As they began to pull out, the door beside Shan opened and Jiao climbed in. Ren seemed a bit deflated as he introduced his deputy. “If you have any technical questions, Jiao’s your man,” Ren said in a stiff voice.

“Excellent!” Tan replied. “I have dozens! Like where are you hiding your army of clerks? The permits alone must number in the hundreds. The equipment licenses, explosives permits, sanitation approvals for worker facilities, not to mention all the environmental and Religious Affairs permits. And not a single one ever crossing my desk. What magicians you are!”

The director again seemed to search for signs of humor on Tan’s face, then shrugged. “Everything was handled out of Beijing. Normal clearances were waived in the interest of the project’s strategic importance.”

“Do not concern yourself with such trifles, Colonel,” Jiao smugly declared. “Five Claws is on the national priority list. It will provide power for millions back east. Our coal stations have been struggling to keep up with the Glorious Progress,” he said, using one of the Party’s newest terms for the country’s economic advancement. “There’s a green revolution, Colonel, and hydro is all green.”

“The UN has shown an interest,” Ren inserted. “We just had one of their officials here, who said we are on the front line in the fight for ozone,” he added uncertainly.

At the turquoise lake at the north end of the valley a special operation was underway. A bulldozer was pulling a dump truck out of the water. Shan recalled his conversation about accidents with the men in the mess hall. This would have been at least the second time a truck had gone into the lake.

“A minor accident,” the director explained. “Routine really,” he nervously added, then had begun to point out the high-water mark on the cliff wall above them when a small choking sound escaped his throat. Tan was holding up the aerial photo marked to depict the god Gekho that Shan had given him while they had been waiting in Yangkar.

Jiao made an angry hissing sound and reached from the back seat to grab it, but Tan deftly pushed it out of his reach.

“The god was hungry,” Tan said. “If I read this right, the lake is his belly.”

“It’s—it’s just a cartoon really,” the director sputtered. “Sort of thing that makes the Tibetans laugh.” He took a hand off the wheel and gripped the side of the paper to pull it away, then flushed as Tan resisted.

“Carry on, Director Ren,” Tan said, folding the paper back into his pocket before he lit a cigarette.

“The Tibetans,” Jiao declared in a patronizing tone, “are still assimilating the strategic benefits of the project.”

“Is that what your job is, Deputy Director?” Tan asked. “Calibrating assimilation?”