Shan quickly scanned the file, attempting not to seem too interested. Gangfen had notes from interviews with over a score of old Tibetans, some prominently labeled Bonpo, practitioners of the old Bon religion. Most of the statements reflected memories from the middle of the prior century, when itinerant weather tamers roamed the countryside and took money or barter goods to keep hail away from crops. The interview subjects seemed to agree that the tamers were all lamas who had received their calling only after years of study, but they described them with many different labels. Hail chasers seemed the most common, but cloud master, rain sorcerer, weather witch, cloud wizard, and even sky conjurer were also used. Shan recognized several of the locations of the interviewees. “Some of these places are hours away. Did he leave the site often?”

“He had been compiling that report for years. This year I believe he met a couple new sources in Lhasa, others at their homes in the countryside. Some of the old ones refuse to travel to a city. So reactionary, but Gangfen always humored them.”

As he leafed through the file Shan realized he had neglected to ask an obvious question. “Whose car was he driving when they had their accident?”

“Ours, leased to us for the duration of the project. Fortunately, the government quickly provided a replacement.”

Shan paused over the last two statements in the file, given months earlier. They both referred to a contemporary weather conjurer and urged the professor to meet with him upon his release from a reeducation camp. Gangfen had been planning to meet with Yankay Namdol.

Shan gave Pike the choice of going to the accident site or the inn used by the archaeology students. “I knew the story about Natalie dying in a car accident was a lie even before you explained what Metok said,” the American replied. “No point in wasting time there.”

The original crossroads inn, an aged structure of stone and timber, looked as if it had been built for the caravans of yak, sheep, and sometimes Bactrian camels that had once crisscrossed Tibet. Most of the caravan routes had been paved over into roads, and the inn had evolved into a rambling truck stop with two cinder block wings painted in garish red and yellow.

As Pike pushed on the door handle Shan held up a restraining hand. “You need to see something,” he said, and handed the American the envelope sent by Amah Jiejie.

Pike read the first line and tossed it back at Shan. “As they say, fuck you. I can catch a bus.”

“I debated with myself last night about what to do with this,” Shan said in a level tone. “I could have just kept it secret from you. I could have given it to Public Security in Lhasa so I could be rid of you. I chose to share it.”