“Detective, I’m not answering, haven’t you noticed?”

“He couldn’t get you out of his head. But there had to be something else to cause him to deteriorate like that. Something you did to him far beyond what you did with me, causing him to go up there to Kathmandu again and again-to meet you, was it? Or to pathetically pine for you? Or for you to do something to fix his head? He made you initiate him, didn’t he? He knew to keep asking until you couldn’t say no. And even though he couldn’t have been less suitable, being emotionally stuck at the age of about thirteen, even so, you went ahead and irresponsibly shared your mantra with him. That’s the real reason you got cold feet about me and called Tietsin. You didn’t want déjà vu.”

Silence. She had closed the phone.

She didn’t kill him, though, I reflected into the silence. Even if it made psychological sense, which it doesn’t, she could never get out of Nepal. I saw her travel document; with paper like that she had difficulty leaving Kathmandu, never mind international destinations. A dakini of the Far Shore, she is a stateless exile over here on the left bank, frostbitten and occasionally suspected of prostitution. Naturally, all that makes me crazier about her than ever.

This morning both Vikorn and Zinna e-mailed to ask me to download a portrait of Clive of India; so there he was for a moment, gracing my monitor in his powder, wig, and ruff, the Shropshire lad himself, that whoring, bloody, racist, suicidal, alcoholic, upwardly mobile, treacherous, opium-addicted narcotics trafficker who started globalism. I think the two of them will put him in a frame high up on a wall and wai him daily like any Oriental guru.

Now someone is calling using the 977 prefix. I stare at the screen, not sure who in Kathmandu I’m most afraid of at this moment, Tietsin or Tara.

“So, how did the meeting go?” It’s Tietsin.

“Perfect. Everything is arranged. They’ve decided to entrust me with the irrevocable letter of credit, so you better be nice to me.”

“Not a chance. If you run off with the dough we’ll turn you into a louse in the anus of a rabid dog. And the date? We have a date?”

“The one you wanted.” For the first time with Tietsin I sense a normal human emotion on his part, like relief.

“Thank you, Detective. That’s good. That date is good.”

“You’re sure you can bring in that much at one time without getting caught?”

“Of course. I’m a magus, aren’t I?”

“Where is the drop-off point?”

He snorts. “You still think I’m some airhead from the mountains who doesn’t know scat about shifting smack, don’t you?”

“Okay, don’t tell me. But how are we going to know where to meet you?”

“I’ll tell you exactly ten minutes before delivery. Just make sure you have fast transport, because we’re not going to wait more than five minutes for you to show up. One thing about poison, you can always find a buyer.”

“Doctor Tietsin, I have just one question, a personal one. As a devout Buddhist, isn’t there anywhere in your mind just the slightest doubt-”

“No.”

“What are you going to do with the money?”

“How many times do I have to explain? I and my movement are going to invade China.”

I sigh. “That’s just nuts, and I know you don’t believe it. You may be crazy, but you’re not stupid. How can anyone invade the most dynamic economy in the world, which happens to own a million-man army, with forty million dollars?”

“Ever hear of Gandhi? And there was a guy named Jesus who was supposed to have transformed the world, although the reportage is suspect. They didn’t have armies, they used words instead-and they weren’t even Buddhist. What kind of Theravada wimp are you, anyway?” he says, and hangs up. When I angrily call the number again, I get the engaged tone. When I try Mimi Moi’s number, I get exactly the same tone. Must be my cologne. I’m so depressed, I’m taking a cab to the morgue.

I hate autopsies and avoid them whenever I can. If not for the urgency I now feel about the Frank Charles case, I would not dream of being here, in the morgue, while Doctor Supatra is at work on a cadaver. Actually, most cops feel the same way; the only person who really enjoys autopsies is the pathologist. For them it’s a wonderful hunt, which 99 percent of the time ends with a successful conclusion: they find the cause of death. It’s an adventure that combines science, art, instinct, and extreme drama, and usually only lasts a day or so. Don’t let them fool you with their graveyard demeanors, those pathologists are very happy campers: lords of death to whom cops like me pay reluctant homage.

The good doctor in her medical greens is at this moment showing two students, also in masks and coveralls, how to turn a corpse over. Sounds easy? Just try it at home. In death even the most upright citizen turns into a slippery character. If you do need the information one day, here’s how: you wrap an arm around the inner thigh opposite to you, place the other hand under the neck and up and around, then use your weight to push the body over in a roll. The deceased in this case is a slim Thai girl, but I’ve seen the doctor heave over dead men three times her size.

“Now you try,” she tells one of her students, then turns to me for the first time. Her mask covers the whole of her face.

“I’ve come about the Frank Charles case,” I tell her.

“Him! He was gigantic. I couldn’t roll him over at all, I had to call for help.”

There’s a scream from her students, who together have managed to get their cadaver into quite a cliff-hanger: her head and upper body have slipped over the side of the autopsy table; it looks like she is trying to commit suicide. The doctor shakes her head and returns to the job at hand. “You’ll have to put on a mask and talk to me while I’m working, if you’re really in such a hurry. Better put on some coveralls as well, I don’t want to be responsible if you catch something from the corpse.”

So now I’m all in green with a mask and no more than six inches from the corpse, and I’m still having trouble believing the kid is dead. Her face is not bloated; she’s really quite beautiful, probably in her early twenties. When Supatra takes her boning knife and makes the great Y incision from above the breasts to the solar plexus, then down to the lower abdomen in a single stroke, cutting deeply through the flesh right down to the bone, I turn my face away. When I turn back, Supatra has lifted up the top flap and flopped it over the dead girl’s face at an irregular angle; it looks like a wind has blown the corner of a scarlet drape over her head. Now the doctor has peeled away the flesh from the chest area and is using a pair of garden secateurs to snap open the rib cage.

“It’s about the list of drugs the toxicologist found in the American’s body,” I say.

“Hm, quite a list. Traces of cocaine, cannabis, opium, and a few uppers of the prescribed kind.” Supatra is a little breathless from the exertion with the secateurs. “It wasn’t drugs that killed him though, nor was it the removal of the top half of his head. It was loss of blood from the way the perpetrator gutted him. Of course, to survive long term he would have needed a skull even if they’d left his guts intact.”

I watch in revolted fascination while she digs her hands into the corpse and brings out a heart. “Check it for abnormalities,” she tells her students as she passes it to them, “use your hands, change to thinner gloves if you have to at this stage, you need to develop your sense of touch, especially with hearts, livers, and kidneys: any hardening, lumps, gritty spots, undue fattiness-the eye can’t tell you half as much as a good grope.”

“What about the chunk the killer took out of the victim’s brains for lunch?”

She cocks her head. “How do you know it wasn’t breakfast or supper? I couldn’t give a precise time of death. And to answer your question, no, the chunk taken out of the left lobe may have impaired quite a few functions, but it wasn’t lethal.”