Mandarin Gate (13 page)

“But I so deeply enjoy what I do. I am a field commander, not a paper pusher. I am due in a week to address some new problems in Rutok,” he declared, referring to the county in far western Tibet whose number of prisons and internment camps rivaled even those of Lhadrung County. “Another damned monk immolated himself. A clear sign of poor discipline on the part of the local authorities,” he added, his eyes lingered on Meng, who would not meet his gaze. “I don’t have a lot of time. Let’s say six days.”

“I asked for help with forensics from Lhasa,” Meng began. “They won’t—”

Liang raised his hand to cut her off. “I am ever aware of your district’s failure to efficiently deal with evidence, Lieutenant. No matter how long we give you, you’ll just complete your analysis and declare there’s not enough to go on.” Liang blew twin jets of smoke from his nostrils. “The murders were committed by a Tibetan lama named Jamyang. A renegade living alone in the mountains, seeking ways to advance the splittist cause.”

Shan could not bring himself to meet Liang’s gaze. He spoke toward the ashtray at Liang’s elbow, filled with crushed butts. “The murders were not a political statement.”

“You’re wasting my time then. Lieutenant Meng said you know about the Tibetans.” The major reached behind his chair into an open briefcase and laid a stone of the table. “Tell me what it is.”

Shan clenched his jaw. He had seen the stone, pressing down on dead hands at the convent. “An old weathered rock.”

Liang repeated his words like a rifle shot. “Tell me what it is.”

“A decorative stone, probably from an old temple or shrine.”

“You truly are worthless, Meng,” Liang spat. “You would have me waste time with this—”

“A carving of a sacred sign,” Shan inserted.

Liang slowly nodded. Shan realized the major had been testing him. Liang lifted the stone, staring intensely at it now as if it were about to reveal all the dark secrets of the valley. “This murderer had a complex mind, Comrade. Starts by laying out the signs of dissent, dead men on a Chinese flag, boots on a Tibetan. The first reaction of anyone would be that it was a dissident. But then he left just enough evidence to identify the woman as a nun. Once that was known it couldn’t be a Tibetan. So we must find a lunatic Chinese killer. Except, Comrade,” Liang said, looking at Shan over the stone now, “except for this stone. He couldn’t resist the temptation, like a private little boast. The police would never see the point. Too subtle. He had to gloat, had to seek out the stone. Did you know there is an old building at the rear whose floor is covered with fragments of carved stone? He went all the way back there just to fetch his stone. Not any stone. Why this stone, Comrade Shan?”

Shan was filled with foreboding over the strange game Liang played. “It is one of the Eight Auspicious Signs.”

“Which exactly?”

Shan hesitated. “The Banner of Victory. To celebrate the triumph of Buddhist wisdom over ignorance.”

Liang offered a thin smile. He had known already, Shan was certain. He had to admit that the major at least had hit upon the conundrum of the murders. No Tibetan would ever kill the abbess. No Chinese would ever leave the banner stone.

“And except for you there’s probably not a Chinese within a hundred miles who knows that. It was a sign for Tibetans. The killer was Tibetan. You still haven’t told me about that renegade lama. This splittist Jamyang who lives like an outlaw in our mountains. The enemy of our motherland. We would have paid a rich bounty for him even before this tragedy.”

The major held his gaze on Shan. It was not an official explanation yet. Liang was testing his story. Shan returned the stare without blinking. “Jamyang is dead.”

“You speak with some confidence, Comrade.”

“He is dead.”

Liang stared at Shan for a long moment. “How convenient for him.”

“I doubt he felt that way.” Shan broke away from the grip of Liang’s eyes, and watched the headlights of a passing truck. A new warning burst into his consciousness. If Colonel Tan walked through the door at that moment, while Shan was stealing confidences from Public Security, he would be back inside one of Tan’s prisons by the end of the day.

“I want his body.”

Shan shrugged. “Bodies have a way of disappearing in this valley. They say the bodies of certain lamas get lifted on a rainbow into the heavens. These Tibetan gods work in mysterious ways.”

The fire in Liang’s eyes flared red-hot. “I already know who the gods of this valley are. Do you have to be taught that like one more stubborn Tibetan?”

