The Skull Mantra (13 page)

Her jaw clenched. Shan could see she was struggling not to argue with Tan. She chose to speak toward the sky. “A labor problem.”

“Then the Ministry of Geology is the responsible office. Perhaps Director Hu—” Tan suggested.

“It's not that kind of problem.” She turned and faced Tan. “I would just like to speak with Jao. I know he's supposed to be away. A phone number would do.”

“Why Jao?” Tan asked.

“He helps. When I have a problem I can't understand, Jao helps.”

“What sort of problem can't you understand?”

Fowler sighed and moved back to sit at Tan's desk. “My pilot production has begun. Commercial production is scheduled for next month. But first my pilot batches have to be analyzed and qualified by our lab in Hong Kong.”

“I still don't—”

“Now the shipping arrangements have been accelerated by the Ministry without consulting me. Airport freight schedules have been changed without notice. Increased security. Increased red tape. Because of tourists.”

“The season has started early. Tourism is becoming Tibet's strongest source of foreign exchange. Quotas have been increased.”

“Lhadrung was closed to tourists when I took this job.”

“That's right,” Colonel Tan acknowledged. “A new initiative. Surely you will be glad to see some fellow Americans, Miss Fowler.”

The sullen cast of Rebecca Fowler's face said otherwise. Was the mine manager merely disinterested in tourists, or actually unhappy about the prospect of visiting Americans? Shan wondered.

“Don't patronize me. It's all about foreign exchange. If you would only let us, we will produce foreign exchange as well.”

Tan lit a cigarette and smiled without warmth. “Miss Fowler, Lhadrung County's first visit of tourists from your country must go perfectly. But still I don't—”

“To get my containers out on time I need double shifts. And I can't even put together half a shift. My workers won't venture to the back ponds. Some won't leave the main compound.”

“A strike? I recall that you were warned about using only minority workers. They are unpredictable.”

“Not a strike. No. They are good workers. The best. But they're scared.”

“Scared?”

Rebecca Fowler ran her fingers through her hair. She looked like she had not slept in days. “I don't know how to say this. They say our blasting woke up a demon. They say he is angry. People are scared of the mountains.”

“These are superstitious people, Miss Fowler,” Tan offered. “The Religious Affairs Bureau has counselors experienced with the minorities. Cultural mediators. Director Wen could send some.”

“I don't need counselors. I need someone to operate my machinery. You have an engineering unit. Let me borrow them for two weeks.”

Tan bristled. “You are speaking of the People's Liberation Army, Miss Fowler. Not some wage laborers you can pull off the street.”

“I am speaking of the only foreign investment in Lhad-rung. The largest in eastern Tibet. I am speaking of American tourists who are scheduled to visit a model investment project in ten days. They are going to see a disaster unless we do something.”

“Your demon,” Shan said suddenly. “Does he have a name?”

“I don't have time to—” Fowler began sharply, then quieted. “Does it matter?”

“A similar sighting was made on the South Claw. In connection with a murder.”

Tan stiffened.

Fowler did not immediately respond. Her green eyes fixed on Shan with a penetrating, hawklike intensity.

“I was not aware of a murder investigation. My friend Prosecutor Jao will be interested.”

“Prosecutor Jao was quite interested,” Shan offered, ignoring Tan's glare.

“So he's been informed?”

“Shan!” Tan rose and slammed a button at the edge of his desk.

“Prosecutor Jao was the victim.”

A curse exploded from Tan's lips. He shouted for Madame Ko.

Rebecca Fowler sank back in her chair, stunned. “No!” The color drained from her face. “Dammit, no. You're kidding,” she said, her voice breaking. “No. He's away. On the coast, in Dalian, he said.”

“Two nights ago, on the South Claw”—Shan watched her eyes as he spoke—“Prosecutor Jao was murdered.”

“Two nights ago, Jao and I had dinner,” Fowler whispered.

In that instant Madame Ko appeared.

“I think,” suggested Shan, “we need some tea.”

Madame Ko nodded solemnly and moved back out the door.

