Prayer of the Dragon (18 page)

The shadow moved one way, then another. Up, then down. When the hermit finally showed himself he circled Shan, who maintained his recitation. Rapaki finally squatted in front of him.

“On the summit,” Shan ventured, “wait the secrets of the Lord of the Mountain.”

The hermit’s eyes grew round. “At the top crouches the great one,” he said in the singsong rhythm he used for all his utterances. “His mane of turquoise flows everywhere. He spreads his claws upon the snow.” Rapaki’s head bobbed as he looked up and down the slope, as if searching for something.

“You are trying to reach him. I want to help too.”

“When there was a fertile field, there was no master.” Rapaki’s voice was like a machine in need of oiling. “Now the master has come and it is overgrown with weeds.”

The only intact book in the hermit’s cave, Shan recalled, had been the
Song of Milarepa
, the teachings of the greatest of the Tibetan saints. He realized that every sentence Rapaki had just spoken was a verse from the sacred text.

“In strict seclusion without man or dog, you may have the torch to see the signs.” Shan also knew some of the verses.

Rapaki responded with a rapid fire of words. Those that Shan made out seemed to be disconnected.
Honored by the waking dead
, he heard,
face like the circle of the autumn moon
, then finally,
raksa raksa
svaha
, the ending of what was called the mantra for cheating death.

The hermit squinted at Shan as if to see him more clearly, then circled him again. As he completed the circuit he gasped and bent, pointing at Shan’s arm. A tiny, brilliant reflection from a crystal in a nearby rock had appeared on the back of Shan’s hand. Rapaki gazed intently at the silver patch of light.
“Ni shi sha gua!”
he exclaimed.
“Ni shi sha gua!”

Shan was dumbfounded. It was not possible that the hermit knew Chinese. But he had perfectly pronounced four Mandarin syllables, an insult. Literally, it meant,
You stupid melon
, though it was commonly understood as
You retard, you idiot, you damned imbecile
.

Shan could see the white surrounding Rapaki’s irises. The hermit seemed terrified. Something struck Shan’s arm as the hermit backed away. He was throwing sharp-edged stones at Shan. Each connected painfully with Shan’s arm or chest. Then the light shifted, the silvery reflection vanished, and Rapaki stopped. Shan raised his hands, palms outward.

“You may have the torch to see the signs,” Shan repeated.

The hermit cocked his head, clutching the prayer amulet suspended from his neck, his frightened expression changing to one of confusion.

Hostene called. Shan glanced over his shoulder. When he turned back, Rapaki was gone.

He did not mention the hermit to the Navajo, who was waiting at the painting. As Hostene began to walk toward the next grove, a quarter mile away, Shan put a restraining hand on his arm.

“No more trees,” Shan declared. “We must investigate elsewhere.”

“But Abigail—,” Hostene protested.

Shan countered, “Gendun is the reason you are alive. And last night I had nightmares about Gendun being tortured. When we catch the murderer, I think we will learn where your niece is. If we don’t catch the murderer, she may be his next victim. But it is certain that when Chodron does not get what he needs, Gendun will pay. And then you.”

Hostene gazed forlornly at the trees. For a moment Shan thought the Navajo was going to flee up the mountain alone.

“This mountain is more alive with activity than all the ranges around it,” Shan said, surveying the slope again. “But all its people have become skittish and secretive. They are only active in the shadows, shy of the open. It’s how you survive when predators lurk overhead. There is a nerve center here for the miners’ operations called Little Moscow. It cannot be far from this place. We must go there now.”

He pulled out the rough map Hostene kept in his pack, looking for somewhere central but hidden, where thirty or forty men might converge without being conspicuous, and focused on a shaded area low in the center of the slope, about three miles from where they sat.

“That’s a maze of ravines,” Hostene explained. “Tashi warned us to stay away because they were so dangerous.”

