The Skull Mantra (23 page)

“Evidence?” Shan asked.

Hu seemed not to have heard. They spoke no more until they were on the main road. Hu drove hard, seeming to enjoy the rough road and the way Shan grabbed the dashboard as they bounced. On the curves he accelerated, laughing as the rear wheels skidded in the dirt.

“Civilization,” Director Hu said abruptly. “It's a process, you know, not a concept.”

“You spoke of evidence,” Shan said, confused.

“Exactly. It's more than a process. It's a dialectic. A war. My father was stationed in Xinjiang, with the Moslems. In
the old days they were even worse than the Buddhists. Bombings. Machine gun raids. A lot of good government workers were sacrificed. The dynamic of civilization. New against old. Science against mythology.”

“You're speaking of the Chinese against Tibetans?”

“Exactly. It's progess, that's all. Advanced agricultural techniques, universities. Modern medicine. You think the advance in medicine wasn't a struggle? A battle against folklore and sorcerers. Half the babies born here used to die. Now babies live. Isn't that worth fighting for?”

Maybe not, Shan wanted to say, if the government won't let you have babies. “You're saying Prosecutor Jao was a martyr for civilization.”

“Of course. His family will get a letter from the State Council, you know. The lesson is there for all of us. The challenge is making sure they get the lesson.”

“They?”

“This case must also be an opportunity for the minority population to recognize how regressive, how backward, their ways are.”

“So you want to help with the evidence.”

“It is my duty.” Hu reached into his pocket and produced a folded paper. “A statement from a guard stationed at the road into the skull cave. The night of the murder a monk was seen walking along the road near the entrance.”

“A monk? Or a man wearing a monk's robe?”

“It's all there. Matches this Sungpo's description.”

A monk was seen acting suspiciously near the entrance, the guard had written. He was of medium height, medium build. His head was shaven. He appeared antagonistic, and was carrying something in a cloth sack. The guard had signed the statement. Private Meng Lau. Shan put the paper in his pocket.

“When did this guard see this man?”

Hu shrugged. “Later. After the murder. It happened at night, right?”

“How close was he? There was a new moon. Not much light.”

Hu sighed impatiently. “Soldiers make good witnesses, Comrade. I expected more gratitude.”

He sped up as they reached the valley floor, laughing as he raised a cloud of dust around Feng, Yeshe, and Chang, still following closely. “You said you had questions for me, Comrade Inspector?”

“Mostly about security. And how someone might get in the cave at night,” Shan replied.

“When we first discovered the cave we posted guards at its mouth. But after the contents were revealed they were all spooked. So we put a detail out on the road. Only way in and out. Seemed adequate.”

“But someone found another way.”

“These monks, they climb like squirrels.”

“Who discovered the cave?”

“We did,” Hu acknowledged. “I have exploration teams.”

“So it was also you who found the Americans' brine deposits?”

“Of course. We issued their license.”

“But now you want to cancel it.”

Hu looked at Shan, plainly peeved, then slowed the truck. They had reached the outskirts of Lhadrung. “Not at all. What is being discussed is the operating permit, which assures that they comply with specified management systems. We are engaged in a dialogue about management. I am a friend of the American company.”

“By ‘management' you mean individual managers?”

“Pond construction technique, harvesting technology, equipment specification, utility consumption, and the conduct of their managers are all subject to permit criteria. Why do you ask?”

“So if you wanted a certain manager to leave, you might suspend the operating permit.”

Director Hu laughed. “And I thought your geological interests were confined to hauling rocks.”

Shan considered his words as they parked in front of the municipal building. “I find it interesting that you knew I am a prisoner and still you came all the way out to the cave. I thought the Director of Mines would simply order me to appear.”

Hu replied with a wooden smile. “I'm teaching Lieutenant Chang how to drive. When Colonel Tan told me where
you were—” Hu shrugged. “Chang must learn to navigate the mountain roads.”

“Is that why you were at the 404th worksite the day the body was found?”

Hu sighed, trying to control his impatience. “We must be vigilant against faults.”

“Geological, I presume.”

