Soul of the Fire (19 page)

“A dream, Lokesh.”

The old man gave another hoarse laugh then reached for his tin prisoner's bowl and flipped it over. The bottom was shiny from being rubbed for hours on the stone wall. “A dream and not a dream. He told me it was here, if I could only pierce the illusion.”

“I don't understand,” Shan said, then realized Lokesh had turned the bowl to reflect the light from the corridor over Shan's shoulder.

Dolma gasped. Lokesh laughed again.

On the wall over the door, the darkest place in the cell, now illuminated by the makeshift mirror, was an intricate circular mandala, four handbreadths wide. Inside it were patterns of symbols and images Shan did not recognize.

“It was not visible through the grime. I used my water ration to uncover it.”

Dolma began a hurried prayer under her breath, wonder on her face.

“I still don't understand,” Shan said.

“The deity grows stronger and stronger, coming back to help Tibetans at last. I smelled scorched rubber yesterday.”

Dolma's eyes went wide. “An army truck burned near the gate.”

Lokesh grinned. “I knew it! He's awakened after all these years! He reached out to me!”

Shan stared at the mandala, struggling to make sense of his friend's words. “Who awoke?” he asked.

Lokesh pointed to the center of the mandala, where a god rode a ram. “Don't you see? It's Agni, Shan! The fire god!”

*   *   *

Shan steeled himself as he approached the immaculate two-story building reserved for Party members. The pillared entrance was flanked by planters of dying flowers. In the parking lot were several limousines and black utility vehicles. Hanging from poles along the back of the lot, a banner read
GLORY TO THE COMMUNIST PARTY, PROTECTOR OF THE MOTHERLAND.
In eastern cities, the banner might have been a city block long.

A Tibetan groundskeeper looked up as Shan passed by. A Tibetan woman sweeping the entry paused and bowed her head. At the desk inside the front lobby, a young Chinese woman made a quick assessment of Shan and frowned. “I am afraid access is only for those of the Party.”

“There should be a sign,” Shan suggested. “Members only.” The woman's stern expression did not change. He pointed to his armband. “Surely you're not suggesting the government would select someone outside the Party as a Commissioner.”

She murmured something that may have been an apology and pushed a button to release the inner door. He stepped into a large chamber furnished with soft sofas and upholstered chairs grouped in squares on elegant Tibetan carpets. Half a dozen officials lounged in the room, reading newspapers and books from shelves that ran the length of one wall. Attendants carried trays of tea and snacks. Arranged along the walls were familiar posters depicting valiant struggles of the proletariat, interspersed with framed quotes of the Great Helmsman. A pair of posters at the end of the room was highlighted by soft spotlights.
POLITICS IS WAR WITHOUT BLOOD,
said one.
A REVOLUTION IS NOT A DINNER PARTY,
stated the other.

Shan passed along the shelves. Every Party reading room had the same prescribed collection of books. He could have recited the titles of half the volumes.
Mao on Guerilla Warfare
.
Mao on Contradiction.
Reports on every Five-Year Plan and every plenary Congress since the birth of the People's Republic.

He lingered long enough at a light buffet bar to sample a spring roll. Printed on the napkins were verses from Mao, written in the indefatigable Chairman's nearly illegible hand. He glanced into two private dining rooms, confirming they were empty, then climbed the carpeted stairs, past a vacant reception hall and out onto the roof terrace. Heinrich Vogel sat alone at a table, reading the English-language
China Times.
Shan slipped into the chair beside him.

Vogel reacted very slowly. He seemed to finish the article that had his attention before lowering the paper to acknowledge him with a cool smile. “Comrade Shan.”

Shan spoke in a low, conversational tone. “They say that Tibet is the farthest place you can go and still be on the planet,” he observed, speaking English. “No doubt an interesting journey from Leipzig.”

“An utterly fascinating journey,” Vogel replied, lifting his glass to toast Shan. He drank half the glass, then refilled it from a can at his side. Coca-Cola.

“If I am not mistaken, Leipzig was in the eastern sector. The German Democratic Republic. But surely you are not old enough to have served in that government.”

“Most perceptive. Yes. I was in the foreign service of the GDR. Very junior. Carried the laundry for ambassadors, you might say.”

