Thousands of miles to the southwest on the high plateau that was the Chang Tang, Major Mah of the People’s Liberation Army had exited a cave and looked about for the soldier who was nowhere to be seen. Mah suspected that the man, afraid to enter even the shallowest of caves without a flashlight, was simply sitting somewhere in an entrance, waiting till Mah was finished. He saw something move, and it was the soldier ambling around a rock pile. “Didn’t find anything in there,” he said.
“Did you go all the way in? There’s enough daylight— most of them are only about ten, twelve feet in.”
“I went all the way in, Major.”
Mah didn’t believe him, walked over, and thrust out his flashlight. “Here, take it and make sure you go all the way in. I’ll ask for it back if I come across a deep one.”
The soldier was clearly much relieved. “Inspect that one over there,” the major ordered. “It looks deeper than most. I’ll check out these shallower ones.”
“Yes, Comrade Major.”
Once again Mah drew his Russian Makarov 9mm pistol and started in.
The soldier, with the new confidence the flashlight gave him, had already disappeared into the deeper cave, and almost immediately he heard a sound, like a run of stones. He put the AK-47 off safety and swept his beam about but could see nothing, the sound now further back around the bend in the cave.
He saw a pair of eyes, fired, but was too late, the snow leopard already upon him, teeth sunk deep in the man’s neck, already crunching bone, the man’s eyes bulging in the flashlight’s beam.
Mah heard the burst and came running out of the cave he was in, saw a blur of crimson on white, the big cat disappearing over the snow into the mist surrounding the rocky outcrop.
Mah was shaking. “Comrade Li!” he called, his throat parchment dry. “Li… Comrade Li!”
The wind howled afresh and filled Mah with foreboding as he approached the cave. He hesitated at the entrance. What if its mate was still in there?
“Li!” he called again, his voice echoing shakily in the bend of the tunnel. He could smell excrement. Gripping the Makarov, he reminded himself he was an officer and went forward, stopped, and almost ran but stood his ground, forcing himself to look down in the light of the flashlight on the floor at the blood-soaked body of Li, the man’s eyes bulging out of their sockets, frozen in fear.
Mah picked up the flashlight and, reminding himself again that he was an officer and picking up the AK-47, holstered his Makarov and made his way forward around the bend. He found nothing but the dried bones of small animals.
As he started out of the cave, a fury of panic and hatred filled him, panic that before he got out the snow leopard would return to reclaim his trespassed territory, and fury at the American pilot who, to his mind, was responsible for Li’s death and the fear that he, Mah, had undergone — was undergoing. There were only two caves remaining that he thought were deep enough to investigate. He entered the first one full of apprehension that he might come face-to-face with another wild animal.
When Julia heard the faint tear of a machine-gun burst it sounded further away than it really was. Who were the Chinese — she presumed it must be Chinese — shooting? Was it the old man who had helped her? Had he come back, or was it someone else? Had another pilot been downed? Unlikely, she thought, but why were they shooting? Whatever the reason, it prompted her to try to be especially alert, difficult with the skull-pounding headache that still had her in its grip. She moved the Nuwick candle further toward the entrance so as to see the first bend in the S-shaped tunnel that led to where she was.
The wall on one side, her right, was shiny with water seeping from the top of the cave; the other side, on her left, was drier but, as she was left-handed or, as her male colleagues would call it, a southpaw, it would be the wetter side of the cave she’d have to use to lean on to get a better shot if anyone came in. Perhaps they weren’t searching the caves at all. Then what was a machine gun doing out in this godforsaken place?
For several minutes she heard nothing but the wailing of the wind. But there was a definite footfall at the entrance of the cave about twenty feet from the S-bend. She blew out the candle, bracing herself against the wet wall of the cave, waiting. There was a pause and then a beam of light cutting the misty air, a glimmer of it playing about the bend, and she could hear someone breathing. Was it the old man returning after having heard the machine gun? — if they had heard it in the nomad camp, in which case it might be another member of a Chinese patrol. But — her head was throbbing like a pulse gone mad — the Chinese wouldn’t have had time to—
In the corona of faint light behind the center of the flashlight she saw the outline of Mah’s uniform, a faint red star, and fired four times, killing him with the first shot.
The noise reverberating in the cave sounded to her like cannon when in fact the cave muffled the sound. Still it was heard, albeit faintly, in the nomad camp.
There was a furious debate going on in the camp between the Chinese patrol that had just followed the tracks back to camp and the Chinese soldiers who had been left there originally by Mah. They were arguing about whether the patrol that had been out with Mah should backtrack and investigate the shots. It was decided that two of them should go back to the rocky outcrop. As they left, the old man asked if he could be of assistance.
When the three got to the rocky outcrop and saw the blood marks on the rock, traced them back to the cave and found Li, they didn’t need to be told that Li had been attacked by an animal — a snow leopard, the old man said— and one of the two soldiers was suddenly sick to his stomach and they went out.
The old man, in an awkward pantomime of hands and grunts, asked them if they wanted to look for the major, too. They both stared at him as if he were mad and quickly followed their own footprints back to the camp. The others, on hearing the story, needed no enticement to head back to base immediately.
Julia Reid was shaking. She could hear more footsteps, but these were heavy, more distinct, as if they wanted to be heard.
“America!” a voice said. She was sure it was the old nomad, but the headache was distorting her senses.
“Chin-eze dead!”
The relief that passed through her was like a warm shower on a bitterly cold day. Her headache instantly became less intense, and when she saw the old man, his large frame bending over Mah’s body, stripping it of the Makarov, ammunition pouches, and Chinese money, she could have kissed him.
Her hands still shaking, she relit the candle. She heard a rustle behind her and turned. In the soft flickering light she saw an extraordinary sight the old man, apparently not so old, was standing, his pants down, his erection casting a huge shadow on the wall as he smiled down at her.
“My God!” she heard herself say. “No!”
The old man looked crestfallen. “No?” He shook his head, his scarf down about his throat, his smile toothless. “No?” he repeated.