beach with a woman in a very brief swimming suit. Several photos featured Thomas, spanning a period from when he was perhaps twelve years of age to the recent past. In one, the boy held four figurines of bronze in his hand.
“He designed those,” Gao explained over his shoulder. “It was the first run out of the little foundry Heinz installed last year. Thomas would always spend a week or two here each summer.”
Through the window Shan saw the woman trot to the car, where she spoke to the driver, then got in. A moment later the sedan sped away, back toward town.
“Where is Heinz?” Shan asked.
“Lhasa. When I called him on the satellite phone to say Abigail was with us in the mountains he was about to come back but he received word that there was some trouble with a shipment. He decided to take care of it before returning, to avoid the need for a trip later. We spoke again when. . after Thomas left. Now he’s also making arrangements for Thomas’s body, which rests in the morgue here.”
Shan poured himself more tea as Gao sorted through papers on the desk. Through the window, in the distance, dimly outlined against the cobalt sky, he could make out the low ranges that led to Sleeping Dragon Mountain. “Where does the trail emerge from the mountains?” he asked.
“It branches into three forks as it approaches the town, following different streams. There are farmers living along each fork. Abigail will be seen by someone.”
“You need to speak with them,” Shan stated. “I am going to Public Security.”
“The driver is asking the farmers now. And the worst thing you could do for your friends would be to go to the government center.”
Shan searched Gao’s face, trying to decide if his words were meant as a threat. “Then there is somewhere else we must visit,” he announced, and bent near Gao’s ear to speak in a low voice. Gao called for the office manager.
Shan expected Chodron’s Tashtul home to be a small apartment, perhaps even an assigned room in a government guest quarters, not an ample bungalow at the edge of town. It was larger than the headman’s home in Drango village, with well-tended flower gardens surrounding it. Two bicycles leaned against a railing of painted metal pipes that flanked the concrete walkway to the door.
Gao declined with a shake of his head as Shan got out of the car and gestured toward the house. Shan ventured up the walkway, studying the house, trying to assess what he would find inside, worried about the two bicycles. The house was of simple, new construction, a beige-painted block with brown metal shutters. The front windows were covered with curtains. The glass panes in the door displayed decals of flowers and panda bears.
There was no answer when he knocked. He tried the doorknob, found the door unlocked, and stepped inside.
The lining of Chodron’s Tashtul nest was far more luxurious than its modest exterior. The spacious sitting room Shan stood in held four upholstered chairs and two sofas, arrayed around a lush sculptured carpet to face a unit on the wall holding a large television set and other electronic equipment, and shelves of videos and discs.
Fast-paced music came from a room down a dim corridor, a Western instrumental featuring saxophones, drums, and electric guitars. He should flee, a voice inside him shouted. He would be unable to help Hostene and Yangke if he were thrown into the same cell. Instead, he went farther, reaching a dining area with chrome-framed chairs surrounding a table rimmed with carved lotus flowers. The kitchen counter bore an array of small appliances he could not name. It was not the house of a Tibetan family. Behind the dining table, opposite the kitchen, was a half-open door that led to a room that seemed to be half office, half storage area. Along one wall were cardboard cartons bearing labels for various electronic devices. Beyond them was a desk on which stood a radio similar to that which he had seen Chodron use in Drango. Over the desk, pinned to the wall, was a collection of name tags bearing Chodron’s name, with legends identifying Party gatherings, some with clips, some on lanyards.
Shan began opening drawers, quickly passing over one that contained office supplies, another brimming with personal items like disposable razors, skin cream, unused wallets, and packages of breath mints. He paused over one that was crammed with file folders and settled upon two files and a ledger book from the bottom drawer, whose separate lock yielded to the careful levering motion of a letter opener. When he had read through them he reentered the dining room and gazed upon the riches of the house. In his mind’s eye he saw Gendun lying prostrate in Chodron’s village, his limbs shaking from nerve damage. Shan started at a noise from the rear of the house. Through the kitchen window he saw an old Tibetan hoeing weeds in a bed along the wall.
At the kitchen sink Shan washed his hands and face. He quickly explored the closet by the front door, then grabbed a hanger that bore a dark suit and a gray shirt inside in a plastic cleaner’s bag. In the office he stuffed the sweatshirt Gao had bought for him behind a box, threw on the shirt and the suit jacket, and pulled the trousers, far too loose to fit properly, over his own tattered pants, fastening them at the back with a spring clamp. He grabbed a lanyard from which a name tag was suspended, selected the thinnest of the wallets, and hastily worked with a rubber band and paper clips. Before leaving the office he retrieved the letter opener, unscrewed the back cover of the radio, and pried several components away from their fittings before replacing the cover.
She was in her midthirties, taller than Chodron, with the strong, full features of a Manchurian. Still dripping from her bath, she wore only white briefs, her long hair covering her breasts. She did not raise the towel she held, did not even seem to breathe when she discovered Shan sitting facing her at the end of the dining table, his hands folded over the ledger and files in front of him.
Shan had chosen the chair by window, with the glare of daylight behind him. Chodron’s gray suit jacket was only slightly too large in the shoulders. He had blocked the view of his feet with a briefcase, knowing his tattered boots would betray him in an instant. But he need not have worried for the woman’s gaze remained on the little black leather folder hanging from the lanyard around his neck.
He opened the top file and lifted a pencil from the table. “Let’s start with your name,” he said in a level voice. He had spent twenty years on this side of the interrogator’s table.
The woman’s mouth opened and shut several times but no words came out.
“Get dressed,” Shan instructed, the weary impatience of a senior official in his tone. “Get a glass of water. Get a chair.”
Chodron’s mistress was named Jiling. She worked in the municipal affairs office and was responsible for census data and the distribution of funds to the county’s villages. Chodron had found the perfect partner. Now Shan understood how he was able to function in an official capacity in an unofficial village.
“I don’t know you. Are you from Lhasa?” Jiling asked after his first quick round of questions. She had chosen to wear an austere dark blue suit. She took back her identity card when Shan finished with it and kept it in her hand. “I saw the banner,” she said in a hoarse whisper.
“I am from Beijing.”
The woman slumped.
“Cooperate now and you may not hear from us again.”
“I don’t know anything.”
“You have already told me you are involved in the administration of the villages in this county.”
Jiling looked down at her identity card. “It is a big county,” she observed, beginning her defense.
“Surely you know the penalty for misappropriation and misal-location of public funds.”
The color drained from her face. Executions were almost always public events in China, but the ones that were given the most publicity, that sometimes filled entire stadiums, were those of corrupt officials.
“I have over a hundred villages-”
Shan cut her off with a wave of his hand. “There is a saying in English-If a tree falls in the woods and no one is there to hear it, does it make a sound?”
“I don’t-I don’t understand.”
“If villagers don’t exist, are their tax payments considered public funds?” He gestured toward the opulent furnishings of the sitting room. “If we have to continue this after today’s visit, you will be required to provide receipts for everything in this house, with the source of payment for each.”
Jiling straightened in her chair. “I am merely a low-level official,” she declared.
Good, thought Shan. The ones who crumbled immediately were usually the least helpful.