“Which makes you what? A communist German?”

Vogel seemed amused. “A diplomat with a special capacity for appreciating the Chinese perspective.” He produced a small tobacco pipe, a rarity in China, and Shan watched with interest as he filled it from a small leather pouch and held a lighter to it. “You know I am from Leipzig. All I know about you is that you are a reformed criminal who once served high ranks of the government in Beijing. Now there's a journey that's farther still,” Vogel said with a level gaze. He had lines around his eyes. His well-groomed hair showed hints of silver that Shan had not noticed before.

“Your smoke is scented,” Shan observed. “Tibetans use such smoke to call in the gods. Some say no one can lie when they are wrapped in fragrant smoke.”

“Reformed criminal,” Vogel repeated. “Such a mouthful.”

“Such an obsolete term!” came a deep voice behind them. In this particular case, the smoke had summoned a demon. Deputy Secretary Pao set a small glass in front of Shan and sat down, sipping from his own glass while carefully eyeing him. “Refocused public servant! A graduate of one of our best finishing schools, the 404th. This man is a socialist hero, Heinrich!”

Shan fought the impulse to flee.

“What wonderful timing!” Pao exclaimed. “Drink, Comrade Shan! Our friend Heinrich has recently sworn off alcohol, but I love to taunt him. I can see his self-righteousness burn brighter each time I swallow!” Pao drained his glass and sighed. “French brandy. There's a distillery in Fukien Province that claims to make the stuff, but theirs is like kerosene compared to this.” He held his empty glass out in the sunlight, studying the resin left on its sides. “French brandy in Tibet! Internationalism is no longer a plague—it is our glory, our destiny!” He spoke toward the other tables. Even on a rooftop bar, he could not refrain from making speeches.

Pao placed a hand with two gold rings on Shan's arm. “And this man, Heinrich, this most energetic member of our Commission, is our unpolished gem. His modesty knows no bounds. When I ask about him in Beijing, I hear of the famed Inspector Shan who relentlessly purged the ranks of corruption, whose clever ways were too much for even the shrewdest criminals. Special investigator for the Council of Ministers. An impossible job. A thoroughly wrongheaded concept.” He playfully shook Shan's arm. “Of course you slipped. Who wouldn't slip from such a tightrope?”

Vogel leaned closer to Shan as if to see him better.

“But look at him!” Pao pressed. “Emerged from his reeducation a better man, the perfect servant to the people.”

“The best ditch inspector for miles and miles,” Shan suggested.

Pao's laugh was so loud, the other patrons stopped to look. “All history. That is behind you, Shan. What a treasure you are. I could name half a dozen posts in Lhasa you'd be a perfect fit for.” As the Deputy Secretary lifted his empty glass toward a waitress, Shan saw something new, a scar on the back of his cheek like a lopsided V.

“You knew each other before the Commission,” Shan stated. He glanced back at the scar. Something about it nagged him.

It was not the reply Pao expected. He quieted. “The circle of those in international affairs is small. And of course I would want to have had some personal knowledge of the senior international representative on the Commission. Heinrich and I have attended some of the same conferences. Hong Kong. Singapore, I recollect.”

Suddenly Shan remembered Kai's final motion before passing into unconsciousness on his infirmary bed. Shan had asked about who had spoken with him in Lhasa, and he had made a checkmark near his ear. “And Macau,” he added.

The German smiled, but Shan did not miss the worried glance he shot at Pao. “So many conferences. Who can remember them all?” the Commissioner said.

“I hear the Garden Princess Hotel is memorable. Captain Lu enjoyed it so.”

Vogel wrinkled his brow. “Lu?”

Shan shrugged. “You forget I am from Lhadrung. A small backwater. To have an officer from our county government attend was such an honor. The local paper had an article.” Shan nodded at Pao. “The Deputy Secretary was the star, delivered the keynote address. Of course, Lu would just have been a face in the crowd to dignitaries such as yourselves.”

Pao accepted another brandy and downed half of it. “A promising officer, I seem to recall. Lhadrung must be very proud of him.”

“His funeral was well attended. A traffic accident, I heard.”

