sitting on the ground between the hut and Gao’s darkened dzong, then stepped inside. He was caught in the beam of a flashlight. Behind him Hostene uttered a startled gasp. Shan had only a glimpse of the green-uniformed figure pinioning Hostene’s arms before the butt of a rifle knocked him unconscious.
Of all the torments suffered by a gulag prisoner, the greatest was that once you entered, you never left. Long after their release, prisoners would cower in alleyways, flinch at the sight of a uniform, compulsively pace out the dimensions of their former cells within much larger chambers.
Since his first day of freedom Shan had fought that compulsion. Now as he lay on a metal cot in the blackness, helplessness washed over him like some dark tide. It was pointless to resist. He was a prisoner again and would be for years to come. Even if he was eventually sent back to his former camp, where he might at least be reunited with his wayward son, there would be the inevitable softening up inflicted on repeat prisoners. His upper arm twitched where the battery cables would be clamped. His fingernails began to ache, as if they remembered what the Public Security soldiers, the knobs, had done.
No! a voice shouted in his head. He had to escape, whatever the cost. He would knock down the soldiers and run, dodging their bullets. He would leap out of the helicopter as it rose from the ground. He would dive out the door if they flew over a lake. There was a murderer on the mountain and Shan had to stop him. Gendun was in the clutches of Chodron, and had to be saved.
He rubbed the bump on his head where he had been struck, realizing in sudden panic that he had no way of knowing how long he had been unconscious. The cement floor and stone walls gave no clue as to where he was. He could have been drugged and transported miles away from the mountain. He searched his palate for the bitter tinge of the drugs that Public Security favored for prisoners. Nothing. Then a tiny vibration came through the ceiling, an intermittent, rhythmic rumbling. Rock and roll music.
A shadowy figure materialized at his cot without sound, holding a hand lantern, shaking him from a restless sleep. “They hit you too hard,” came the soft words in Tibetan, and a porcelain cup of steaming tea was extended toward him. “They’re just boys, most of those soldiers. Children with guns.”
Gao’s housekeeper helped him sit up and dabbed at his head with a damp cloth as he drank the strong brew. She answered his questions in quick whispers explaining that he had been brought here to the cellar of the tower by the soldiers, that he had been in the room for nearly half a day, that the other gentleman was being prepared, that a helicopter was coming that afternoon. Shan shot up and staggered to the door, where he clung to the frame a moment as his head cleared. Then he stepped into the hall.
Following a short corridor, he found himself in the austere chamber where he had seen Gao doing Tai Chi exercises. As he climbed the staircase to the sitting room, a figure in green fatigues leaped from a chair by the front door, hand on his pistol holster. Shan froze as he took in the unexpected scene. Thomas lounged in one of the overstuffed chairs, reading a Western magazine. Kohler stood at the telescope, watching the nest of fledgling lam-mergeiers. At a small table set before the long row of windows, Gao and Hostene were playing chess. The muted music of a string orchestra emanated from the hidden speakers.
Gao caught the soldier’s eye and raised a hand. The soldier frowned but retreated. When the guard reached the chair where he had been sitting, Gao made another gesture and he left the room.
“You missed lunch, Inspector,” Kohler declared with amusement.
“The metal boxes,” Shan said. “Some sort of surveillance device?”
“Motion detectors,” Kohler confirmed. “We told the army we were having trouble with predators.”
“Meaning that you want no more intruders from the other side,” Shan offered.
Hostene rose and inspected the raw patch on Shan’s temple, then nodded as if satisfied with what he saw. “It’s OK,” the Navajo said. “They know who I am.”
“We understand you saved our new American friend,” Gao said in perfect English.
“Again,” Hostene added.
“For now,” Shan replied, trying to eye the door inconspicuously. Thomas had said Gao wanted him to vanish, by means of a bullet if necessary.
“But he’s free now,” Gao said. “On this side of the mountain. His nightmare is over.”
“We left”-Hostene seemed to search for a word-“someone. Shan and I must go back.”
Gao sighed, a father losing patience with his children. “Surely you understand it is too dangerous.”
Kohler appeared between Shan and Hostene, pacing slowly, playing with the end of the white cashmere scarf draped over his collar. He looked at them. “An illegal foreigner and an outlaw investigator. Perhaps they are trying to decide which side is most dangerous for them. Over there they merely have a crazed murderer to deal with.”
“Heinz, perhaps you forget that Inspector Shan navigated the minefields of Beijing his entire career.”
“Half a career,” Shan inserted. “I prefer to think of it as a rite of passage.”
“What I don’t forget,” said Kohler, “is that he left us rather abruptly on his last visit.”
“We won’t be so careless this time,” Gao observed. “We have summoned reinforcements from the base.”
“I am going back,” Hostene said. “The miners will cool off and then I must return. No one is going to stop me.”
Gao shrugged. “I thought I mentioned the soldiers.”
“They were already here,” Hostene shot back. “You didn’t summon them because of me.”
Kohler rolled his eyes. Gao conceded the point with a nod.
“My niece is on the other side of the mountain. I will move heaven and earth to find her.”
Gao shot a confused glance at Kohler. “Your niece? You let a young girl roam the mountain?”
“She is thirty-four years old and a professor of anthropology. We were together, a party of four, doing research.”
Comprehension lit Gao’s face. “The other two were the murder victims.”
Hostene nodded soberly. “I think she believes that I am dead too. No one has seen her since the murders.”
“I may have,” Kohler declared. “Five days ago. With my binoculars.”
Hostene stepped closer to Kohler, his eyes bright with excitement.
“You were on the other side?” Shan asked.
“Hunting wolves. Does she have long black braids? A gray sweatshirt? The woman I saw seemed to be taking measurements on a rock face. She kept stopping to look over her shoulder.”
“But surely you went to investigate?” Hostene asked.
Kohler shrugged. “I was following a fresh trail. I planned to go back if I found the wolf or lost the trail. But I never saw him. And when I went back, she was nowhere to be seen. I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“Where was this?” Hostene asked.
Kohler withdrew a folded map from a bookshelf and laid it out on the dining table as Hostene and Shan pressed close. “Here.” He pointed to a spot two miles above Little Moscow. “She didn’t come down the slope or I would have seen her. And”-he gestured toward the set of undulating ridgelines, the steep terrain closer to the summit-“this is no man’s land. She should have known better. I’m sorry,” he added.
“What do you mean?”
“It’s too dangerous up there. Wolves. And the winds. Winds explode out of nowhere, strong enough to knock a man off a cliff. And as she goes higher, there is the lightning.”
“Lightning?” Hostene asked. “Everyone makes so much of the lightning here. Surely it is no different from anywhere else.”
“Wrong,” Kohler rejoined. “Scientific fact. Some kind of geologic anomaly, probably related to all the iron in the mountain. We studied it before we set up the base below, to understand any possible effects on our radio telemetry. There are more lightning strikes here than on any mountain for hundreds of miles, maybe more than on any other mountain in all of China. Storms sweep over the Himalayas filled with water from the ocean. The moisture is dumped on the southern slopes, which is why Tibet stays so dry. But they still retain a lot of energy when they reach the northern side of the range. Sleeping Dragon Mountain is where they discharge it. The configuration of the ranges funnels storms to us. Metallic deposits at the top do the rest.”
Hostene and Shan exchanged a worried glance. Lightning. Abigail was looking for the home of the mountain deity, the dragon that gave birth to lightning.
