“The gompas are small,” Shan replied in a tight voice. “Harmless.”

“If they were harmless my office wouldn’t exist,” Xie offered good-naturedly. “And once,” he added, looking at Madame Zheng now, “they were much bigger, building great wealth by oppressing the peasant class.”

Tsipon sampled one of the small, hard pastries. “Director Xie has a fascinating theory.”

“They had jewel-mounted statues, figures made of gold accumulated over centuries,” Xie announced, “the fruits of their enslavement of the masses. Are you aware, Comrade Shan, the Party has decreed that all religious artifacts belong to the state?”

“Of course.” Shan felt the steady, probing gaze of Madame Zheng. Although Tsipon had stopped looking at her, apparently dismissing the silent woman as a clerk, Shan had learned to be wary of anonymous, well-dressed bureaucrats from Beijing.

“We have chronic problems with the accuracy of our inventories. I believe we will find these monks were smuggling state artifacts across the border to fund the criminal element, the splitists, in exile. Why else would they refuse to sign their loyalty oaths?”

Shan struggle to keep emotion out of his face as he studied the bureaucrat from Lhasa. Here, according to government doctrine, was one of the handful of officials to whom Tibetan Buddhists were accountable, a supreme regulator of lamas, a genuine wheelsmasher. Under the direction of officials like Xie, teams had been moving through Tibet during the past year, replacing prayer banners with slogans in praise of Mao.

Xie pushed back his dishes and began to unfold a map. “I look forward, Comrade Shan, to working with you in apprehending our fugitives. They no doubt have conspirators in other monasteries.”

Shan stopped breathing for a moment. He looked at Tsipon. The Tibetan had not planned on Shan’s joining his private breakfast. He had brought him as punishment for trespassing in his office, had brought him to demonstrate again that no matter how hopeless Shan’s plight might seem, Tsipon was always able to make it worse.

The Tibetan rose and poured more coffee for Xie. “I apologize,” Tsipon said in a generous tone, “if I gave the impression that Shan could be spared at this particular time. The entire climbing industry depends on a handful of skilled individuals. Of course, just a few insights for now from our envoy to the mountain people could be invaluable. Comrade Shan, you should point out on the map locations of the gompas that are active.”

Some might have thought it merely ironic that a Tibetan would force a Chinese to identify the location of monks targeted by Religious Affairs. But for Tsipon it wasn’t about intimidating monks, it was about intimidating Shan. Any number of people, including Tsipon, could have given Xie the location of the gompas, he could even have obtained them with a quick stop at the town’s library. But Tsipon meant to shove Shan into Xie’s scheme.

Shan swallowed hard, extracted a pencil, and began to draw little circles on Xie’s map.

“And that of the fugitives?” Xie asked. “Sarma gompa, I believe it is called.”

Shan hesitated, feeling Tsipon’s hard stare, and made one more mark on the map, down a dirt track a few miles off the road to Chomolungma.

Thirty minutes later, Tsipon having at last departed with Director Xie, Shan walked down the second-floor corridor of the guesthouse, attired in clean coveralls, carrying on his shoulder a canvas bag of tools borrowed from Kypo, whom he had found in the garage. As he expected, a Public Security guard sat on a chair outside the best corner room, eyeing him with idle curiosity. Tacked to the door was a sign declaring the room sealed by order of Public Security. A tray with dirty dishes lay on the floor beside the guard’s chair. He was not leaving for meals. Shan was not going to get past him.

Outside, along the edge of the parking lot, he found a ladder being used to paint the balconies of the second-floor rooms.

“Those guards will shoot you if they find you inside that room,” Kypo warned over his shoulder.

“I need you to switch the ladder to the adjoining balcony after I climb up, hang a bucket of paint on it. Then put it back ten minutes later.”

“Not a chance. Then they’ll know you had an accomplice.”

Shan eyed the old truck parked beside the rental shed. “Then get in the Jiefang. Start it up if anyone in a uniform comes around the front corner. I’ll hear it.”

Moments later Shan had the ladder up and was over the balcony. With a prayer to the protector deities he put his hand on the sliding door. It silently slid open.

Stepping to the inside wall he lowered himself to the floor, folding his legs underneath him, moving his head from side to side as he studied the room. From left to right he saw a writing table, a trash can, then the open bathroom door, a side table with a lamp, an unmade bed with a coverlet decorated with pandas playing on clouds, a stand holding an open suitcase bearing an Italian logo, and finally a small closet with a half opened door. He pressed his hands together, his index fingers raised like a steeple, focusing himself, then repeated the process, turning his head much more slowly. On the desk the writing pad supplied by the hotel had been used; a ballpoint pen leaned against a blue three ring binder beside a clear glass ashtray bearing two cigarette butts, both with smears of dark lipstick. On the floor beside the trashcan was a sheet of paper that had been wadded then later straightened out, probably by a Public Security photographer. The bathroom rug was askew, towels tossed on the floor. The lamp on the bedtable had something of red silk, a blouse or nightgown, thrown over the shade. On the floor beneath the open suitcase was a pile of clothes.

He rose and went to the desk, lifting one of the cigarette butts to his nose. Menthols. The front of the binder bore the imprint of the Ministry of Tourism arrayed over stylized mountain peaks. Inside the cover was the agenda for the conference, followed by other meeting materials. Shan quickly leafed through the pages. Maps of tourist attractions. Lists of proposed new attractions, including a new Museum of the Yeti. An attendance list. The minister was at the top of the listed attendees, followed by several national and Tibetan officials, then over a dozen county administrators, including Colonel Tan of Lhadrung County. Next came a keynote speech by the minister, to be presented the day of her murder, titled A Ten Point Plan for Converting Himalayan China to a Global Tourist Destination.

The shelves of the closet looked like those of a department store. A new digital camera. A tiny white box into which earphones were plugged. A pair of binoculars. A new sweater from Tibetan looms. Several small boxes of jewelry. Some of the packages showed no sign of ever having been opened. The giving of tribute to high-ranking officials was one of the few ancient traditions Beijing had decided to tolerate.

Car ready at 9 a.m., said the crumpled paper on the floor, a note from the front desk. He quickly examined the clothes on the floor, then in the suitcase, finding denim jeans and running shoes along with many expensive foreign-made blouses and skirts. He eyed the red silk on the lamp by the bed. The minister had been at least as old as Shan, but she had lived young.

The drawer on the nightstand was slightly ajar. Using the tip of his finger on the bottom of the drawer he pried it open. On top of a small silk handkerchief lay an empty box of cigarettes into which a tightly rolled paper had been stuffed, its end extending from the box. Not just any paper. It was a parchment page from a Tibetan peche, one of the traditional unbound books of scripture. With a chill he extracted the page, unrolled it. It seemed to have no particular meaning, just a page extracted from the teachings of the great poet Milarepa, once a resident of the region.