Pao sighed. “A loss to the motherland.”

Vogel puffed on his pipe and gazed out over the mountains to the east and pointed to the junction of two peaks, miles away. “When the sun is just right, a rock glows brilliant white in that high pass.” He seemed eager to change the subject.

“Not a rock,” Shan corrected. “A
chorten,
a very old shrine.” He pointed to the next pass, and the next, making an arc that swept the horizon. “Every pass has a
chorten
to house a protective god. They tame the demons that sometimes rise up out of the earth and watch over what goes on below. Tibetans say they may act very slowly, but eventually they find a way to right all wrongs in the lands below.”

Pao saluted Shan with his glass. “You humble us, comrade. If only everyone had your appetite for cultural knowledge. Have you ever considered a job in Religious Affairs?”

*   *   *

Confident that Vogel and Pao were finished with their workday, Shan hurried back to the Commission offices. He watched from down the corridor as Choi and Zhu exited, then waited until their elevator door closed before heading to one of the small back offices reserved for use by Commissioners. A secretary glanced at him, saw his armband, and returned to watching a clock.

He extracted the card for Detective P. L. Neto and dialed the number in Macau.

“Neto,” came the answer on the third ring.

“My name is Shan, calling from Lhasa,” Shan began. “I am investigating someone involved in the Sanoh Kubati case.”

“Lhasa. Mountains. Lamas. Ever see a yeti?” The man spoke with a peculiar accent, slurring syllables at the end of his words.

“Sanoh Kubati,” Shan repeated.

“Never heard the name.”

Shan read the case number Lu had written on the card.

“Never had this phone call.”

Now he was getting somewhere. “I am going to tell you a story, Detective Neto. You tell me if I am a liar. A casino dealer who moonlights as a sex worker is found dead in an alley near the Garden Princess Hotel, where a conference of government officials is being held. She was last seen going upstairs with someone from the conference. A very important person. They were drunk. Things got rough. No one saw her alive again.”

“I don't know who you are.”

“Neto,” Shan said. “What kind of name is that?”

“Not Chinese, if that's what you mean. You called Macau, comrade. Read some history. It's been fifteen years since we joined China, but before that we were Portuguese for four hundred. I am what they call a White Chinese.”

Shan struggled with the accent. “Can we speak English?”

“Sure,” Neto said, switching languages. “I like you better already.”

“You didn't call me a liar.”

“Maybe I don't know the word in Chinese. Why would you call from Lhasa about some dead whore in Macau?”

“This is the land of the lamas. We like to discover impossible truths and contemplate them.”

“Come to Macau, and I can cure you of that.”

“You didn't call me a liar,” Shan repeated. “Deputy Secretary Pao wouldn't take well to questioning.”

“After five minutes, he was asking how I would feel about a career cleaning out shitpots on some Chinese fishing boat.”

“She was raped. But you didn't do any DNA workup of the rapist.”

“I am going to hang up.”

“I was a friend of Captain Lu. He died under mysterious circumstances.”

The words brought a long pause. “Sometimes,” Neto said at last, “the real mystery is how certain people stay alive as long as they do.” He hung up.

 

CHAPTER EIGHT

The little plastic Buddha hanging from the mirror seemed to dance as Tuan's car bounced along the dirt road. The Religious Affairs officer laughed and gave the figure a playful tap, sending it swaying back and forth between Shan and himself.

“The break is only two hours,” Tuan warned as he nervously glanced at his watch.

“We'll be back in time,” Shan said in a distracted tone as he gestured Tuan to turn onto another road, one bearing the tracks of heavy trucks.

“Just a ride on this side of the mountain,” Tuan said, confirming what Shan had told him. “I can't go back to that Yamdrok.”

“Only four or five miles,” Shan replied. Tuan had not hesitated when Shan said he had a secret to share with him, but now, alone with Shan on the isolated road, he seemed to be having second thoughts.

As they rounded a high curve, the highway could be seen below them in the distance. The bus to Lhasa was speeding westward. As Shan watched, he wondered, not for the first time, about the launching of the Commission in the Tibetan capital. “If you were assigned to Xie,” he said to Tuan, “then you were with the Commission in Lhasa.”