscripts. Once at the 404th a dump truck had deposited several hundred old religious tracts. Under gunpoint the prisoners had been forced to rip the volumes into small pieces which were boiled in big pots, then mixed with lime and sand to make plaster for the guards' new latrine.

"And on the first page?" Fowler asked.

"First page?"

"Who wrote this? Who is in charge?"

Shan turned to the overleaf. "Ministry of Geology, it says. By order of Director Hu."

Fowler shoved her hand forward to hold down the overleaf and called for Kincaid to photograph the page. "The bastard," she muttered. "No wonder Jao wanted to stop him."

Was it possible, Shan considered, that Fowler was in the cave not about the antiquities but about her mining permit?

Kincaid changed lenses and began photographing the pages, pausing over the detailed entries. "They took an altar, you said. Where's it say that?"

Shan showed him.

Kincaid placed his finger on a column on the right side of the page. "What's this?"

"Weights and dimensions," Shan explained.

"Three hundred pounds, it says." The American nodded. "But look, here is something even heavier. Four hundred twenty pounds."

"The statue."

"Can't be," Kincaid argued, following the line of data. "It shows it's only three feet high."

Shan studied the entry again. The American was right.

Yeshe, over their shoulders, explained. "In these old shrines," he said in a brittle voice, "the altar statue was often solid gold."

Kincaid whistled. "My God! It's worth millions."

"Priceless," Fowler said, excitement in her eyes. "The right museum-"

"I don't think so," Shan interrupted.

"No, really. Do you have any idea how rare this statue would be? A major find. The find of the year."

"No," Shan shook his head slowly. He found himself almost angered by the Americans' passion. No, not their passion. Their innocence.

"What do you mean?" Fowler asked.

Shan answered by shining his light around the room. He found what he expected under one of the other tables, a pile of hammers and chisels. "Four hundred pounds of gold would be inconvenient to transport in one large piece." He picked up one of the chisels and showed the Americans the flecks of brilliant metal embedded in its blade.

Rebecca Fowler grabbed the chisel and stared at it, then threw it against the wall. "Bastards!" she shouted. Angrily she grabbed several of the computer disks and stuffed three of them into her shirt pocket, staring at Shan as she did so, as if daring him to defy her.

Kincaid gazed at the woman with obvious admiration, then began shooting photos again. Yeshe began leafing through the ledger, pausing at a loose sheet near the back. He looked up excitedly and handed the page to Shan. "An audit page," he whispered, as though to keep the Americans from hearing. "From the Bureau of Religious Affairs."

"But it's blank."

"Yes," Yeshe said. "But look at it. Columns to identify the gompa, date, relics found, distribution of relics. If Religious Affairs does audits, we could find if any gompas had a Tamdin costume."

"And if so, when it was found, and where it is now." Shan nodded, with an edge of excitement.

"Exactly."

Shan folded the sheet and was about to put it in his pocket, then paused and handed it to Yeshe, who stuffed it in his shirt with a look that for the first time might have been satisfaction.

Shan slowly moved out of the alcove, leaving his three companions with the murals as he moved into the tunnel where Colonel Tan had taken him. He paused just before the circle of his light reached the first of the skulls, trying to find words to prepare the others. But no words came, and he forced his feet ahead.

Even the dead were different in Tibet. He had been in mass bone-yards back home, after the Cultural Revolution. But there the dead had not felt holy, or wise, or even complete. They had just felt used.

As he moved along the shrine, he found himself gasping. He stopped and surveyed the rows of empty eye sockets. They all seemed to be watching him, the endless lines of skulls like the endless rosary of skulls Khorda had pressed into his hands before making Shan call for Tamdin. With a start, he realized they had been witnesses. Tamdin had been there with Prosecutor Jao's head, and the skulls had seen it all. The skulls knew.

Behind him he sensed a shudder. The others had discovered the tunnel. Fowler groaned. Kincaid cursed loudly. Something like a whimper escaped Yeshe's lips. Shan clenched his jaw and moved on to the shelf where Jao's head had been deposited. He tried to sketch the scene, but stopped. His hand was trembling too much.

"What is it you expect to find?" Yeshe whispered nervously over his shoulder. He stood with his back to Shan, as if expecting to be ambushed at any moment. "This is not a place we should stay in."

"The murderer came here with Jao's head. I want to find the skull that was moved from here to make room for Jao. Why was this particular shelf disturbed? Was there a reason for this particular skull to be moved? Where was its skull moved to?" Shan felt almost certain he knew the answer to the last question already. It would have been thrown into the shed with the other skulls being processed.

