Two score deep, they’re standing shoulder to shoulder, banging into one another, waving little red flags. Thousands of people are overflowing onto the roadway to improve their views.

Beijing is once again ready for prime time.

China’s president is in the backseat of his limousine. Lao Ming is sitting between his chief of staff Jin Kai and secret service director Ren Chong. He turns to his left and asks his most trusted advisor, “If you hadn’t paid them, how many would’ve come?”

Jin Kai laughs. “The television cameras don’t care.”

Up ahead, a CNN anchor is interviewing a group of middle schoolers. The boys disregard their teacher’s admonition, run into the street, and salute the heavily armored limos. The president growls, “The children should be in school.”

“They can learn more here.”

“About what?”

“Blue sky. It hasn’t been this clear since the Olympics.”

“Only because I shut down our freeways and factories for a week. When the Americans leave, we’ll be back to business as usual. The sky will be darker than dirt.”

“Cheer up, Mr. President. Tonight you’ll be at the Hall of Purple Light celebrating a great victory.”

“The farewell dinner can’t come soon enough.”

“You’re tired. Next week you’ll see things differently. The summit has been a game changer. It’s shown the world we’ve overtaken the US.”

“Because we bark the loudest?”

“Declining their White House invitation was brilliant. You forced them to come here and meet our demands. Their president hasn’t said a word about human rights, Tibet, or our Muslim unrest.”

“Minor statecraft,” Lao says. “Nothing more.”

The chief of staff glances at his computer tablet. “You’re too modest. The Western media are overwhelmingly positive, and the TV numbers are huge.”

“Their ignorance isn’t a cure for our problems.”

The president asks Ren, “Are you still arguing with the Americans?” The secret service director is slow to respond. “I don’t have all day, General.”

“They won’t allow us inside their limos.”

“I don’t blame them. Is that all?”

“They complained about being excluded from our briefings.”

“Dammit, General. Big picture.”

“Everything is fine, sir.”

Jin interjects, “Speaking of the Americans, they’re asking for something more formal to take back to the US.”

“We agreed on a joint press release.”

“Their negotiators want more than that.”

“Define ‘more.’”

“They want us to sign an accord.”

“It would be meaningless.”

“Their president is having trouble at home. They want to pretend they accomplished something.”

“What’s in it for us?”

“Improving relations with our strongest adversary.”

“What do you recommend?” Lao asks.

“A white paper—something bland and insignificant.”

“Give me the first sentence.”

“We negotiated matters of mutual interest and had a successful summit.”

The presidents jousted over their competing economic interests. The most important involved the exchange rate between the dollar and the yuan, American access to Chinese markets, and protecting intellectual property. Their staffs traded proposals for a bilateral reduction of carbon emissions and a cyber cease-fire. The presidents finished with foreign policy matters. They haggled over the usual subjects: North Korea, Taiwan, and the Reds’ saber rattling in the East and South China Seas.

Lao listened to his American counterpart but said little. Today he is more animated. He waves his hand dismissively. “It’s not worth the effort. Tell them we’ll continue buying US Treasuries and finance their runaway deficits. They can print that in their newspapers.”

“Why antagonize them, Mr. President?”

“Then just put them off.”

“What should I say?”

“That I need more time.”

“Can’t we say something positive?”

“Only if they renounce their Taiwanese puppets.”

“The Americans will never do that.”

“Then stop pestering me.”

The president shifts his weight and glances at the trailing limousine. He has requested redesigned state cars. Not because of safety considerations. They just embarrass the hell out of him. Former President Hu Jintao designed the FAW Hongqi fleet. That’s the only reason Lao hasn’t sent the retro-futuristic limos to the crusher.

General Ren is in charge of the requisition effort. Lao asks him, “When are you replacing the limousines?”

“The Standing Committee won’t authorize them.”

“Why not?”

“The chairman is afraid of the political repercussions.”

“They are such a blatant rip-off of the Phantom and DTS. We look like a banana republic.” Lao doesn’t mention the features that bother him most—the Flash Gordon headlights and Buck Rogers trim.

His chief of staff rejoins the conversation. “Mr. President, the general is aware of your feelings.”

“You know what they symbolize to Westerners.” When neither aide responds, the president grumps, “That we’re the knockoff capital of the world.”

