"But there was no doubt after an eyewitness report. Zhu took over, called headquarters from here. Filled out the report, in triplicate. The venture has forms for deaths. With ten thousand workers, people have accidents. Never had an expatriate die though." Jenkins stared into his mug again. "He sent in the form. Got me to countersign and sent it in. Just a damned bureaucratic exercise for them," he grunted. "Only acknowledgment I got was a memo from the company that said they will pay for a memorial stone for her back home."
"Did you speak with Zhu about the details, like how far exactly he was when he saw her fall, what he did to try to recover the body?"
"By radiotelephone. I was in Golmud when he came in. Faxed his report to me. Lucky there was any witness at all. Otherwise her family would be worrying for years. Now they can move on."
"Only Zhu though?" Winslow asked. "I mean didn't others on his crew see something, weren't they listed as witnesses?"
A low rumble erupted from Jenkins's throat. "He's the Director for Special Projects, for chrissakes."
"How long has he been with the venture?" Shan asked.
Jenkins frowned and stared at Winslow before answering. "Not long. Only met him on this project."
"And what exactly do Special Projects consist of?" Winslow asked.
"Whatever the company says." Jenkins shrugged. "He works for someone two or three levels above my pay grade. Someone in the Ministry, I think. Maybe his main job is investor relations."
"Investor relations?" Winslow asked.
"Watching over the foreigners in the venture," Jenkins said in a contemplative tone as he rubbed his grizzled jaw. "Probably wears grey underwear," he observed in a matter-of-fact tone. Meaning, Shan realized, that Jenkins thought Zhu worked for Public Security.
"Zhu brought in these Public Security troops?" Shan asked abruptly, in English. "To look for her?"
The beefy American manager studied him a moment before answering, and shot a peeved glance at Winslow. "Those troops are from Golmud. Sure, maybe Zhu called them. Public Security helps the ventures sometimes, mostly to enforce discipline among the Chinese workers. They never helped us look for Larkin."
"At the other camp," Winslow said, "how many foreigners are there? Would there be other Americans at that second camp?"
Jenkins shook his head. "British. The venture is very regimented. My American employer holds a ten-percent interest in the venture, and the venture has ten exploration camps. So we get to manage one camp. Same for each of the other foreign investors."
"Why here?" Shan asked. "What was it about Yapchi Mountain that got her so interested?"
"She was just a perfectionist," Jenkins said, "and the maps for this area were worthless, lots of holes to be filled in. When she worked a site she made a catalog of everything, wanted to know the surrounding geology for ten miles around and two miles deep. It's a compulsion for oil geologists. In our company they record it all, eventually feed the data into a big computer back home which models the data. Looking for new tracers, similar characteristics, indicators of the presence and type of oil. Geology repeats itself in strange ways. Information about a site in Pakistan might explain a site we're working in Alaska."
"What happened to the others on Miss Larkin's crew?" Shan asked.
"We change field crews all the time. Those who were with her that day, they were shipped back to the main base near Golmud, the operations center. Our hell on wheels."
"Sorry?" Shan said in confusion.
"An old railroad term. Temporary cities spring up around big construction projects. Attract all levels of the food chain, you might say. Booming for a few months, a year, then the whole thing packs up and moves on to be more central to the next set of big projects. We're in an exploration frenzy. Someone came from Beijing and gave a speech in Golmud to all the managers. We're opening China's west, we're the bringers of prosperity. Heroes of the proletariat and all," Jenkins said in a hollow tone. "First the exploration teams, then the drilling camps. Once we finish, pipe fitters move in and the camps move on." Jenkins pulled the cigar out of his pocket. "Mind?"
Winslow and Shan shook their heads, and Jenkins opened the wrapper and ran the cigar under his nose with a small sound of contentment.
"But Miss Larkin's crew," Shan suggested. "You could find them in Golmud, to speak with."
"Me? Hell no. Needle in a haystack. At any one time they have two to three hundred workers rotating through the base. Those men from her team, they could be in four different places now, hundreds of miles away, even shipped off to other provinces. Our Chinese partner has operations all over China."
"Do you have their names?" Shan pressed.
Jenkins lit the cigar, blowing smoke over his shoulder, out the door. He studied Winslow with a disbelieving frown. "You sure you didn't know her? A man might think you and she had-"
"I told you before," Winslow interjected peevishly. "Just doing my job."
Jenkins inhaled deeply on the cigar. "Okay. Some damned computer disc must have some names on it." He rose and stepped to the door, calling out in Chinese to the woman who had brought the tea. They conversed a moment, then he stepped back to the table. He wrinkled his brow and stared into his mug once more, then looked up at Winslow. "A lot of crazy shit goes on here. It's the wild west. It's the end of the world. Everyone is far from home. We're paid to go to some godforsaken place and pump money out of the ground, and we make it happen. Some things I don't totally understand. Not my business. Soldiers come and go. I hear things about people from Beijing coming in for midnight meetings. They tell me not to get involved in politics. So I don't get involved in politics. Nothing criminal about all this, just politics."
It was Winslow's turn to stare into his cup. "Why, Jenkins," he said at last, "would the word criminal come to mind?"
The manager's mouth twisted, as if he had bit something sour. "Just the way you talk. No other reason," he added emphatically.
"But how could you do this to the land when you have no connection to it?" Shan heard himself ask. The words leapt off his tongue before they crossed his mind. As though a deity was speaking through him. It is not your land, the Tibetans would say, and therefore you may ask nothing of it.
"Connection?" Jenkins asked, as if he didn't understand. But then he winced and his eyes drifted downward. "It's my job," he said in a voice that sounded suddenly weary, and Shan knew the American manager understood his question perfectly. "I heard that sound," Jenkins added, almost in a whisper. "It was like a heartbeat." He looked up at Winslow. "You heard it, too, right?"
They sat in silence for what seemed a long time.
"There are two people outside your camp," Shan said, "working on their knees in the earth."
Jenkins snorted and grinned at Shan, as though grateful for the change in subject. "One of the development banks is providing some big dollars for the project. Which means volumes of rules and criteria that have been dreamed up by bureaucrats. One is that we do an archaeological assessment. Someone kicked up an artifact and made the mistake of telling Golmud. Next thing we know two experts arrive with a letter saying we have to cooperate. They will catalog the site, write a report, and move on. Just more red tape."