Yeshe seemed not to have heard. "Please," he pleaded. "We must go."

As the Americans approached they were speaking of Tibetan history. "Kincaid says this was probably a cave of Guru Rinpoche," Fowler announced. She too was whispering.

"Guru Rinpoche?" Shan asked.

"The most famous of the ancient hermits," Yeshe interjected. "He inhabited caves all over Tibet in his lifetime, making each one a place of great power. Most were turned into shrines centuries ago."

"I had no idea Mr. Kincaid was such a scholar," Shan observed.

"Jao wanted to stop them," Fowler announced suddenly, her voice cracking. Shan looked up. A single tear rolled down her cheek.

"What's that?" Yeshe asked in an urgent whisper. "I thought I heard something!"

There was something, Shan sensed. Not a sound. Not a movement. Not a presence. Something unspeakable and immense that seemed to have been triggered by Fowler's sadness. He lowered his pad and stood silently with the others, transfixed by the hollow sockets of the gleaming skulls. They weren't in the heart of the mountain. They were in the heart of the universe, and the numbing silence that welled around them wasn't silence at all, but a soul-wrenching hoarseness like the moment before a scream.

Choje was right, Shan suddenly knew, it was meaningless to ask whether Tamdin was indeed the grotesque monster he had seen painted on the wall. Whoever or whatever the killer had been, the killer had been a demon, not because it had decapitated Prosecutor Jao but because it had brought the ugliness of the act to such a perfect place.

He became aware of something new, a slight rustle of noise that became a chatter. It seemed to be coming from the skulls. Rebecca Fowler, fear now in her eyes, stepped closer to Kincaid. The two stood frozen, listening, then Kincaid abruptly turned and raised his camera toward Yeshe. He fired the strobe like a weapon and the noise stopped. Shan suddenly realized they had been hearing an echoing mantra, started by Yeshe.

The spell was broken.

"You could still help," Shan suggested as he recovered.

Fowler looked up with a haggard expression. "Anything."

"We need a record. If Mr. Kincaid could photograph all the shelves." The skulls knew, Shan told himself again. Maybe he could make them talk.

Kincaid nodded slowly. "I could get all three levels in one frame. Should have just about enough film."

"I need the inscriptions for each skull included. After I study the photos maybe we could turn them over to your UN Commission."

Fowler offered Shan a small, sad nod of gratitude, but lingered when Yeshe went to help Kincaid with the first row of skulls. She and Shan continued cautiously down the tunnel. The shelves ended, replaced by more images of demons painted on the walls.

"Is it true that you're being forced to do this, that you're a prisoner of some kind?" Fowler asked suddenly.

Shan kept walking. "Who told you that?"

"Nobody. Tyler just said that nobody knows who you are. You were some kind of outside official, we thought. But outside officials– I don't know, outside officials get lots of respect." She winced at her own words.

He was touched by her embarrassment.

"Tyler says it's funny, the way your sergeant watches you. He carries a gun, but he's not a bodyguard. A bodyguard would watch past you, around you. But your sergeant, he just watches you."

Shan stopped and turned his light toward the American's face. "When I am not investigating murders I build roads," he confessed. "In what they call a labor brigade."

Fowler's hand went to her mouth. "My God," she whispered, biting a knuckle. "In one of those awful prisons?" She looked away, toward the demons. Her eyes were bright and wet when she spoke again. "I don't understand anything. How are you– why would you-" She shook her head. "I'm so sorry. I'm such a fool."

"A very senior Party member told me once that there're only two types of people in my country," Shan observed. "Masters and slaves. I don't believe it, and I would be saddened if you did."

Fowler offered a weak smile. "But how could you be investigating?"

"It was my talent before being elevated to road laborer. I used to be an investigator in Beijing."

"But you defy Tan, I saw it. If he's your-"

Shan held up a hand, not wanting to hear the next word. Prisonkeeper, perhaps? Even slavemaster? "Maybe that's why– because he can inflict no further harm." It was the kind of half-truth an American would believe.

"Which is why you won't prove that monk is Jao's killer?"

"I can't. He's innocent."

Fowler stared at him. Maybe, Shan considered, she knew too much about China to accept such a bold statement.

"Then what's going on? You're here like a thief. Li is conducting an investigation, too, but he's not here. What is Tan so worried about?"

So she did understand China more than Shan expected. "I am confused about you, too, Miss Fowler," he countered. "You are the manager, but you said Mr. Kincaid's father owns the company."