Hu grinned. “The ranges are unstable. We must be careful about the people's roads.”

Shan was tempted to ask again if Hu was speaking of geology. “Comrade Director, would you please join me with the colonel?” he asked instead.

Director Hu's look of amusement did not fade. He tossed the keys to Chang, who had appeared behind them, and followed Shan inside.

Madame Ko gave Shan a nod of welcome and dashed into Tan's darkened office. The colonel's eyes were puffy. He was stretching. Shan glanced around the room. On the table by his desk was a rumpled pillow.

“Colonel Tan, I would like to ask Director Hu a question.”

“You interrupted me for this?” Tan growled.

“I wanted to do it in your presence.”

Tan lit a cigarette and gestured toward Hu.

“Director Hu,” Shan asked, “can you tell us why you suspended the Americans' permit?”

Hu frowned at Tan. “He is intruding into Ministry business. It is counterproductive to engage in public dialogue about our problems with the American mine.”

Tan nodded slowly. “You do not have to answer. Comrade Shan is sometimes too enthusiastic.” He fixed Shan with a sharp look of censure.

“Then perhaps,” Shan pressed, “you could tell us where you were on the night Prosecutor Jao was murdered?”

The Director of Mines stared in disbelief at Shan, then, as a broad smile grew on his face, turned to Tan and began to laugh.

“Director Hu,” Tan explained with a cold grin, “was with me. He invited me to dinner at his house. We played chess and drank some good Chinese beer.”

Hu's laughter became almost uncontrolled. “Have to go,” he said between gasps and, throwing a mock salute at Shan, he disappeared through the door.

“You are fortunate he is so easygoing,” Tan warned. There was no amusement in his eyes.

“Tell me something, Colonel. Is the skull cave an official project?”

“Of course. You've seen all the soldiers there. A big operation.”

“I mean, does Beijing know about it?”

Tan exhaled a column of smoke. “That would be the responsibility of the Ministry of Geology.”

“It's filled with cultural artifacts. The operation itself is the army's. How do Hu and the Ministry of Geology fit in?”

“They discovered it. They are responsible for exploitation. But they have only a small staff. As county administrator I offered the assistance of the army. A good field exercise.”

“Who benefits from the gold?”

“The government.”

“In this case, who is the government?”

“I don't know all the agencies which participate. Several of the ministries are involved. There are protocols.”

“How much does your office receive?”

Tan bristled at the suggestion. “Not a damned fen. I'm a soldier. Gold makes soldiers soft.”

Shan believed him, though not for the reason he gave. Political office, not money, was the source of power for a man like Tan.

“Perhaps there are those in the government who would not support looting tombs.”

“Meaning what?”

“Did you know that Prosecutor Jao and Director Hu fought over the cave? The American woman was a witness. Now I believe Hu is trying to force her from the country.”

A narrow grin appeared on Tan's face. “Comrade, you have been misled. You have no idea what Hu and Jao were fighting over.”

“Jao wanted to stop what Hu was doing.”

“Right. But not stop the cave, stop the accounting. He
was arguing that a bigger share of the gold needed to go to the Ministry of Justice. His office. I have it on record. He wrote letters of complaint wanting me to mediate. Madame Ko can give you copies.”

Shan sank into a chair and closed his eyes. It was not Hu. “What about his staff? Can we get their background files?”

Tan gave an indulgent nod. “Madame Ko will make a call.”

“Whoever killed Jao was saying something about that cave.”

“So ask him.”

“The prisoner is not speaking.”

“Then go ask your damned demon,” Tan said irritably, moving to his desk.

“I would like to. Where do you suggest I look?”

“Can't help. I don't regulate demons.” He picked up a file and gestured toward the door.

Shan stood up and suddenly realized exactly where he had to go. There was indeed someone who regulated demons.