They began a cautious descent to the labyrinth of gullies that stretched below them. As they proceeded, vague scents of roasting meat and wood smoke told them they had guessed correctly, but they could not tell where in the maze the miner’s camp was located. Then Hostene pointed to a tiny blemish in the sky, a ragged thread of smoke rising from one of the ravines to the east.

They soon discovered a well-worn trail bearing the tracks of boots and bicycle tires that wandered around serpentine rock walls and spires and found themselves in the shadows at the edge of a wide clearing in the center of which was a smoldering fire. Huge rock slabs had split from the walls, falling upon each other, forming natural lean-tos and shallow caves. Awnings of canvas had been added to some, several had photographs of family or makeshift mileage signs to Chinese cities at their entrance. The square fronts of the makeshift structures, the laundry hanging on poles from several, the scent of fried rice and wild onions coming from a nearby brazier, the wooden birdcage that incongruously hung from a pole before one abode, the two men playing mah-Jongg on upturned buckets with small piles of cash beside them all brought an uninvited pang of nostalgia to Shan. The scene reminded him of a
hotung
from the cities of his youth—an alleyway, teeming with life, which had defined the character of many Chinese neighborhoods before the government had replaced them with blocks of high-rise housing.

From the shadows Shan counted sixteen miners. They had the wild look of men who took every advantage of living outside the law. Half of them stood near the dying fire, cursing, gesturing threateningly toward a forlorn, frightened figure sprawled on a blanket.

Hostene hung back, pulling on Shan’s arm. But when a tall lean man in a leather vest kicked the helpless figure on the blanket Shan stepped into the open.

“No—you mustn’t!” Hostene warned from the shadows.

“I have no choice,” Shan said. “They have my assistant.”

“Ta me da!”
gasped the first miner who spotted him. He gave a loud whistle of alarm.

Within seconds more men emerged from the shelters, some brandishing shovels and picks like weapons. The rough faces that stared at Shan appeared to have come from all corners of China.

Some bore the mixed Tibetan-Chinese features that were becoming common on many Tibetan streets. But the eyes of each were stone hard. As Shan passed them, the men closed in behind him, following him to the blanket before the central fire.

This village too had its own protocol. The miners formed an outer circle, leaving Shan and the tall man in the vest in the center beside the frightened figure on the blanket.

“Welcome to Little Moscow,” the man in the vest declared. “I regret to announce that applications for residency are no longer being accepted.” A murmur of laughter swept through his audience. “We operate a very exclusive resort.”

Shan made a show of surveying the makeshift structures of the miners’ town. “I was hoping for domed churches and caviar.” Over the man’s shoulder, Shan saw a fresco, one of the most detailed paintings he had yet seen on the mountain, of deities and ritual items painted in an unusual style with unusual patterns.

The tall Chinese said, “Moscow is where the proletariat learned it had nothing to lose but the chains of communism. Moscow has shown the rest of us what the new age means.”

Shan said, “Spoken like a true citizen of the world.”

Some of the miners were well educated, Yangke had told him. Some were even former college students who had decided to get a jump on the market economy. A wide plank hung from a peg that had been pounded into the fresco. It was painted with patterns of colored stripes leading to corresponding names. He realized it was a guide to the ownership of the claims. Beside it, leaning against the wall, were several wooden poles, straight limbs that appeared to have been cut and shaped for use as shovel handles.

“Bing,” the man identified himself, with challenge in his eyes. “Mayor Bing. Managing Director Bing, if you prefer.” There were names in China that immediately dated their holders. Bing, Chinese for soldier, had been popular four decades earlier.

Thomas Gao was the man sprawled on the blanket before the dying fire. He was bruised and bleeding from cuts on his chin and arm but not otherwise injured. He looked up with the expression of a pampered child caught pilfering sweets. Scattered over the blanket were canned goods, a package of batteries, a saltshaker, pencils, two slightly used Chinese paperback novels, four metal cups, several packs of cigarettes, half a dozen old magazines, a stick of deodorant, and a cigar in a plastic wrapper. He had set out his wares but his customers had other business in mind that day.