Secret service matters are outside Jin’s portfolio. But he ends the bickering. “I’ll work things out.” Until today’s outburst, Lao hadn’t mentioned the state cars for several months. There were bigger issues on his plate.

Shortly after scheduling the talks, he discussed his concern with General Ren and counterintelligence director Wei Yaoting. Lao began the conversation. “The number of threats against their president is staggering.”

Wei replied, “They are coming from all over the world, including the US. A handful of groups have the capability to launch an attack.”

“I’m giving you a free hand.”

“Thank you, Mr. President.”

“I expect better-than-best security.”

“We’re going to ban all public gatherings.”

Lao cut Wei off. “Don’t burden me with the details.”

“Excuse me, sir. There is one thing I need to mention.”

“What are you waiting for? Get on with it.”

“I’m restricting travel from our western provinces.”

“How can we enforce something like that?”

“Imperfectly,” Wei conceded.

“The cost would be staggering.”

“So are the risks.”

“Are you on board with that, General?”

“I am, sir.”

“Then do it. Is that all, Director?”

“We’ll also detain all known troublemakers.”

“Without charges?”

“Yes, sir. We can sort things out later.”

The president fired back, “Martial law?”

“I wouldn’t call it that.”

“How would you describe it?”

“I’m not big on labels, Mr. President.”

“Welcome to my world. Learn to live in it or you’ll be patrolling the border with North Korea. You’re quiet, General Ren.”

“I understand, Mr. President.”

“Do you know the most important part of your jobs?”

Wei answered, “Infiltrating the Muslim high command.”

“Not even close.”

When Ren didn’t venture a guess, Lao supplied the answer.

“Don’t embarrass me.”

Lao asks General Ren, “All quiet at the finish line?”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

The limos are barely moving. “Good job, General.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“How tight is security for tonight’s dinner?”

Ren glances at the chief of staff. Jin’s nod signals the general that he should address the question. “The Americans won’t let our men near their president.”

“If he is harmed,” Lao says, “everyone will think I was involved.”

“We’ve compensated with other measures. He’ll be safe, Mr. President.”

Circling helicopters, building-top sharpshooters, and thousands of ground troops blanket the parade route. The president is still uneasy. He fidgets as he watches what’s happening outside. Ren is looking straight ahead. He’s fixated on the split-screen monitor tracking activity around the motorcade.

Like his state cars, Lao inherited the general. Ren rose up the ranks slowly, mostly by not making waves. The president describes him in public as an experienced commander. Lao’s real views are far less sanguine. He has found Ren to be rigid, slow-witted, and lacking in leadership ability.

The general isn’t armed. But his Zhongnanhai Baobiao are heavily fortified. The three secret service men are sitting across from the president. Each is packing a TT 33 handgun and has a QBZ-95-1 assault rifle stowed in the hollow beneath his seat. When he became president, Lao worried about a deranged or disgruntled Baobiao turning on him. Over time those fears have receded.

He asks the guards, “How are we doing, men?”

The most senior responds, “Very well. Thank you, sir.”

The president makes a point of getting to know his protectors. All are married and have families. That is a prerequisite to riding with him. The job’s perks include a free education for their children at one of Beijing’s elite schools. His motivation isn’t entirely beneficent. The scholarship program gives the Ministry of State Security instant access to the guards’ loved ones.

“A program is already in place,” Jin replied.

“Increase our wiretapping, computer hacking, and unannounced drug and lie-detector tests.”

“I’ll tighten the protocols. Anything else?”

“Tell them my response to the age-old question.”

“Which one is that, Mr. President?”

“Whether it’s better to be loved or feared.”

“They know your answer.”

“Make sure they understand the consequences.”

“How specific should I be?”

“One sentence should be sufficient. We’ll liquidate their entire family if they’re disloyal. Leave the details to their imagination.”

The prep, the summit, and the nightly meetings have taken their toll. The molded seat Lao special-ordered is actually too comfortable. He’s nodding off, catching himself, and nodding off again. The president isn’t able to fight the cobwebs any longer. His chin slumps against his chest. Almost immediately he is sound asleep and snoring.

Lao’s nap is short lived. The driver jams on the brakes and comes to an abrupt stop. The deceleration jolts Lao's head forward then ratchets it back. The first sounds he hears are holsters unsnapping and the clicking of assault rifles. He thinks this is it—the coup d’état taking China back to Maoist purity and another bloody Cultural Revolution.

