“Then we need you here more than ever,” Shan suggested, inching forward.
Kohler edged toward the ghost cairn, seeming to recognize what it was. “You made this,” he growled at Shan. “Take it down.”
“It’s a monument to dead hermits,” Shan rejoined.
The hand behind Kohler’s back reappeared, holding a small black gun. “Take it down,” he ordered. When Shan did not move, the German thrust the gun forward, then swung the staff in his other hand upward, a blow that was meant to break ribs. As Shan jerked sideways, a rock flew through the air, connecting squarely with Kohler’s brow. The German crumpled to the ground.
A familiar face appeared in the moonlight, wearing a surprised grin, the cloth blindfold hanging around his neck. Yangke could see again.
“He wasn’t going to kill you,” Gao offered in a taut voice.
“On that slender thread,” Shan said, “I was betting my life.”
Shan handed the gun to Gao. Then, with Yangke, he half carried, half dragged Kohler back to camp.
They laid Kohler by the fire and bound his arms and legs. There was no sign of Abigail or Hostene.
“I don’t know where he took them,” the Tibetan stated in an anxious tone. “My vision returned in the afternoon but I made some holes in the bandage and put it back on. I saw him lead Hostene and Abigail into the rocks above. He came back, tossed some pebbles in the fire, and ran toward the trail. They exploded three times. They were bullets, I guess, not pebbles.” Yangke looked toward the summit. “I don’t understand. It’s as if the mountain makes everyone crazy. Up there are only cliffs and crevasses, no place to be at night.” Yangke looked from the fire to the unconscious man, then ran up the slope, one step ahead of Shan. Gao sat on the ground beside Kohler, his head buried in his hands.
The German had done his work well. They found Hostene and his niece, gagged and tied back to back, abandoned on the narrow ledge where Kohler had confronted Shan earlier that day. They had been left twelve inches from a drop of five hundred feet. Abigail was slumped against Hostene, unconscious. Her uncle was staring so intensely into the night sky that Shan had to shake him before Hostene noticed him.
As Shan kneeled and untied the ropes, Abigail rolled into his arms. Hostene checked her pulse. She responded by pulling her hand away, then stretching. A sigh of relief escaped Hostene’s lips. She had been sleeping.
They kept Kohler against the stone wall, behind the fire, watching him in shifts. Only Hostene chose to keep the pistol in his belt during his shift, Shan and Yangke selecting one of the long staffs as a weapon. Yangke, who seemed to be brimming over with questions, sensed that his queries needed to wait. Just one mystery was entirely explained that night when Shan approached Hostene, who sat at the opposite side of the fire, and handed him a brown plastic vial he had discovered when searching Kohler’s pack.
“Kohler was right,” Shan said. “Altitude sickness can have many symptoms. And he was prepared for them all.” He showed Hostene three other similar containers he had taken from the pack, each with printed Chinese and English labels. “Acetazolamide,” he said, lifting the first jar, “is taken to prevent the sickness, and to relieve early symptoms.” He pointed to the other two. “Furosemide is for edema, promethazine for nausea. And what you are holding is morphine. Two or three of those and anyone will act the way she did this afternoon with Rapaki. And if this bottle was full, then she’s been drugged for the last couple of days.”
Hostene extended an arm as if to throw the little jar away, then glanced toward his sleeping niece and tucked it into his pocket.
“Once, at my old temple,” Yangke declared after a moment, “a teacher said you can’t have a god without a devil. The sinner defines the saint.”
“I stopped making excuses for sinners long ago,” Hostene rejoined, and walked back toward Kohler. Shan followed, watching as Hostene paced around the German, whose eyes were still closed. “The difference between you and me, Shan, is that you were an investigator. You just find facts and arrange them in the correct sequence. But I,” Hostene said, “I was a judge. You defined the messes. I had to clean them up.”
“He’s not exactly a killer,” Shan said.
“That’s what Yangke said about Rapaki. What do you mean?” Hostene demanded.
“He’s a physicist turned businessman, the real managing director of Little Moscow. He had a business plan: Eliminate Chodron by discrediting him and making Bing a better offer. Take the miners’ gold and pay them directly, eliminating most of their risks.”
A new disdainful voice joined the conversation. “It was never planned to end this way,” Kohler said, twisting himself until he was leaning against a rock. “I never intended any killings.”
“No,” Shan agreed. “The only planned murder took place last year, when Bing and Chodron decided to murder the dissenting miner and accuse his partner. Bing proved he could protect the miners so they elected him their head, just as he and Chodron intended. But that was before you cemented your alliance with Bing, before the three comrades from prison camp realized all the money they could make if each applied his particular skills to the business. Before you installed the new smelting equipment in Tashtul.”
“It was Tashi,” Kohler said, looking into the fire now. “He was the catalyst. He offered to make fraudulent customs forms for me so I could avoid paying duties. He was an amazing forger, a true artist. He practiced in prison by duplicating Buddhist scriptures. Bing discovered him faking passes for the guards at the gulag. Bing knew real talent when he saw it. And then Tashi told him about his magic mountain. Imagine my surprise when Bing asked if I had ever heard of the Sleeping Dragon.”
“But it was you who saw the bigger possibilities,” Shan pointed out. “Ship the gold in trucks to India. At the end of the summer you could convert the gold into Tibetan deities and yaks, the gold painted over to look like a cheaper metal in your little foundry in Tashtul. Then Tashi would take the souvenirs across the border with forged papers. Chodron’s scheme of simply charging the miners a secret tax to was nothing compared to this.” Shan glanced up at Yangke, who listened intently. Tashi had made him a promise, that he would ride all the way to India with the gods. “Heinz thinks on a global scale. He reversed Chodron’s business structure. Instead of taking a percentage from the miners, he would take the gold and pay them a percentage. He assumed the risk in transporting the gold out of China and converting it somewhere else. That’s why some of the miners had so much cash.” He turned to Kohler. “You had already begun to build your market.”
The German offered Shan a respectful nod. “If you want to predict the price of gold, count the number of wars being waged in the world. It’s a bull market.”
“An entrepreneurial miracle,” Shan said in a flat voice. “Except your driver and forger was too entrepreneurial.”
“Driving was merely a sideline for Tashi. Artwork was his passion. You’re on a roll, Shan. Don’t stop now. Except you forgot to point out that no one is hurt by my scheme except Chodron, whom everyone hates anyway.”
“That changed when Tashi violated your rules. He was supposed to stay away from the mountain, wasn’t he?”
“A great kid,” Kohler said. “Except when he got drunk. He had a sweet job at our warehouse in Chamba. I arranged sleeping quarters, a television. All he had to do was stay there until I sent for him in the autumn.”
“But he got bored,” Shan suggested. “He missed his mountain. Maybe he heard Yangke was back and wanted to see his old friend. The secret expedition Professor Ma proposed was too good to pass up. It wouldn’t affect your plan. He’d be back in time to help you run the foundry in Tashtul at the end of the summer, then drive to India. But he was a social creature, and when he saw some miners with Thomas’s vodka he couldn’t resist approaching them.”