 

Like so much else in Tibet, the weather was absolute. It was seldom dry without drought, seldom wet without a downpour. The sun had been shining brightly when he left Tan's office, but by the time they reached the offices of the Bureau of Religious Affairs on the north side of town, the weather had reversed itself. The sky began throwing tiny balls of ice at them. Shan had read once that fifty Tibetans a year died in hailstorms. He handed Feng a piece of paper before he stepped out of the truck. “Private Meng Lau from Jade Spring Camp. I need you to find if he was on the duty roster the night of the murder, for guarding the road to the cave.”

Sergeant Feng accepted the paper without acknowledgment, uncertain how to respond to a request from Shan.

“You know who to ask. Even if I tried, they would never tell me. Please, Comrade Sergeant.”

Feng tossed the paper on the dashboard and tugged at the wrapper of a roll of candy, taunting Shan with his disinterest.

Shan and Yeshe were ushered into an empty office on
the second floor with a quick apology and the inevitable offer of tea. Shan wandered around the office. A tray on the desk held several magazines, the top of which was
China at Work,
a Party organ that published glossy images of the proletariat. On the coffee table was a single book, entitled
Worker Heroes of Socialist Carpet Factories.
Shan lifted the magazines. On the bottom of the pile were several American news magazines, the most recent over a year old.

They were alone. “Have you decided what you will do?” Shan asked. “About the
purbas
.” And the Americans, he almost added.

Yeshe nervously looked back to the door. He hunched his thin shoulders forward, his face twisted as if he were about to weep. “I am no informer. But sometimes questions are asked. What can I do? For you it is easy. I have my freedom to consider. My life. My plans.”

“Do you really understand what the warden has done to you?” Shan asked. “You need to get out.”

“What he has done? He is helping me. He may be the only friend I have.”

“I am going to ask the colonel for a new assistant. You need to get out.”

“What has Zhong done?” Yeshe pressed.

“You misunderstand the organs of justice. For you, a Tibetan, to be offered a job in Chengdu immediately after reeducation in a labor camp would not only be extraordinary, it would be impossible for Zhong to accomplish. Public Security in Chengdu would have to approve, after receiving an official request from Public Security in Lhasa. The new employer would have to approve without knowing you, which they wouldn't do. Travel papers would have to be issued, under the name of your new work unit, which doesn't exist. Zhong has no papers for you. He has no authority over such things. He lied to keep you talking with him, to tell about me. Then when it is finished, when they decide I have again failed the people by refusing to condemn Sungpo, he will accuse you of conspiring with me and have you detained again. Administration detention for less than a year requires nothing but the signature of a local Public Security officer. And Zhong has his valued assistant back.”

“But he promised me.” Yeshe twisted his fingers together as he spoke. “I have nowhere to go. I have no money. No recommendation. No travel papers. There is nowhere to go. The only real job I could get is at the chemical factory in Lhasa. They like to hire Tibetans, even without papers. I've seen the workers there. Their hair falls out after a few months. By the time you're forty you lose most of your teeth.” He looked up. Instead of the bitterness Shan expected to see, there was a hint of gratitude. “Even if you're right, what could I do? And you, you are in the same trap, only worse.”

“I have nothing to lose. A
lao gai
prisoner on an indefinite sentence,” Shan said, trying hard to sound disinterested as he stepped to the window. “For me it may be intentional. But for you, it's just bad luck. Maybe you should become sick.”

The wind slammed hail against the glass. The lights flickered. The prisoners at the 404th always flinched when such weather began. Hailstones on their tin roofs sounded too much like machine guns.

“If they ask, I never saw the
purbas
,” Yeshe said to his back. “But it's not just that. If the
purbas
are found to be helping Sungpo it will be taken as proof that the radicals were behind the murder, that Sungpo is one of them.” His voice trailed off. An old Red Flag limousine, no doubt retired from one of the eastern cities years before, had stopped below them. A man with a tattered umbrella ran from the building to the car to escort the occupant in the back seat.

Two minutes later the Director of the Bureau of Religious Affairs burst into the room. He was several years younger than Shan, and wore a worn blue suit and red tie that gave him the air of an earnest bureaucrat. His hair was cut short in military fashion. On his wrist was a watch, its face an enamel depiction of the Chinese flag, the kind presented to dedicated Party members.