He’s relieved when he opens his eyes. The Baobiao are looking elsewhere. The two wingmen are down on one knee staring out their side windows. The senior bodyguard is sitting between them, directly across from the president. His focus is on what’s happening behind the limousine.

General Ren yells into his headset, “Surround him!”

Lao is moving closer to the monitor when the senior Baobiao points at the compartment under the floor pan. Waving him off, Lao asks the general, “What’s going on?” The general touches the middle of the screen and enlarges one of the images. A flaming figure is standing rigidly upright.

The president’s first impression is that someone is burning a scarecrow in effigy. That changes when he sees movement.

“Is that a person?”

Ren’s answer is a despondent “Yes, sir.”

The burning man seesaws his arms as he lumbers toward the front of the motorcade. Lao places a hand on Ren’s shoulder.

“No shooting, General. Tell everyone to stand down.”

Ren mumbles, “Sir?”

“You heard me.”

The man’s features are scorched beyond recognition. He isn’t wearing a robe and his ethnicity isn’t clear. The president still assumes he’s Tibetan. Buddhist monks have been setting themselves on fire for decades. Lao laments, “Damn transparency. We should’ve insisted on a broadcast delay.”

His chief of staff responds, “We can’t do it now.”

“Do we have a dump button?”

Jin was in charge of the TV negotiations.

“Negative. CNN has sole control of the transmission.”

“There must be a way to cut the feeds.”

“There isn’t, sir. With all the video recorders and phone cameras, it wouldn’t make any difference.”

“Order the soldiers to extinguish the flames.” When Ren doesn’t respond, Lao whispers in his ear, “Pull yourself together, General. Tell your men to put out the fire.”

“Yes, sir.”

Lao has seen videos of monks torching themselves. All of those immolations took place in Tibet and appeared staged, almost make-believe. It’s much different, he thinks, seeing it in person. The president watches the burning man stagger and fall. The suicide tries to get up but his left arm collapses, then his right.

Facedown in the street, he stops moving.

The Silk Road Express is crossing China’s Xinjiang Province. It’s three thousand kilometers west of Beijing. The outside temperature is a toasty thirty-five degrees Celsius. The day’s cultural activities have just finished. Most of the passengers are relaxing in the train’s sumptuous bar carriage.

Michael Brannigan is an exception. The CEO of Global Reach Engineering has a crushing headache. He left the group early and returned to his compartment. He popped a pill, drew the shades, and put on his sleeping mask. Since then he has been lying in bed trying to fall asleep.

The train began its trek a week ago. A twelve-member consortium of foreign engineers has the luxury liner to itself. Their spouses will fly home after touring Kashgar. The engineers and their geophysicist will helicopter to the Tarim Basin where they’ll supervise the development of China’s western energy fields. According to a recent Oil & Gas Journal article, those tracts contain the world’s largest reserves of fossil fuel.

Xinjiang has become a hot destination for Global Reach. The People’s Republic of China doesn’t allow foreign oil companies to buy equity stakes in its natural wealth. But the PRC needs outside consultants to supervise its corrupt officials and apply the cutting-edge technologies the Reds haven’t yet stolen.

“When you awaken tomorrow, we’ll be in Kashgar, the farthest inland city on earth. It’s the ethnic heart of Xinjiang Province. We’ll spend the morning at the city’s East Gate Bazaar. The market has been open since 1 BC. Its four thousand booths have something for everyone. That’s also true of its Turkic cuisine. During our sit-down lunch, you can sample a wide variety of kebabs and other native delicacies.”

An engineer’s wife raised her hand.

“Yes, madam. Question?”

“I’ve enjoyed visiting local families. Can we do that in Kashgar?”

“That isn’t possible in southern Xinjiang.”

“Why not?”

“The local people are unhappy.”

“About what?”

“Political matters.”

“That shouldn’t affect us.”

“We’re taking precautions anyway.”

A different spouse asked, “Are we in danger out here?”

“We’ve never had a problem.”

The projector advanced the next slide. Several wives gasped at the picture of a Uighur horseman waving a Yengisar dagger. The guide turned around to see what caused their reaction. The room continued to buzz after she cut the power.