Fowler seemed to try to speak, then she slumped forward, dropping her head into her hands until Madame Ko reappeared with a tray. The hot tea revived her sufficiently to find her voice. “We worked together on the investment applications,” she began. “Immigration clearances. All the approvals.” The words came out in a taut, nervous whisper. “He was interested in our success. He said he would buy me dinner if we brought in production before June. We made it. At least, we thought so. He called up last week. In a celebratory mood. Wanted to do the dinner before his annual leave.”

“Where?” asked Shan.

“The Mongolian restaurant.”

“What time?”

“Early. About five.”

“Was he alone?”

“Just the two of us. His driver was in the car.”

“His driver?”

“Balti, the little
khampa
,” Fowler confirmed. “Always hovering around Jao. Jao treated him like a favorite nephew.”

Shan studied Colonel Tan. Was it possible that Tan had actually forgotten such a vital point, had forgotten a possible witness?

“Where was he going after dinner?” Shan asked.

“The airport.”

“Is that what he said? Did you see him leave?”

“No. But he was going to the airport. He showed me his ticket. It was a late-night flight, but it can take two hours to the airport and it was not a flight he would risk missing. He was very excited about leaving.”

“Then why would he drive in the opposite direction?”

She did not seem to have heard. She appeared to be possessed by a new thought. “The demon,” she said, her face suddenly gaunt. “The demon was on the Dragon Claws.”

There was a hurried knock and Madame Ko appeared again, in front of the bespectacled Tibetan Shan had seen at the cave driving the Americans' truck. He was short and dark, with small eyes and heavy features that somehow distinguished him from most Tibetans Shan had known.

“Mr. Kincaid,” the Tibetan blurted, extending an envelope. He saw Tan, and instantly turned his gaze to the floor. “He said give you this right away, don't wait for anything.”

Rebecca Fowler stood and slowly, reluctantly, extended her hand. The Tibetan dropped the envelope into it and backed out of the room.

Tan watched him go. “You have a flesh monkey working for you?”

That was it, Shan realized. The man was a
ragyapa,
from the ancient caste that disposed of Tibet's dead.

“Luntok is one of our best engineers,” Fowler said with a chill. “Went to university.” Then her eyes moved to the paper and she started in surprise. She lowered the paper and glared at Tan, then read it again. “What's the matter with you people?” she demanded. “We have a contract, for Christ's sake.”

She looked at Tan, then to Shan. “The Ministry of Geology,” she announced in a tone that suggested Tan must already know, “has suspended my operating permit.”

 

The empty barracks at Jade Spring Camp that had been made available to them was in such disrepair Shan could actually see the tin roof shudder and lift with each gust of
wind. Sergeant Feng claimed the solitary bed typically occupied by the company's noncommissioned officer, and with a sweep of his hand offered Shan and Yeshe their choice among the twenty steel bunk beds that lined the remainder of the barracks. Shan ignored him, and began to spread his files on the metal table at the head of the columns of beds.

“I'll need a key to the building,” he announced to Sergeant Feng.

Feng, rummaging through a cabinet for bedding, turned for a moment to see if Shan was serious. “Fuck off.” He discovered six blankets, kept three, handed two to Yeshe and threw one to Shan. Shan let it drop to the floor and paced along the beds, looking for a place to hide his notes.

Less than thirty yards across the parade ground was the guardhouse. A tumble of withered heather blew across the grounds. A loudspeaker, dangling by a wire from its broken mount, sputtered a martial air, a military anthem rendered unrecognizable by static. Clusters of soldiers had gathered along the perimeter, resentfully studying the new guards posted at the brig.

“Knobs,” Yeshe warned Shan as they approached the structure across the yard, his voice filled with alarm. “They don't belong here. It's an army base.”

“We were expecting you,” the Public Security officer in charge snapped to Shan at the entrance. “Colonel Tan advised us you would commence interrogation of the prisoner.” He surveyed the three men as he spoke, not trying to conceal his disappointment. His eyes rested a moment on Sergeant Feng's grizzled face, passed over Yeshe, and fixed upon Shan, who still wore the anonymous gray pocketed jacket of a senior functionary. The officer hesitated a moment in front of the door, as though confused about his visitors, then finally shrugged.

