He stood and paced around the table. It was a storage room without windows, the room where small groups met for struggle sessions, the tamzing where antisocialist spasms were diagnosed and treated. Ammonia wafted from cleaning supplies stacked in one corner. A small notepad sat beside the phone, plus three pencil stubs pocked with toothmarks. Feng sat in a chair at the door, peeling an apple. His smug face did little to alleviate Shan's suspicion that he had been led into an elaborate trap.

Shan returned to the table and picked up the phone receiver. There was a dial tone. He dropped it back on its cradle, pressing his hand against it as though to restrain it. To what end was the trap? A trap for Shan? If, after so long, neither Beijing nor Shan would tell them what his crime was, then perhaps they had decided to create one they could better understand. Or was it for Choje and the monks? Who did they expect him to call? Minister Qin? His party functionary wife who had erased their relationship? The son whose face he would not recognize even if he ever saw him again?

He picked it up again and dialed five random digits.

"Wei," a woman said impassively, with the ubiquitous, meaningless syllable used by everyone to answer phones. He hung up and stared at the telephone. He unscrewed the mouthpiece and found, as expected, an interceptor microphone, standard Public Security issue. Such devices had also been part of his prior incarnation. It could be active or inactive. It could be for him, or standard issue for all prison phones.

He replaced the mouthpiece and surveyed the room again. Every object seemed to have an added dimension, a heightened reality, as to a dying man. He turned to the pad, marveling at the clean, bright paper. Such brightness was not a part of the universe he entered three years earlier. The first page held a list of names and numbers, the rest were blank. With a slight tremble he turned the empty pages, pausing over each one as though reading a book. On the last page, in a top corner where it was least likely to be discovered, he made the two bold strokes that comprised the ideogram for his name. It was the first time he had written it since his arrest. He looked at it with an unfamiliar satisfaction. He was still alive.

Below his name he made the ideograms for his father's name then, with a pang of guilt, abruptly closed the pad and looked to see if Feng was watching.

From somewhere came a low moan. It could have been the wind. It could have been someone in the stable. He moved the pad away and discovered a folded sheet of paper under it. It was a printed form with the heading REPORT ON ACCIDENTAL DEATH.

He picked up the phone and dialed the first name on the list. It was the clinic in town, the county hospital.

"Wei."

"Dr. Sung," he read.

"Off duty." The line went dead.

Suddenly he realized someone was standing in front of his desk. The man was Tibetan, though unusually tall. He was young, and wore the green uniform of the camp staff.

"I have been assigned to you, to help with your report," the man said awkwardly, glancing about the room. "Where's the computer?"

Shan lowered the phone. "You're a soldier?" There were indeed Tibetans in the People's Liberation Army but seldom were they stationed in Tibet.

"I am not-" the man began with a resentful flash, then caught himself. Shan recognized the reaction. The man did not understand who Shan was, and so could not decide where he belonged in the strata of prison life or the even more complex hierarchy of China's classless society. "I have just completed two years of reeducation," he reported stiffly. "Warden Zhong was kind enough to issue me clothing on my release."

"Reeducation for what?" Shan asked.

"My name is Yeshe."

"But you are still in the camp."

"Jobs are few. They asked me to stay. I have finished my term," he said insistently.

Shan began to recognize an undertone, a quiet discipline in the voice. "You studied in the mountains?" he asked.

The resentment returned. "I was entrusted by the people with study at the university in Chengdu."

"I meant a gompa."

Yeshe did not reply. He walked around the room, stopped at the rear and arranged the chairs in a semicircle, as if a tamzing were to be convened.

"Why would you stay?" Shan asked.

"Last year they were sent new computers. No one on the staff was trained for them."

"Your reeducation consisted of operating the prison computers?"

The tall Tibetan frowned. "My reeducation consisted of hauling night soil from the prison latrines to the fields," he said, awkwardly trying to sound proud of his work, the way he would have been taught by the political officers. "But they discovered I had computer training. I began to help with office administration as part of my rehabilitation. Looking at accounts. Rendering reports to Beijing's computer formats. On my release, they asked me to stay for a few more weeks."

"So as a former monk your rehabilitation consists of helping imprison other monks?"

"I'm sorry?"

"It's just that I never cease to be amazed at what can be accomplished in the name of virtue."

Yeshe winced in confusion.

"Never mind. What kind of reports?"

Yeshe continued pacing, his restless eyes moving from Sergeant Feng at the door back to Shan. "Last week, reports on inventory of medicines. The week before, trends in the prisoners' consumption of grain per mile of road constructed. Weather conditions. Survival rates. And we've been trying to account for lost military supplies."

"They didn't tell you why I am here?"

"You are writing a report."

"The body of a man was found at the Dragon Claws worksite. A file must be prepared for the Ministry."

Yeshe leaned against the wall. "Not a prisoner, you mean."

The question didn't need an answer.

Yeshe suddenly noticed Shan's shirt. He stooped and looked under the table at Shan's battered cardboard and vinyl shoes, then back at Feng.

"They didn't tell you," Shan said. It was a statement, not a question.

"But you're not Tibetan."

"You're not Chinese," Shan shot back.

Yeshe backed away from Shan. "There was a mistake," he whispered, and moved to Sergeant Feng with his hands outstretched, as though beseeching his mercy.

Feng's only answer was to point toward the warden's office. Yeshe retreated with mincing steps and sat in front of Shan. He absently stared at Shan's shoes again then, apparently marshalling his strength, looked up. "Are you to be accused?" he asked, unable to hide the alarm in his voice.

"In what sense of the word?" Shan marveled at how reasonable the question sounded.

Yeshe stared at him wide-eyed, as if he had stumbled upon some new form of demon. "In the sense of a trial for murder."

Shan looked into his hands and absently picked at one of the thick calluses. "I don't know. Is that what they told you?" Perhaps that had been the plan all along. The old ones, like Tan and Minister Qin, enjoyed playing with their food before eating.

"They told me nothing," Yeshe said bitterly.

"The prosecutor is away," Shan said, struggling to keep his voice calm. "Colonel Tan needs a report. It is something I used to do."

"Murder?" Yeshe's voice sounded almost hopeful.

"No. Case files." Shan pushed the list toward Yeshe. "I tried the first name. The doctor was not available."