The expedition leader, and its only American engineer, has gone fetal. Drugs and rest haven’t eased his pain. Even before his headache, he wasn’t particularly excited about the Kashgar visit. He’s never been there, and has a business-only interest in the Far East’s Far West. His knowledge of Xinjiang Province is limited: it forms China’s border with the Central Asian republics; native Uighurs call themselves WEEgores; and Marco Polo visited the area in the thirteenth century. He was already aware of what the guide told them. The Uighurs don’t get along with the Han Chinese.

He feels like someone jammed an ice pick through his right eye. It’s time to upgrade his medication. Shifting onto his right side, he lifts a corner of his sleeping mask. Bile starts shooting up his throat. He mutters, “Not again,” swallows the acid, and sends it back to his stomach. Some of it penetrated his nasal cavity. He sniffs several times in a futile attempt to eliminate the sulfuric smell.

He rolls to the edge of the bed and lays his mask on the pillow. The shades are down but the margins aren’t tight. Sunlight leaks into his compartment and aggravates his headache and stomach pain. He is mildly encouraged by the readout on his clock. He’ll have time to rally before tonight’s gala celebration.

He runs his hand across the nightstand. Then again closer to the lamp. His medications aren’t there. He tries the top drawer. His fingers get tangled in a charging cord before they bump into his pharmaceutical pouch. He unzips the kit, grabs a syringe, and primes it. He is in the buff and has no trouble selecting the proper injection site, the middle third of his thigh. The moment the plunger delivers the medicine he feels a modicum of relief—even though the juice hasn’t kicked in yet. His psychiatrist attributes these reactions to his placebic personality.

This wasn’t supposed to be his project. It landed in his lap when his chief of Asian operations had a family emergency. He doesn’t regret the long journey. Kylie has him flying ten feet off the ground. She is on his mind again. They’ve only been together a week, but he’ll miss her when this assignment ends.

He cautions himself to be realistic. Once they complete their work, he’ll go back to New York, and Kylie will return to Australia. It’s unlikely their professional paths will cross. Most of her clients are in Southeast Asia, the Indian subcontinent, or Down Under. Other than servicing his Chinese business, he directs his energies elsewhere.

He won’t have time to visit her. When he isn’t working at his Manhattan headquarters, he is traveling to the company’s Houston and San Francisco offices or to far-flung countries all over the world. Sydney wouldn’t work as his home base, and he can’t ask Kylie to uproot herself and live in Manhattan. She would be living alone most of the time. He knows her well enough to be sure of one thing. She would never put up with an absentee lover.

How will they end it? He dreads the thought. Right now he has a more immediate problem. He has already vomited twice, but his stomach is at it again. Sipping ginger ale sometimes eases his gastric distress. He considers making a run to the snack alcove at the end of his sleeper car. After mulling it over, he decides not to leave his compartment. The other members of his group have returned to the train. He can’t let anyone see him like this.

He reaches for the trash can, but it’s too far away. He stops moving and instinctively holds his breath when someone knocks on the door. Realizing no one’s hearing is that sensitive, he allows himself to exhale.

“Michael, it’s me, Kylie.”

When he doesn’t answer, she asks, “How is your headache?”

Another woman greets her before she has a chance to follow up. He recognizes the voice. It belongs to one of the European wives.

“Congratulations, Kylie. You were made for each other.”

“Is it that obvious?”

Brannigan is relieved when the other woman laughs. He won’t have to pretend anymore. He’s tried to be discreet about their coupling but obviously fooled no one.

President Lao is furious. The army, secret service, and police are missing in action. His commanders are dumbstruck and no one is in control. The chaos is worst near the grandstand. The people who saw what happened are in a state of panic. They’re trampling one another in their haste to get away.

Soldiers and police are finally beginning to respond. A unit of elite troops and frontline Baobiao are running at full speed toward the suicide. Technicians in bomb suits are approaching more carefully.

The president snaps at General Ren. “What are your men doing?”

“Disposing of the body.”

“That’s the coroner’s job, not yours. Set up a perimeter and search for conspirators. Preferably before they escape.”

“Yes, sir.”

Jin Kai touches the president’s arm. “I scheduled an emergency meeting.”

“Make sure our Tibet people are there.”

“Already on their way, Mr. President.”

The name “Sadat” jumps into Lao’s mind. The video of the Cairo assassination left an indelible impression, mostly because it was so improbable. Egypt’s leader was at a victory parade when he was shot. He was on a military grandstand saluting the soldiers who murdered him. Recalling they had watched the film together, the president asks Jin, “Does this seem familiar?”