Shan glanced back at Meng, who gazed uneasily into her folded hands, then out the window again, this time looking at the high ridge above the town. In his mind’s eye he could see the familiar image of Jamyang brimming with joy as he found a new patch of spring flowers. The lama would laugh to know that his death might be used to rid the valley of a man like Liang.

“There is no reason for you to miss your engagement in Rutok, Major,” Shan suggested. “The Bureau’s perpetrator is dead. Case closed. Political discord once again ends in tragedy.” It was the parable-like ending that Beijing always coveted.

Liang’s lips curled into a thin, frigid smile. He studied Shan as if trying to decide if Shan was goading him. They both knew there was another reason the major could not leave. The Jade Crows had taken two bodies. The knobs had secretly taken away the body of the third, a foreigner, but his American companion was unaccounted for. Shan clenched his jaw so as not to betray his sudden realization. Liang could deal with the murders in any number of ways. But no matter which way he chose, the American woman still posed a direct threat.

“Of course if there were loose ends because of possible conspirators.” Shan shrugged and lowered his voice. “Then you should consider going north.”

“North?”

“Any foreigner involved in this mess would know they had to flee the county, run as fast and far as possible. Everyone would expect them to head to the nearest border, to the south. Which is why if someone like that needed to get away quickly, with minimal notice, the train would be the answer,” Shan explained. “No one would expect a foreigner to flee deeper into China. The army patrols against saboteurs, but on-board security is said to be lax. There are stories of stowaways. Or someone could bluff their way right through the gate with the right paper.”

“Paper?”

“Say a big currency note and an American passport.”

Liang leaned forward. Shan had his attention.

“Getting to the station in Lhasa would be the difficult part for a foreigner. The road to Lhasa runs the length of Lhadrung County, where Colonel Tan maintains permanent security checkpoints. The only safe answer is to wait for night to slip around the roadblocks. But that adds two or three days to the trip. So a theoretical conspirator would be arriving in Golmud,” he said, referring to the northern terminus of the railway, “tomorrow night or the night after. Theoretical,” he repeated. It was tempting bait, Shan knew. The Armed Police, not the knobs, were responsible for security on the train. If a fugitive escaped there would be another government office to blame. “Of course, if there is a foreigner involved, no doubt it’s best to let them go. If someone is here illegally, there’s no need to account for them. Good riddance, right?”

Liang inhaled deeply on his cigarette, frowned, crushed out the cigarette and left the table in a cloud of smoke. As Shan watched him leave the room, a new question occurred to him. How could Liang have known Jamyang’s name?

Shan looked up to find Meng gazing at him. She touched Liang’s file. With a single finger she lifted the top flap. The passport photo on top was weak and grainy from having been faxed and scanned multiple times, but finally Shan had a face for the phantom he sought. Her thin face had high cheekbones and a strong chin.
MISSING PERSON
read the caption in English. Under the photo was the name Cora Michener. The notice was from the American embassy.

*   *   *

The Thousand Steps that gave the name to the nuns’ hermitage were worn and cupped from centuries of use. Shan had climbed half the long stairway before pausing, breathing heavily, to study the little complex. The old buildings clung to the steep hillside as if part of the mountain. The narrow tower and slanting walls of the outermost structure hung at the edge of a cliff, evidence that the little compound had started life as a
dzong
, one of the hilltop forts that had once dotted the Tibetan landscape.

He had left his truck out of sight far below so as not to frighten the nuns, and as he neared the buildings he paused at each of the little shrines erected along the final flight of steps, reciting mantras in the traditional fashion.

His prayers were to no avail. The first nun who spotted him was kneeling with a bucketful of water over some sprouting plants at the edge of the courtyard. She rose in alarm, backing away, then turned and ran around the corner of the nearest building. Shan halted, resisting the urge to follow. This was a hermitage, where nuns made vows to meditate or chanted mantras for hours every day, sometimes not breaking the cycle for weeks or months. He would not be the one to disturb such reverence. Stepping to the little garden plot, he lifted the ladle in the bucket and continued watering the plants. By the time he had finished he felt unseen eyes on him. He settled in front of the little chorten in the center of the yard, legs turned under him in the lotus fashion, then extended his right hand downward in what was known as the earth-touching mudra, a traditional hand prayer that called the earth as witness. Out of the corner of his eye he saw movement on a path higher up the slope. Several nuns were hurrying away. They were fleeing because of him.