“Get him to eat,” he said, and stepped aside. “I can keep the bug from escaping,” he went on as he unlocked the heavy metal door to the cell block. “But I can't keep him from starving himself. Gets too weak, we'll put a tube into his stomach. He'll have to be on his feet.”

Spoken, Shan considered, like one seasoned in the choreography
of the people's tribunals. The prisoner was expected to stand in front of the court, head bent in remorse. The exquisite drama of a capital trial was always heightened by a show of physical strength on the part of the accused, so it could be more obviously broken by the will of the people.

The corridor, dank with the smell of urine and mildew, was lined with cells on either side, separated by concrete walls. The only light that reached the cells was from dim bulbs hung along the center of the corridor. As his eyes adjusted to the grayness Shan saw that the cells were empty, containing only metal buckets and straw pallets. At the end of the corridor was a small metal desk at which a single figure slumped, asleep, his chair leaning against the wall.

The officer snapped out a single sharp syllable and the man tumbled out of the chair with a disoriented salute. “The corporal can attend to your needs,” the officer said, and wheeled about. “If you need more men, my guards are available.”

Shan stared after him in confusion. More men? The corporal ceremoniously produced a key from his belt and opened a deep drawer in the desk. He gestured in invitation. “Do you have a favored technology?”

“Technology?” Shan asked distractedly.

The drawer contained six items resting on a pile of dirty rags. A pair of handcuffs. Several four-inch splinters of bamboo. A large C-clamp, big enough to go around a man's ankle or hand. A length of rubber hose. A ball peen hammer. A pair of needle-nose pliers, made of stainless steel. And the Bureau's favorite import from the West, an electric cattle prod.

Shan fought the nausea that swept through him. “What we need is to have the cell open.” He slammed the drawer shut. The color had drained from Yeshe's face.

The corporal and Feng exchanged amused glances. “First visit, right? You'll see,” the corporal said confidently, and opened the door. Feng sat on the desk and asked the guard for a cigarette as Shan and Yeshe stepped inside.

The cell was designed for high occupancy. Six straw pallets lay on the floor. A row of buckets lay along the left wall, one holding a few inches of water. Another, turned upside down, served as a table. On it were two small tin cups of rice. The rice was cold, apparently untouched.

The far wall of the cell was in deep shadow. Shan tried to discern the face of the man who sat there, then realized he was facing the wall. Shan called for more light. The guard produced a battery-powered lantern which Shan laid on an upturned bucket.

The prisoner Sungpo was in the lotus position. He had torn the sleeves from his prisoner's tunic to fashion a
gomthag
strap, which he had tied behind his knees and around his back. It was a traditional device for lengthy meditation, to prevent the body from tumbling over in exhaustion while its spirit was elsewhere. His eyes seemed focused somewhere beyond the wall. His palms pressed together at his chest.

Shan sat by the wall facing the man, folding his legs under him, and gestured for Yeshe to join him. He did not speak for several minutes, hoping the man would acknowledge him first.

“I am called Shan Tao Yun,” he said at last. “I have been asked to assemble the evidence in your case.”

“He can't hear you,” Yeshe said.

Shan moved to within inches of the man. “I am sorry. We must talk. You have been accused of murder.” He touched Sungpo, who blinked and turned to look around the cell. His eyes, deep and intelligent, showed no trace of fear. He shifted his body to face the adjoining wall, the way a sleeping person might roll over in bed.

“You are from the Saskya gompa,” Shan began, moving to face him again. “Is that where you were arrested?”

Sungpo clasped his hands together in front of his abdomen, interlocking the fingers, then raised his middle fingers together. Shan recognized the symbol. Diamond of the Mind.

“Ai yi!” gasped Yeshe.

“What is he trying to say?”

“He isn't. He won't. They arrested this man? It makes no
sense. He is a
tsampsa
,” Yeshe said with resignation. He rose and moved to the door.

“He is under a vow?”

“He is on hermitage. He must have seclusion. He will not allow himself to be disturbed.”

Shan turned to Yeshe in confusion. It had to be some kind of very bad joke. “But we must speak to him.”