His meditation ended abruptly, a long time later. Something was lurking at the edge of his consciousness. The words that sprang onto his tongue seemed to bypass his mind. “On mani padme hum,” for the Compassionate Buddha, then other words for each of the images he recognized among the little figures. Some were words he had not spoken since learning them on dark winter nights from very old Tibetans, risking the penalties of curfew to speak them. “Om ah vajre gate hum,” he finally added, and paused, wondering why something inside, unbidden, had offered up the words for the Green Tara, the Droljang Tara. Of all the manifestations of the Tara he might have chosen, something within him had settled on the aggressive protector form.

His mind became impossibly clear. He heard an insect crawling on the window, a mouse scratching at the rear of the building. He began reviewing the events on Sleeping Dragon Mountain, starting with the moment he had set foot in Drango village, reconsidering every piece of the puzzle, changing their positions, twisting them like little pieces of colored glass, watching them transform in hue as he turned them this way and that. His fear receded, replaced by what some of the Old Ones would have called the mind of the warrior protector. By the time he rose, the moon was low in the sky and he had begun to grasp the pattern of the puzzle.

He bowed to the assembled deities in gratitude and went toward the front of the compound, pausing at the factory door as he reminded himself of what Yangke had said on the helicopter. Tashi had promised he would “ride with the gods” all the way to India.

Gao stood in the dark in the doorway. He spun about at Shan’s approach, then relaxed. “You were right. There are two of them.”

Shan stepped to his side. Gao was watching a shadow inside a shadow. But then the man drew on a cigarette, casting his face in a quick orange glow.

“I wish Heinz were here,” Gao said. “He knows about such things.”

“Have you spoken with him?”

“I called the hotel where he keeps an apartment. He checked in. But he had to drive to the airport. He’ll phone tomorrow.”

“But you’ll be gone tomorrow.”

“No. I can’t leave on the same helicopter that brought us here. Ren would note the serial number and make the pilot talk. Then the mountain will be smothered with soldiers. You would never find the killer.”

Gao was repeating Shan’s own warning back to him. The scientist too must have been meditating in the dark. He seemed to have finally accepted that the only justice for his nephew would be unofficial justice.

Gao tapped a compact instrument on his belt. “My satellite phone. I called the pilot. He landed at a nearby base after arrang- ing to have a mechanical problem. He will take the helicopter on a test flight and come at dawn, without lights.” Gao reached into his pocket and handed Shan a wad of banknotes. “This will make up for the gold you used.”

Shan went to the backpack they had left there earlier. He extracted the digital camera, fumbling until finally he discovered how to scroll through the stored photos. When he found the one he wanted he extended the camera to Gao. “Can you print this here?” he asked.

Gao studied the photo. It was of Abigail Natay, cheerfully sitting on a rock, left foot under her body, right foot hanging over the edge. Her hair was upswept, adorned by flowers. After a moment Gao went to the computer on the desk and then pointed to the printer. A still image emerged. Shan retrieved the photo, placed it in his pocket, then checked the window again.

On the adjacent table, dimly lit by the street light, was the photo of Kohler, his arm around a woman’s shoulder. They were on a beach. Shan held it up. “Where was this taken?”

“In the south of India. Heinz does a lot of business there and has made friends. The company owns a house and a warehouse in India.”

“You must enjoy the contrast in climate.”

When Gao did not reply Shan realized his mistake. “They won’t let you out,” he said. The government’s lifeblood was secrets, and Gao was a walking vault containing the most dangerous secrets of all.

“If I want sun,” Gao said, “they arrange for me to speak at a conference on the southern coast of China. With an escort.”

Shan replaced the photo and rejoined Gao at the window.

“When you find Abigail Natay,” Gao said wearily, “bring her back to my house. But first we must find a way to get the three of you out of here before sunrise.”

Shan considered the problem only briefly. “What time do your workers arrive?” he asked.

AN HOUR BEFORE dawn, Gao switched on the light in his office and walked purposefully to the window, pointing to the blush of pink in the eastern sky as Shan, then Hostene and Yangke appeared beside him. He gestured toward a table that had been positioned near the window, then closed shut the filmy inner curtain and sat with them. The office manager appeared with a tea tray.

They waited several minutes, talking and gesturing broadly before signaling for the first of three early-arriving workers who were squatting along the wall. Shan rose, approached the wall as if to look at a picture, then flattened himself against it and sidled out of the room. The first worker took his place at the table. Soon the three of them were outside.

Shan watched from the deep shadows until the nearest watcher lit a cigarette with a match, destroying his night vision. Shan motioned to his friends and they headed to the soccer stadium. Soon they were airborne. Shan was ready to wake the dragon.

The fields that had fed the inhabitants of Drango village their entire lives were black and barren. In the charred fields, they crouched on their hands and knees to glean a few intact kernels, sometimes finding an entire seed head that had survived the flames. Their hands and faces were covered with soot, and with their desolate expressions they seemed to be wearing the masks Shan had seen used in ritual plays portraying fleshless puppets of the dead.

Yangke ventured into the village. He returned with a warning that Shan should not seek out Lokesh and Gendun. The villagers were still dazed by the catastrophe that had struck their village, and the only thing they knew for certain was that their troubles had started when Shan and the other outsiders arrived. Gendun was now under double guard because Lokesh and Dolma had tried to move him.

“To where?”

“I don’t know. Away, out of the village,” Yangke replied. “They had him on a litter, but weren’t even able to carry him past the fields. If Dolma wasn’t an elder, Chodron would have had her caned too.”

“Was Lokesh caned?” The words seemed to choke Shan.

Yangke slowly nodded. “Thirty strokes of Chodron’s bamboo rod. He demanded to know where you were.” Yangke restrained Shan, who had taken a step toward the village. “He’s not there. I couldn’t find Lokesh or Dolma. But they said he is all right, that he hardly seemed to notice the cane, that he-”

“-recited a mantra and looked toward the sky as he took the beating,” Shan finished in a hoarse whisper. How many times had he seen it before, in their prison camp? Forty? Fifty? At times Lokesh had difficulty bending, because of all the scar tissue.

“Chodron is furious. His generator is broken. He has no radio contact. He keeps hounding the man who is trying to fix it. Everyone is afraid of him and his men. They’re hiding from him.”

Shan had seen the headman observing when the helicopter left them on the slope above the fields. He must have thought Gao was still with them or he would have rounded them up.

“And Gendun?”

“He sits in Dolma’s house, reciting the death rites when he has the strength. For Thomas. For Tashi. For Professor Ma. The villagers took the farmer who died to the fleshcutters. They asked Chodron who killed him. But he told them they must wait until the festival. No words have been recited by the dead farmer’s family. They know if they perform any act of devotion, Chodron will punish Gendun.”