“We aren’t in the Middle East.”

“Then why did you think of it?”

“Because I knew you would.”

The president bypasses General Ren and speaks directly to his bodyguards. “The suicide is a diversion.”

The senior Baobiao replies, “I’m on that, sir.” He exchanges hand signals with the other guards and reports back, “No obvious hostiles.” He again points to the floor pan. “Mr. President, please. We need to guarantee your safety.”

The guard is about to open the compartment when the president waves him off a second time. Lao is convinced an assassin who gets inside the limousine will kill him no matter where he secretes himself. Avoiding vehicle penetration altogether is the only strategy that makes sense. He feels safer directing that effort than hiding. Even if it weren’t true, he would rather die than survive inside the protective well. The media would mock a president who was so frightened he didn’t protect the women and children he swore to defend.

The president wonders whether he missed a schism within his army. It’s usually disgruntled colonels, stuck behind fat-cat generals, who organize a putsch. He has the uneasy feeling something else is about to happen. If the suicide is only a distraction, he expects the real attack to happen soon.

The president’s jaw hurts and this morning’s chest pain is back. It’s radiating into his left arm. The worst part is the pressure. It feels like a vise is crushing his heart. “Damn angina,” he mutters to himself. He can’t think of a worse time for his ticker to act up. Rubbing his chest with his left hand, Lao reaches inside his coat pocket with his right. He opens a small container and slips a white pill under his tongue.

The Baobiao guarding the left door twitches. Calling out, “Nine o’clock!” he gets down on his knees and raises his rifle.

The president doesn’t need the monitor. The action is outside his left rear window. “It can’t be,” he says, when he sees a girl running toward his limousine.

The child is dressed in a green-plaid uniform with matching kneesocks. With everyone looking at the front of the motorcade, she darted into the street unimpeded. She’s coming right at him.

“No shooting, General. Tell everyone else.”

“We should drive away, sir.”

“I don’t run away from children.”

Lao notices her features and dark complexion. He suspects she is Tibetan—making it even more likely the suicide was a monk.

The girl is holding a metal can in her left hand. She slows down, tightens her grip, and squirts liquid over her head and shoulders. She redirects the nozzle and soaks her upper body. Raising the can to ear level, she sloshes the liquid as if gauging how much is left. She comes to a full stop, tilts her head back, and injects accelerant into her mouth.

The girl reaches into her sweater pocket—she has become increasingly robotic—and pulls out a plastic lighter. She rolls the spark wheel into the ignition button and holds it there. The gas ignites and produces a steady flame. She rubs the lighter against her chest. In an instant, she is on fire. The flames spread quickly to her head and arms, down her trunk, all the way to her legs and feet. Her thick black hair is burning, and in a few seconds mostly gone. The girl lurches forward. He thinks she must be drugged.

Out of the corner of his eye the president sees a member of the CNN crew running toward the girl with a shoulder-mounted camera. The photographer sprints past a group of soldiers. Risking his life for a slam-dunk Pulitzer, he films the entire way. The spectators are reacting more conservatively, but many are recording the event on their digital phones and cameras.

The girl drops the can and then the lighter. She extends her arms. They’re burning from thumb to thumb. She continues walking toward the president’s limousine. Five meters from the back door, she executes a half pirouette. She turns to the cameraman and sticks a burning finger into her mouth. Her face ignites. She takes a deep breath, holds it, and then exhales. Her throat expels a torrent of fire.

She redirects her attention to the president’s car. Lao detects what appears to be a wry smile on what remains of her mouth. She wobbles, lurches to her left, and falls onto her knees. The girl—she can’t be more than one and a half meters tall—pushes her hand against the pavement, regains her balance, and stands up. She shuffles forward until she’s close enough to touch the limousine. The bodyguards are ramped up and itching to exterminate the threat. They’re pointing their handguns at her chest when Lao yells, “Leave the girl alone.”

The president can’t believe what he’s seeing. The teenager has outsmarted him, his counterintelligence team, and the secret service. The girl is seemingly dead on her feet until an agonal movement—it’s her last—thrusts her against his car door.

Her arms are like mush, and her skin is sloughing off in clumps. She’s glued to the car, dying inch by excruciating inch. When no additional collaborators materialize, Lao assumes she is the final act of a Tibetan morality play. He’s lost confidence in his security team and decides to manage the aftermath himself.