More than a quarter of an hour passed before a middle-aged woman with hair cropped close to her scalp appeared at the base of the old tower, staring at him in cool appraisal before stepping closer.

“You are the Chinese who helped Jamyang,” she declared. Her voice was not welcoming. Another woman approached, hanging back like a retainer to the nun. Shan recognized Chenmo, the young dropka who had been raised by the abbess. Three more robed figures appeared from the tower, following uncertainly.

“I was a student at the lama’s foot,” he replied. He paused, unable to hide his surprise. The three other figures were monks.

“You are the Chinese who gloated over our abbess’s mutilated body at the ruins.”

Shan’s hand folded, losing the mudra. These were not the gentle words he had hoped for. He rose and straightened his clothes. “I was but the first to mourn her. I closed her eyes.”

“You stole her gau.”

Something inside Shan sagged. Once he had always been welcomed by nuns and monks. “Public Security likes to open such amulets. They would photograph it and catalog its contents. Often they find evidence that leads to investigation of the owner’s friends and family.”

The nun glared at him. She seemed ready to shove Shan back down the steps. The oldest of the monks, a man in his late forties, stepped forward as if to intervene. His voice was more level, almost friendly. His face was strong and intelligent. “There are stories of a white-haired uncle who wanders the upper valleys like an ancient yak. They say he has a Chinese companion.” The monk wore a pale yellow belt loosely around his robe. Hanging from it was an ornate pen case, a traditional trapping of a Tibetan teacher.

Shan offered a hesitant grin. “I have learned much from that old yak.”

“I have heard those two stand in ditches covered with mud sometimes.”

“Lokesh says cleaning ditches is purifying. He says the magic of the earth gods begins with soil and water.”

The monk turned to the nun, who still studied Shan with cool disapproval. “Surely, Mother,” the monk said, “we could all join in some tea.”

The nun moved only a single hand, a gesture to Chenmo. The young novice darted toward a door where a brazier stood and disappeared inside.

“My name is Shan,” he offered.

“I am called Trisong Norbu.”

Shan looked at him in surprise. He recognized the name. “Abbot Norbu,” he acknowledged with a slight bow of his head. What was the abbot of Chegar gompa doing at the remote hermitage?

The abbot seemed to have read Shan’s mind. “You and I may have different questions but I think perhaps we seek the same answers. The valley will never find peace again until those terrible deaths are reconciled.” Norbu gestured to a group of stools in a sunlit corner of the little courtyard, overlooking a vista of jagged ridges and slopes that blushed with flowers. The nun sat silently with them, the reluctant hostess. Another nun appeared and began spinning a heavy prayer wheel mounted on the opposite wall, warily watching as if the hermitage would need protection from Shan.

“The people of the valley say we are their anchors,” Norbu explained, “my Chegar at the head of the valley and the convent at its foot. The hermitage,” he said, correcting himself. “Our beloved abbess often reminded us that this place was but an outpost of the old convent, a station for nuns on retreat. She said it had been the convent that gave meaning to this place.”

“Which is why she was trying to make the old convent live again,” Shan said. He glanced at the two other monks, who watched their abbot like dutiful attendants. “But why now after all these years?” The question had not occurred to him before.

“She saw it as her sacred duty.” Norbu replied, nodding to Chenmo as she brought tea.

“Even though the restoration had not been approved,” Shan ventured.

The abbot paused, studying Shan, as if trying to decide if his words were a warning. He offered a small smile and gestured to his companions. “Dakpo, Trinle, and I have to deal with mountains of forms from Religious Affairs. There is no form for the requisition of hope and faith. Our valley is a special place, remote enough to keep traditions alive longer than other parts of Tibet. The government seems jealous of what we have here. With the new town, the new relocation camp, the abbess and I thought it was time for the convent to live again.”

Shan sipped his tea, weighing not just the abbot’s words but his careful tone. Serving as abbot of any monastery in Tibet was like navigating a minefield. The inhabitants of the gompa, and all the devout living nearby, expected spiritual leadership from such a man. But Beijing expected political leadership. Norbu was no doubt painfully aware that many abbots had been stripped of their rank, often their robes, for failing to kowtow to Beijing. He offered a respectful nod of his head and drained his cup.