Shan considered the woman. In Chinese bureaucracies, there was a gray line between humanitarian service to the struggling colonies and outright exile. "But can you be so sure of the cause? Perhaps he died in a fall and later, for unrelated reasons, his head was removed."

"Unrelated reasons? The heart was still pumping when the head was severed. Otherwise there would have been much more blood in the body."

Shan sighed. "With what then? An axe?"

"Something heavy. And razor-sharp."

"A rock, possibly?"

Dr. Sung responded with a peevish frown and yawned. "Sure. A rock as sharp as a scalpel. It wasn't a single blow. But no more than three, I'd say."

"Was he conscious?"

"At the time of death he was unconscious."

"Surely you cannot know, without the head."

"His clothes," Dr. Sung said. "There was almost no blood on his clothes. No skin or hair under the nails. No scratches. There was no struggle. His body was laid out so the blood would drain away from it. Face up. We extracted soil and mineral particles from the back of his sweater. Only the back."

"But it's just a theory, that he was unconscious."

"And your theory, Comrade? That he died by falling on a rock and someone who collected heads happened along?"

"This is Tibet. There is an entire social class dedicated to cutting up bodies for disposal. Perhaps a ragyapa happened along and began the rite for sky burial, then was interrupted."

"By what?"

"I don't know. The birds."

"They don't fly at night," she grumbled. "And I've never seen a vulture big enough to carry a skull away." She pulled a paper from the clipboard. "You must be the fool who sent me this," she said. It was the accident report form, ready for her signature.

"The colonel would feel better if you just signed it."

"I don't work for the colonel."

"I told him that."

"And?"

"It's a subtle point for a man like the colonel."

Sung threw him one last glare, nearly a snarl, then silently ripped the form in half. "How's this for subtle?" She tossed the pieces on the naked corpse and marched out of the room.

Jilin the murderer was obviously invigorated by his new status as the leading worker of the 404th. He loomed like a giant at the front of the column, slamming his sledgehammer into the boulders, pausing occasionally to turn with a gloating expression toward the knots of Tibetan prisoners seated on the slope below. Shan studied the others, a dozen Chinese and Moslem Uyghurs not usually seen on the road crews. Zhong had sent the kitchen staff to the South Claw.

Shan found Choje, sitting lotus fashion, his eyes closed, in the center of a ring of monks near the top. Their idea was to protect Choje when the guards eventually moved in. It only meant that the guards would be all the more furious when they eventually reached him.

But the guards sat around the trucks, smoking and drinking tea brewed over an open wood fire. They were not watching the prisoners. They were watching the road from the valley.

Jilin's jubilance faded when he saw Shan. "They say you're a trusty now," he said bitterly, punctuating the sentence with a slam of the hammer.

"Just a few days. I'll be back."

"You're missing everything. Triple rations if you work. Damned locusts gonna get their wings broken. Stable gonna be full. We'll be heroes." Locusts. It was a label of contempt for the Tibetan natives. For the droning sound of their mantras.

Shan studied the four small cairns that had been raised to mark where the body had been found. He slowly walked around the site, sketching it in his notebook.

Sung was right. The killer had done his work here. This was the butchering ground. He had killed the man, and thrown the contents of his pockets over the cliff. But why had he missed the shirt pocket, under the sweater, which held the American money? Because, Shan mused, his hands had been so bloody and the white shirt so clean.

"Why come this far from town and not throw the body over the cliff? It would never have been found." The query came from behind. Yeshe had followed Shan up the slope. It was the first time Yeshe had shown any interest in their assignment.

"It was supposed to be found." Shan knelt and pushed away the remaining rocks from the rust-colored stain.

"Then why cover it with rocks?"

Shan turned and studied Yeshe, then the monks who had begun to watch him nervously. Jungpos only came out at night. But by day the hungry ghosts hid in small crevasses or under rocks.

"Maybe because then the guards would have seen it from a distance."

"But the guards did find it," Yeshe argued.

"No. Prisoners found it first. Tibetans."

Shan left Yeshe staring uneasily at the cairns and walked over to Jilin. "I need you to hang me over the edge."

Jilin lowered his hammer. "You're one crazy shit."

Shan repeated the request. "Just a few seconds. Over there," he pointed. "Hold my ankles."

Jilin slowly followed Shan to the edge, then smirked. "Five hundred feet. Lots of time to think before you hit. Then you're just like a melon fired from a cannon."

"A few seconds, then you pull me back."

"Why?"

"Because of the gold."

"Like hell," Jilin spat. But then, with a suspicious gleam he leaned over the edge. "Shit," he said as he looked up in surprise. "Shit," he repeated, then quickly sobered. "I don't need you."

"Sure you do. You can't reach it from the top. Who do you trust to lower you?"

A spark of understanding kindled on Jilin's face. "Why trust me?"

"Because I'm going to give you the gold. I'm going to look at it, then I'll give it to you." Jilin could only be relied upon for his greed.

A moment later Shan was upside down, suspended by his ankles over the abyss. His pencil fell out of his pocket and plunged end over end through the void. He closed his eyes as Jilin laughed and bobbed him up and down like a child's marionette. But when he opened them the lighter was directly in front of him.

In an instant he was back on top. The lighter was Western-made but engraved with the Chinese ideogram for long life. Shan had seen such lighters before; they were often tokens distributed at party meetings. He breathed on it, letting his breath fog the surface. No fingerprints.

"Give it to me," Jilin growled. He was watching the guards.

Shan closed his hand around it. "Sure. For a trade."

Jilin's eyes went wild. He raised his fist. "I'll break you in half."

"You took something from the body. Pulled it out of the hand. I want it."

Jilin seemed to be considering whether he would have time to grab the lighter while he pushed Shan off the edge.

Shan stepped out of his reach. "I don't think it was valuable," Shan said. "But this-" He lit the flame. "Look. Wind-resistant." He extended it, increasing the risk the guards would see it.

Instantly Jilin reached into his pocket and produced a small tarnished metal disk. He dropped it into Shan's palm and grabbed the lighter. Shan held onto it. "One more thing. A question."

Jilin snarled and looked back down the slope. As much as he might wish to crush Shan, the first sign of struggle would bring the guards.