As Shan bent to help him up, Thomas pulled him closer and whispered in his ear. Shan went cold. Then one of the shovel handles was pressed against his shoulder, levering him backward, away from Thomas.

At the end of the handle was a short, wiry man wearing a green quilted jacket. “Captain Bing says no,” he growled. A scar ran down one side of his face. He had the hardened look of a soldier.

Shan straightened, studying Bing again, considering his indifferent expression and the obsequious way the man with the shovel handle looked at him. “Public Security pensions must be losing their value,” he said.

The tall man laughed. “Public Security officers are turning into babysitters and computer specialists. Who can afford not to accept a position at the forefront of the new economy when it offers itself?”

Shan edged toward the mining claim chart. As he reached it, the scar-faced man grunted a curse and deftly pushed the end of his pole into Shan’s shoulder, spinning him about and shoving him against the fresco. He had seen enough, however. The sticks with the two crimson stripes and one yellow belonged to Bing himself. The blue and red marks had one name beside them. The miner who had claimed Hostene’s campsite, the scene of the murders, was named Hubei.

“Look what you’ve done,” Bing mocked. “You’ve upset the gods.”

Shan saw that a small piece of the fresco had crumbled away where he had brushed against it.

Bing studied Shan coolly, then spoke into the ear of the short man with the pole, who darted away and returned carrying a rough-hewn bench. He placed it by the blanket, then heaved Thomas onto it.

“His people will miss him,” Shan warned.

“He’s going nowhere,” Bing growled. “We’ve no interest in being hacked to death in our sleep.”

“But Thomas is only—,” Shan began.

Bing interrupted by snatching up a black plastic bag lying on top of Thomas’s pack and tossing it at Shan. “He kept a trinket from us today.”

Shan’s throat went dry as his fingers extracted the hard, dark thing. It was a small hand ax, with an old hand-forged head and a short, uneven, homemade handle, smoothed to a sheen from long use. The head and part of the handle were mottled with a brown stain. Shan did not need one of Thomas’s tests to know it was blood.

“Four and a half inches,” Thomas said to Shan in a thin, nervous voice. “I measured the edge. It matches the entry wound on the back of Victim One.”

“Who but the murderer would carry such a thing?” Bing snapped.

“I told you, I am investigating,” Thomas protested, then explained to Shan in a lower voice, “I stopped to get a drink at a spring off the trail this morning. When I returned to my pack this was on top. Someone who knew I was interested left it for me.”

“One lie begets another,” Bing shot back. “Everyone here knows there can be no investigation unless it’s by the government. And the government here is me. Elected by the vote of every citizen. This whelp is no investigator.”

Thomas’s eyes went back and forth, from Bing to Shan. “I am helping Inspector Shan. He is a famous detective from Beijing.”

The declaration was not welcomed by the miners. Two men guffawed, but four slipped away into the shadows. Others stared warily at Shan, tightening their grips around their shovels and picks.

“A disgraced detective!” Thomas quickly added. “A convict.”

“Shan? You’re Shan?” Bing asked skeptically. As he studied his tattered visitor his amusement grew. “Inspector Shan has unique credentials,” Bing said to Thomas. “But you have none. Which means—” A cry of alarm interrupted Bing. Two men appeared from the shadows, dragging Hostene between them. Fearing he would resist, Shan pulled him away from his escorts and led him over to the blanket.

A satisfied smile appeared on Bing’s face. He knocked Hostene’s hat from his head. Murmurs of surprise, then anger, rippled through the crowd.

“We hereby declare you a Hero Worker for exceeding your production quota,” Bing proclaimed to Shan. “You have delivered to us a surplus of murderers. I will send word to Chodron. He wishes some of us to attend the trial, next to you and your pet lama. Nothing validates the social order like taking the life of the disorderly.”

Shan led Hostene to the bench, seating him beside Thomas. The Navajo stared at the gathered men in confusion and despair. Shan stepped in front of the bench, surveying the angry, hungry faces of the miners. Bing’s lieutenant stood by the stack of poles as if ready to distribute them.