Jowa looked away, then his eyes met Shan's. They had already lost their holy man. Jowa's hands closed tightly around the corners of the computer screen. "I grew up in the grasslands, with the herds," he said suddenly. Everyone stopped and looked at him, surprised by the sudden anguish in his voice. "It was like that in the valley where my family lived. They came in big trucks one day. They loaded everyone in two trucks, about fifty of us. Said that because our family owned land we were reactionaries. Said that the land needed Chinese technology, that they were going to bring tractors and plant Chinese wheat. They sorted through everything in the camp as we watched. Anything that was used for taking care of the herds or moving camp, even the carpets used in my family for eight generations, they put inside the main tent. They collapsed all the other tents and threw them on the big one. Then they set it on fire.

"My mother screamed. A soldier hit her with the butt of his rifle and knocked out four teeth. My sister ran to embrace her pony so they shot the pony. My father said a mantra to the compassionate Buddha and they grabbed his rosary, a coral rosary from the time of the Seventh Dalai Lama, and cut it so the beads were lost in the grass. My aunt jumped on the back of a soldier, screaming, scratching at his face." Jowa's voice drifted off.

"If your enemy leaves you only your hands," Akzu observed with a chill in his voice, "then you scratch them with your hands. If they take your hands and only leave your teeth, then you bite them." The words had the tone of an old war song.

Jowa nodded slowly. "But some soldiers took her out in a pasture." The anguish was back in his voice. "They did things to her, and then she died. They threw her body in the fire and then they drove us away. In the trucks they sang songs in praise of the Chairman. They hit us with rifles until we sang too."

"It's not so bad now," one of the Kazakhs said, but his voice lacked confidence. "Not so violent."

Jowa gave an angry snort. "Now they do it with computers and bureaucrats. And corporations." He turned to Akzu. "You think they'll send all of you to one place, mothers and fathers with their children? It didn't happen that way in Tibet. The families would arrive at a new apartment and the next day a Chinese comes for your child. Has to go to a special school, they say. A boarding school, far away. They learn to sing out of a little red book. And when they come back they all have Chinese names and mock all your old ways."

Akzu looked like he had been kicked in the belly. He held his hand tightly over his abdomen and slowly rose, as if with great effort. Without looking back, he walked out of the tent.

"Until last night," Shan said in the silence that followed, "we had a holy man with us. Then he disappeared."

Jakli sighed heavily. Fat Mao seemed to visibly stiffen. "Who took him?" he demanded.

But Shan could not reply. Just saying the words had filled him with fear again. He felt a desperate compulsion to run, to return to the mountains and find Gendun. The lamas hadn't understood, had expected too much of him. He didn't know the Muslims. He didn't know Xinjiang. He could do nothing about these Kazakhs who were being killed. Someone had been mistaken. None of this was about Tibetans.

Jowa quietly explained what had happened the night before.

"Uniforms?" Fat Mao asked.

"None."

"What color was the truck?"

Jowa looked at Shan. "Hong," the purba said. Red.

The Uighur and Jakli exchanged a glance of alarm. Fat Mao spat a curse.

Jakli looked at Shan. "The Brigade," she said slowly. "They drive red trucks." She looked back at the Uighur with question in her eyes. "But they can't be in Tibet. They're not authorized." She grimaced, as if realizing as she spoke that formal authority was unimportant to the Brigade. "I mean, they've never been there before."

Shan found his voice again. "If they took him," he said urgently, "if the red truck drove Gendun Rinpoche back to Xinjiang, where would they go? Where would they hold him?"

The Uighur slowly reached into his jacket and pulled out an envelope, from which he produced a computer disc. "On to Glory," he said with a sour smile.

As Shan watched in confusion, Jowa accepted the disc and inserted it into the machine. When the screen lit again, it was dominated by huge Chinese characters that had once been part of Shan's daily existence as an investigator in Beijing. Nei Lou, it said. Classified. Internal government use only. A fire seemed to grow in Jowa's eyes as he stared at the screen.

The Uighur leaned forward and tapped the keyboard several times.

"Glory to the People Reeducation Facility," Jowa read out loud as the screen changed. "Lao jiao Camp 947." Lao jiao facilities were reeducation camps, jails for lesser offenders than those sent to the gulag, used to punish minor political sins. Admission to lao jiao was administrative, meaning that citizens could be sentenced on the authority of a single official, without a judge, without a trial.

"The Jade Bitch," Fat Mao said in a low voice.

Shan looked up at him.

"The prosecutor in Yoktian. Xu Li," the Uighur explained. "As cold and hard as jade. Glory Camp is her personal dungeon. Pass gas near her and off you go to eat rice for a few months in Glory Camp."

"Recent admission records," Jowa read off the screen. "But it's too soon," he said. "The disc is-"

"Up to date as of six o'clock last night," Fat Mao announced in a conspiratorial tone.

"Gendun was only taken last night."

"Keep looking," the Uighur said, nodding toward the screen.

"Unassigned numbers," Jowa read in a puzzled tone.

"Right. She always has a few numbers assigned to the others authorized to use the camp. The knobs. The army. The Brigade security teams. Her obsession with efficiency. Open prisoner registration files without names, based on anticipated arrests. They order food, arrange bedding, and staff assignments based on all the files. The Brigade can just take someone there and fill in the name at the gate. Sometimes she lists the reasons in advance. Youth gangs. Cultural recividists."

"A few files?" Jowa asked. "Thirty or forty you mean."

The Uighur bent over the screen in alarm. "Ta ma de!" he spat. "Damn it! What is she up to?"

They scrolled back and forth between recent admissions and the open files. After several minutes Fat Mao stood up with anger in his eyes. "Usually, Glory gets maybe five, six new inmates each week. A week ago she established forty open files. Gave ten to the Brigade to fill, ten to the knobs. Kept twenty for herself. Three days later half of the files are filled. Twenty new inmates. Yesterday six more, then-" He stopped in midsentence and pointed halfway down the screen. "And there's something new," he said. "Six more open files created yesterday. Assigned to the Public Security Bureau."

"But you said the knobs already get-" Jakli interjected.

"No. The local knobs, I meant," Fat Mao said in a low voice, like a growl. "This is different. This says Public Security Headquarters. Boot squads. Working for the bastard kings in a bastard government."

The words cast a pall over the company. They stared at the screen without speaking.

"Nothing about monks," Jowa said finally in a low aside to Shan. "Nothing about Gendun or Tibetans."