The American woman gave an amused grunt. "Long story. Short version is that just because Tyler's father runs the company doesn't mean they get along."

"They are not close? You mean for him Tibet is a punishment?"

"You know what a dropout is? Tyler went to mining school like his family wanted, so he could take over the company someday. But after graduation he announced he wanted none of it. Said the company ruined the environment, said it impoverished local populations. Spent several hundred thousand of his trust funds on a ranch in California, where he lived a few years, then gave it to a wildlife conservation group that was blocking a new mine his father wanted to build. Took a few years for things to cool down to where they would speak to one another, a few more before Tyler agreed to take a job in the company. But his father was still distrustful enough that he wouldn't put him in charge. Still, they're talking now. Tyler is serious about making a new life for himself. He's a damned good engineer. Tyler will be chairman one day, and one of the richest men in America."

"And you? You're very young for such responsibilities."

"Young?" Fowler shook her head slowly and sighed. "I haven't felt young for a long time." She stopped, looking ahead. The tunnel opened into another chamber. "Guess I'm the opposite of Tyler. Never had two cents when I was growing up. Worked hard, saved, won scholarships. Worked like a dog for ten years to get here."

"And you choose Tibet?"

She shrugged as she stepped forward. "It's not what I expected."

The paintings inside the chamber presented a tableau of Tibetan geography, images of mountains and palaces and shrines. On the floor at one end were shards of bone and a dozen skulls arranged in a triangle shape. Fifteen feet away was a row of skulls, surrounded by bootprints and cigarette butts. The soldiers had been bowling.

Fowler picked up a skull and held it reverently in her palms, then began to retrieve the others as though to return them to the shelves. Shan touched her arm. "You can't," he warned. "They will know you were here."

She nodded silently and lowered the skull, then turned back down the tunnel wearing a desolate expression. They joined Yeshe and Kincaid, waiting in the main chamber, and the four moved quickly away. No one spoke until they were near the entrance.

"Wait a quarter of an hour," Shan suggested, "then return the same way you arrived." He did not ask how they knew a secret route. "I will come for the photos-"

He was interrupted by a gasp from Fowler. A figure had appeared in the entranceway, lit by the brilliant sunlight as though with a spotlight.

"It's him!" Fowler cried in a hoarse whisper, and she and Kincaid faded into the shadows. But Shan needed no explanation. The man in the entrance could only be Director Hu of the Ministry of Geology.

***

Shan stepped out into the light.

"Comrade Inspector!" the short, stocky man called out. "What a pleasure! I had hoped to find you still here." On his wide face his tiny black eyes looked like beetles.

"We have not been introduced," Shan observed slowly, surveying the compound as he spoke.

"No. But here I am, coming all this way to help you. And here you are, working so hard to help me." He ceremoniously handed Shan his card. It was made of vinyl. Director of Mines, Lhadrung County, it read. Hu Yaohong. Hu Who Wants to be Red.

A red truck was parked beside their own. Suddenly Shan remembered: The same truck had been parked at the worksite the day they had discovered Jao's body. He studied it more closely. It was a British Land Rover, the most expensive vehicle he had ever seen in Lhadrung.

"You came to help?" Shan asked.

"That, and for a security check."

There was a man talking to Feng. With a twitch of his gut Shan realized Hu wasn't referring to security at the entrance. The second visitor was Lieutenant Chang, from the 404th. Chang looked at him with an indolent eye, the gaze of a shopkeeper confirming his inventory.

As Director Hu took a step toward the cave, Shan moved in front of him. "I do have some questions for you."

"In my mine, I can show you-"

"No," Shan pressed. Had Hu seen the Americans? He half expected Kincaid to step out for a photograph. "Please. I'd rather not." He put his hand on his stomach and tried to look nauseated. "It's very unsettling for me."

"You're scared?" The Director of Mines looked amused. He wore a large gold ring. For a geologist he seemed extremely well dressed. "We could sit in the car perhaps? It's British, you know."

"I have to return to town. Colonel Tan."

"Excellent! I'll drive you. I must explain my evidence." Hu called out and Chang threw him the keys, then nodded as Hu instructed him to follow with Feng and Yeshe.

"Evidence?" Shan asked.

Hu seemed not to have heard. They spoke no more until they were on the main road. Hu drove hard, seeming to enjoy the rough road and the way Shan grabbed the dashboard as they bounced. On the curves he accelerated, laughing as the rear wheels skidded in the dirt.