Shan considered the words in silence. "He carries weapons?"

"If he needs it, it will be in his hand," Choje said engimatically. "Speak to one of the Black Hat sect. There was once an old Black Hat ngagspa in the town. A sorcerer. Khorda, he was called. Practiced the old rites. Frightened the young monks with his spells. From a Nyingmapa gompa."

The Black Hats comprised the most traditional of the Tibetan Buddhist sects, of which the Nyingmapa was the oldest line, the one most closely linked to the shamans who once ruled Tibet.

"He could no longer be alive," Choje said. "When I was a boy he was already old. But he had apprentices. Ask who does Black Hat charms, who studied with Khorda."

Choje stared deeply at Shan, the way a father might contemplate a son departing on a long and dangerous journey. He gestured with his fingers. "Come closer."

As Shan moved within his reach Choje placed a hand on the back of Shan's head and pushed it down. He whispered to Trinle, who handed him a pair of rusty scissors, then snipped a lock of Shan's inch-long hair from just above his neck. It was what they did in initiation rites, for students being admitted to monasteries, to remind them of how Buddha had sacrificed to attain virtue.

The action, inexplicably, made Shan's heart race. "I am not worthy," Shan said as he looked up.

"Of course you are. You are part of us."

A deep sadness welled up within him. "What is happening, Rinpoche?"

But Choje only sighed, suddenly looking very tired. The old lama rose and moved to his bunk. As he did so, Trinle handed Shan a stained piece of paper on which an ideogram had been inscribed. "This is for you," Trinle said.

Shan futilely studied the paper. The characters were in the old style, like those on the medallion. Drawn on it was a series of concentric circles, encompassing a central lotus flower, each petal bearing secret symbols. "Is it a prayer?"

"Yes. No. Not exactly. A charm. A protector. Blessed by Rinpoche. Written on a fragment of an old holy book. Very powerful." Trinle grasped the lower corners. "Here," he explained, "you must fold it and roll it into a small roll. Wear it around your neck. We should find an amulet for it, on a chain. But there are none."

"Everyone is writing protection charms?"

"Not like this. Not so powerful. There was only this one fragment. And the invocation of the symbols. These are not words made by the hands or the lips. They are never spoken. Rinpoche had to reach up and capture them. It takes several hours to empower it. He worked all day. It has exhausted him. It is one that will be recognized by Tamdin, one that can be detected from this demon's world, so he knows you are coming. It is not simply protection. It is more like an introduction, so you can commune with him. Choje says you are walking the path of protector demons."

Meaning they are about to attack me, Shan was tempted to ask, when another question occured to him. How had Choje obtained a fragment of an ancient manuscript?

Some monks placed their charms on the altar, looking expectantly toward Choje. Others carried theirs to a bunk at the rear. Shan stepped toward it. One of the old monks sat in the bed with a strange patchwork of charms. He was joining the tally sheets into a larger charm, deftly tying them together with tiny braids of human hair.

Shan realized Trinle was staring at the thick pad of paper in his pocket. He ripped off a dozen blank pages and handed them to Trinle, with his pencil.

"The others. What are the other charms?"

"Each of us does what he can. Some are trying to prepare Bardo rites for the jungpo. Others are just protection charms. I do not know if Rinpoche will bless them. Without the blessing from one of power, they will be useless."

"He will not bless the protection charms? He does not want them protected from the jungpo?"

"Not the jungpo. These are for the evils of this world. Tsonsung charms. For protection from batons. From bayonets. From bullets."

A sleek young man in a white shirt and a blue suit was waiting outside Tan's office the next morning. Pacing in front of the window, he paused to scornfully examine Sergeant Feng, then noticed Shan and threw him a knowing nod, as if they shared in some secret.

Shan moved to the window, desperate to discern activity on the slopes of the South Claw. The stranger mistook his movement for an invitation to converse.

"Three out of five," the man said. "Sixty percent request to go home before their tour is up. Did you know that, Comrade?" He had Beijing written all over him.

"Most of those I know serve their full terms," Shan said quietly. He leaned forward, touching the glass. The 404th should be on the slope by now. Would the warden even bother to take them out today?

"They can't take the cold," the man continued, giving no evidence he had heard Shan. "Can't take the air. Can't take the drought. Can't take the dust. Can't take the stares on the street. Can't take the two-legged locusts."

The stranger sprang to Madame Ko's side as she moved through the waiting room. "There is nothing more important!" he insisted, speaking slowly and loudly as if she were somehow incapacitated. "I must see him now!" She smiled coolly at him and pointed to the chairs along the wall.

But the man continued pacing, repeatedly glancing back at Tan's door. "I've been here two years. Love it. Could do ten. How about you?"

Shan looked up, slowly, hoping the man was not speaking to him. But his eyes were like two gun barrels, aimed directly at Shan. "Three so far."

"A man of my own heart!" the stranger exclaimed. "I love it here," he repeated. "The challenges of a lifetime. Opportunity at every crossroad," he said, looking at Shan for confirmation.

"At least surprise. Surprise at every crossroad," Shan offered judiciously.

The man replied with a short, restrained laugh and settled into the seat beside Shan. Shan covered his file with his hands.

"Haven't seen you before. Assigned to a unit in the mountains?"

"In the mountains," Shan grunted. The outer office was not heated, and he had not removed the anonymous gray coat Feng had found for him that morning in the back of the truck.

"Old man's got his bowl too full," the man confided, with a nod toward Tan's door. "Reports for the Party. Reports for the army. Reports for Public Security. Reports on the status of reports. We don't let bureaucracy interfere like that. No way to get things done."

Feng's head lurched backward. He began to snore.

"We?" Shan inquired.

With a theatrical air the man opened a small vinyl case and handed Shan an an embossed card.

Shan studied the card. It was made of paper-thin plastic. Li Aidang, it said. The name had been a favorite of ambitious parents a generation earlier. Li Who Loves the Party. Shan's gaze drifted to the title and froze. Assistant Prosecutor. Tan had done it, he thought, he had summoned an investigator from outside. Then he read the address on the card. Lhadrung County.

He rubbed his fingers over the words in disbelief. "You are very young for such a responsibility," Shan said at last, and studied Li. The assistant prosecutor could not have been much past thirty. He wore an expensive backdoor watch and, oddly, some kind of Western sporting shoes. "And a long way from home."

"Don't miss Beijing. Too many people. Not enough opportunity."