“He was already unconscious when we found him,” Tan explained to Shan as he pulled Shan away. “He had been thrown into a closet with a bunch of brooms and mops. The mop heads were soaked with his blood. The doctor says if he can stabilize Ko, he should recover,” Tan explained. “He was beaten so severely his skin was torn open in several places. No bullet wounds but a shallow stab wound on his upper arm where he defended against a blade. He lost a lot of blood. Anwei will close up the wounds and start transfusions. If we hadn’t found him…” the colonel didn’t finish the sentence.

“The broom handles and walls were streaked with blood where he had tried to pull himself up,” Tan added as he pulled a phone from his pocket. “This is the doctor’s. I told him to take a photo of the back of the closet door.”

Ko had drawn something on the door in his own blood, in case he would not live to deliver the message himself. It appeared to be two words, one over the other. Shan studied them, not comprehending, realizing his son would have drawn them while in great pain, in the dark.

“I can make no sense of it,” Tan admitted. “It doesn’t even look like Mandarin.”

Shan realized he too had been looking at the image the wrong way. “It’s not,” he said. “I almost forgot that he’s been studying Tibetan. Writing in Tibetan would make sure the guards or the warden wouldn’t understand it.” Gradually Shan was able to piece together the rough curving lines. The first word seemed to be Tara, the second was Namdol. The name of a goddess and the name of the hail chaser.

“Is Zhu back?” Shan asked, his voice cracking.

Tan nodded. “Zhu and his men will guard your son’s room. No one but you, me, or the medical staff to go in.”

Ko suddenly stirred, responding to the voices. He reached out and grabbed his father’s hand, futilely trying to pull himself up. As Shan bent over him, he whispered three words. “Safety in Serenity,” he gasped, and passed out.

“I don’t understand,” Tan said as they watched Ko being wheeled into the surgical unit.

“It’s the name of the campaign at Larung Gar that Jiao headed,” Shan said. “I think that team became the Amban Council when they moved here.”

Shan nodded his gratitude as he stared at the doors of the surgery unit, then reconsidered. “Guards, yes. But I want Zhu with me, in civilian clothes. I’m going back to the mountain. And you need to go kowtow to the Commissar.”