“Do we have any blankets?”

Ren shrugs his shoulders and looks at the senior bodyguard. The Baobiao answers, “They’re in the trunk. Should I get one?”

“Stay here. I’ll do it.”

The senior guard moves toward the president. “Please, sir. Don’t leave the car.” Lao pushes his hand away.

“Unlock your door, General.”

Ren stammers, “Why, Mr. President?”

“Because our friend is attached to the other one.”

The general releases the lock and steps out of the limousine.

The president raises his voice above the din of police sirens, engines, and human commotion. “Come with me to the trunk.”

Behind the car, he asks, “How did she know?”

“Know what, Mr. President?”

“There are a dozen limousines in the motorcade.”

“Yes, sir. We added two for this event.”

“We rotate their order every time.”

“Today was no different.”

Lao pops the trunk and takes out one of the gray blankets stacked along the right edge. “Then how did she know I was in this one?”

Ren’s Adam’s apple jumps. “We’ll look into that, sir.”

The president walks toward the girl’s still-upright body. Ren is a step behind when they reach her. Lao turns on his heel and faces the general. “I don’t need you here. Go to the grandstand . . .” He pauses while he wraps the blanket around the girl and tamps down the remaining flames. She’s still smoldering when he picks her up, cradles her in his arms, and heads toward a CNN truck. The crew steps aside and he lays her on the pavement.

Ren holds a handkerchief against his nose and mouth. He bends forward and vomits into the linen. The second time, the emesis slops onto his sleeve. The president returns to the trunk. He comes back with an additional blanket and covers the girl from neck to toe. A pair of EMTs has just arrived. They rush to the girl’s side and kneel next to her. One inserts a needle into her hip while the other checks her pulse.

The president finishes his instructions to the general.

“Director Wei is in the front row.”

Ren tosses his handkerchief on the pavement.

“I know where he is, Mr. President.”

“Bring him to the West Garden.”

“What should I tell him?”

“That you’re acting on my orders.”

“Yes, sir.”

“My secretary will be there when you arrive. She’ll hand you his resignation letter. When the director signs it, give it back to her. She’ll take care of the rest.”

“I understand, Mr. President.”

“Don’t let Comrade Wei return to his office.”

“Should I arrest him?”

“That won’t be necessary—he’s not going to prison. But make sure the security officer collects his keys and identification card on the way out. Any questions?”

“No, sir.”

“Then get going.”

Lao massages his chest as he moves closer to the girl. The medics stop their resuscitation efforts and pull the top blanket over her head.

When the president walks toward his limousine, he sees Ren meandering toward the grandstand. Lao calls out, “General, one more thing.”

Ren’s face is ashen by the time the president reaches him.

“My secretary will deliver two resignation letters.”

“Today wasn’t my fault—”

“Your name will be on the second.”

The old man is out cold. He drops like a sack of tsampa. His head makes a crumping sound as it hits the floor. Blood is flowing from his nose and mouth.

Colonel Sung Yang is angry at all things Tibetan—Buddhism, his transfer from Beijing to Lhasa, and what his new assignment signifies. His appointment as director of Tibetan counterintelligence was a lateral move, not a promotion. This posting proves what he feared. He’ll never be a general. When he came to Tibet, Sung left his ailing wife behind and found new ways to gratify himself.

The Beijing suicides have prompted a massive Chinese response in the Tibet Autonomous Region. The People’s Liberation Army is reacting most aggressively in Lhasa. Its rapid mobilization ruined the colonel’s plans. He is stuck at Drepung Monastery instead of getting his rocks off in Old Town with three teenage virgins. The girls will be sound asleep by the time he leaves the monastery.

The abbot’s eyes have begun to flicker. He tries but can’t stand up. Sung bends over and picks him up by the elbows. The colonel is about to lay the abbot on his desk but isn’t able to hold the sagging body long enough to do it. Sung groans in pain as he reaches for his low back. He glares at the other ascetics and drops the abbot on the floor.

The monks assembled in the abbot’s office are suspected of plotting this afternoon’s suicides. The colonel’s second-in-command—a young lieutenant—and five soldiers are herding them like water buffalo.

A novitiate comes forward. He helps the abbot get to his feet.

