Abigail was radiant when she walked into the candlelit dining room, greeting her uncle with another long embrace and affectionate words in their tribal tongue, smiling at Shan, then asking a surprised Gao where the altar had been in the old dzong before it was converted since, as all Tibetans knew, such places had been garrisoned by warrior monks. She guided the conversation as if she were a hostess to old friends, expressing her regret at not meeting Thomas’s German uncle, entrancing Gao by describing a workshop she had once attended on the cultural aspects of space travel-Russians always insisted on bringing some form of borscht into space, Americans always wanted more privacy in the living quarters. She looked forward to seeing what the Chinese would introduce to the mélange. Gao was fascinated by the theories behind Abigail’s work on the mountain, though quick to point out what a simple thing it should be to compare the writings, the social structure, the dress, and even architecture of the two peoples.

“By definition, that is impossible,” Abigail explained. “The Tibetans became a sedentary civilization long ago. For thousands of years my people were nomads, until only two centuries ago. What I am trying to reconstruct is the prototype, the people who existed before the split, then postulate what would happen once they split, one developing printing, colleges, the substantial social structure that is possible in a fixed and fertile geography while the other, nomadic for centuries, was unable to develop printed books or even a written language, unable to develop a substantial social structure beyond the family unit because they never stayed in one place long enough. It is as if a planet left the gravitational field of a solar system. How do you prove the lost planet once belonged to it?”

Gao seemed to be in his element, offering other analogies from the physical sciences, observing the coincidence that both peoples had settled on the highest plateaus of their respective continents.

“So you are building a model of the Tibetans ten or fifteen thousand years ago,” Shan recapitulated.

“Exactly. Professor Ma and I were developing one. The original people were fierce soldiers. They were deeply philosophical. They were resourceful, adapting to severe environments, and not just in a physical sense. They interacted with earth and sky in a primal way.”

“Spirit warriors,” Shan suggested.

Abigail nodded. “You begin to understand,” she said, and described the reasons she suspected the early Tibetans did not distinguish between physical and spiritual endurance.

Gao studied them both with an expression of curiosity, then excused himself for a moment, bringing back a small cardboard box. “I believe this belongs to you,” he told Abigail.

It was the golden beetle. Abigail, unable to contain her gratitude, grabbed Gao’s hand in both of hers and, as he blushed, pumped it up and down. She explained that it was a family heirloom, a protective charm made by a Spanish artisan for an ancestor who was one of her people’s holy men in the eighteenth century, handed down to his daughter and the first daughter of each generation thereafter. To daughters, because the Navajo were a matriarchal society and the corn beetle was a symbol of fertility.

As Thomas asked to examine the beetle Abigail praised him as demonstrating the intellectual energy of a great scientist in the making. “I have no doubt he saved my life,” she said.

“He’s a student, Miss Natay,” Gao said in a polite voice. “In China there are far too few universities of the first rank. If he engages in questionable conduct he will be banned. There are a thousand other qualified students waiting for his place.”

“She says she can help me to qualify for university in America,” Thomas blurted out.

Gao ignored his nephew. “Thomas has a great career ahead of him after he settles down. Heinz and I have conquered the mysteries of the earth. Thomas will conquer mysteries off the earth. I have decided to remove him from the temptations he has here. I am sending him to Beijing. I spoke to his parents this evening.”

The color drained from Thomas’s face as he stared at his uncle. “But you said you would give me another chance,” he protested.

“I reconsidered. I began to realize how many lies you must have told us. You stood in front of us and lied about Miss Natay going to Tashtul. Your uncle Heinz has been put to a lot of trouble to find her.”

“But it was to protect me,” Abigail said.

Gao ignored her. “Thomas has been crossing over the mountain frequently, deceiving us, knowing we forbid it, telling me he is looking at wildlife.”

Shan considered the words a moment. Gao must have spoken on the phone with Kohler, now in Tashtul. “Thomas could be useful here,” Shan interjected. “He is helping us discover the murderers of Tashi and Dr. Ma.”

“The truth stares you in the face.” Gao’s patience was wearing thin. “But you refuse to accept it because it is so mundane. The killers were miners. They are greedy, opportunistic creatures, rats that salivate as soon as a bell is rung. Was there ever any doubt as to what would become of wealthy strangers who stumbled into their lair? Every one of them is a criminal by definition. I am sorry, but the moment word spread that you were trespassers without protection, your party was doomed. Once they knew no one would miss you, no one would complain of your absence, your fate was sealed.”

“We’re not wealthy,” Hostene interjected.

“To people like these, all foreigners are wealthy. You became a target the moment you set foot on the mountain. Your companions should have known better, and they paid for the mistake with their lives. Americans are notorious for not taking no for an answer. But it’s finished. Go home. When you think of your tragedy in the future tell yourself it was an attack by wild animals. An accident of nature.”

A brittle silence fell over the table.

Shan, who had been looking down, felt Gao’s gaze.

“I see Inspector Shan disagrees,” Gao observed.

“What you say could be true,” Shan responded. “I don’t know. What I do know is that one thing connecting the acts of violence on this mountain has been the kora. It is like a common thread in a long bloody fabric.”

“That’s nonsense,” Gao said. “You’ve spent too many years locked up with old Tibetans.”

Shan gazed at Abigail as he continued. “Every killing has been at a station of the pilgrim path. You have been studying the path, trying to find its upper terminus, as has the hermit Rapaki for forty years. It’s like a three-way contest.”

“Three-way?” Hostene asked.

“Abigail, Rapaki, and the killer have been converging.”

Abigail stared at Shan, searching his face as if for an answer. Then she began making small talk like a good hostess, asking Thomas about his life in Beijing, about Chinese rock and roll.

Her uncle tossed the fragment of burned sweatshirt onto the table as Shan asked Abigail, “Did you meet a man named Bing?”

The American professor looked at her burned sweatshirt in confusion, then nodded. “Twice. The first time I found him sitting on a rock, watching me as I worked. Tashi came running up as if to protect me, but Bing seemed very polite, almost charming. They spoke for a few minutes and then Bing left.” She fingered the charred fabric. “This was left in our camp that night. The last night.”

“What did Tashi and Bing talk about?”

“I don’t know, I didn’t hear it all. The weather, the wolves. . Tashi told him I was Tibetan, from Lhasa. I don’t know if Bing believed him.”

“And about gold?”

“Of course not.”

“Did Tashi seem to know Bing already?”

Abigail hesitated. “Tashi was from the village. I expected him to know people here. He was paid to be our guide. That included guiding us around the people. We couldn’t afford to let anyone know what we were doing.”