“Put him down,” the colonel growls, “and get back with the others.”

The troops grip their holsters. One of them approaches the novitiate. He lets go of his superior and hides behind an older monk. The abbot falls forward and lands in a heap. His broken nose is wedged against the floor.

The PLA has occupied all the monasteries in central Tibet. Soldiers rushed into Lhasa from nearby barracks shortly after the motorcade ended. They encircled the provincial capital and set up checkpoints on every major downtown street. Ethnic Tibetans can’t enter or exit Lhasa until the army sounds the all-clear siren.

The Chinese focused on Drepung Monastery once they learned the burned man was one of its monks. Identifying Gendun Phintso was relatively simple. Because of the Fighting Monks’ past insurrections, the Communists collect blood samples from all of Tibet’s monastics. Maintaining the registry is manageable. The Red Guards destroyed most Buddhist monasteries during the Cultural Revolution, and Mao’s successors took it from there, strictly limiting the number of Tibet’s monks to fifty thousand. While his body was still warm, PLA geneticists ordered stat blood work on Gendun’s charred remains. They got a DNA match.

Standing over the abbot, the colonel mocks his honorary title. “If you’re so holy, Rinpoche, pray yourself off the floor.” Sung kicks the lama’s throat. “I won’t say it again. Get on your feet.”

The abbot clutches his neck. With his other hand he reaches into his mouth, explores the bloody orifice, and extracts a broken tooth. Holding on to the edge of his desk, the abbot raises himself in stages. He is almost upright when the colonel’s second-in-command intervenes. “Sir, if he hits his head again, we may lose him.”

The colonel reacts with a sardonic grin. Despite the rebuke, the lieutenant finishes what he was saying. “We have other means—”

Sung directs the lieutenant to follow him. The colonel lights into the junior officer as they reach the far corner of the room.

“You’re insubordinate.”

“Sir, I was—”

“The abbot won’t tell us anything. This exercise is to intimidate the younger monks.” The lieutenant is about to rejoin the other soldiers when Sung squeezes his arm. “Don’t ever question my decisions. The next time will be your last.”

“I wasn’t being disrespectful, Colonel.”

“Get back with the others.”

The abbot is propped against his desk and smiling peacefully as Sung returns to the middle of the room. He gets out, “My friend—” before Sung bitch-slaps him across the cheek. The abbot falls headfirst until another monk rushes forward, grabs him around the waist, and lays him on a rug.

The colonel claps his hands. “Excellent catch.” He walks up to the monk and breathes in his face. “Do you understand Mandarin?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What’s your name?”

“Losang Gyatso.”

Sung steps on the monk’s bare foot.

“Did you socialize with Gendun?”

“Ours is a small community.”

“Answer my question.”

“He and I seldom spoke.”

“You were friends.”

Losang is impassive. “Everyone is my friend.”

“Do you know what he did today?”

“I heard people talking—”

“Why didn’t you notify anyone?”

“—After you arrived.”

“What are they saying?”

“That he set himself on fire.”

“You were involved.”

“No I wasn’t.”

“You must’ve known.”

“I had no idea he would do that.”

“Did he tell you he was going to Beijing?”

“He didn’t, but I heard about his trip.”

“What did you hear?”

“That he was attending a seminar.”

“What was the subject?”

“I don’t know the specifics.”

“Other monks said you assisted him.”

“They couldn’t have.”

“Why not?”

“Because I didn’t.”

The colonel shoves Losang against the abbot’s desk.

“Identify the other conspirators.”

“I don’t know of any.”

Sung curses Siddhartha. When the monk’s face registers disapproval, the colonel punches his midsection. The blow doubles him over. But only for a moment. The monk straightens up as if nothing happened. The colonel winces and rubs his knuckles as he walks toward the lieutenant. “Are the inquisitors here yet?”

“On their way, sir.”

“Make sure they interrogate this one first.” He motions for two soldiers to step forward. “Until then, keep him in isolation.”

One of the privates puts Losang in handcuffs. The other places a spiked collar around his neck and fiddles with the fit until it’s tight against his skin. They’re taking him away when the colonel orders them to stop. He unfolds the photocopy he was carrying in his pocket and walks full circle around the monk.

“There was a second suicide at the motorcade.” When Losang doesn’t respond, Sung twists his ear. “But you know all about that.”

“A soldier said a girl was involved.”

“Who was she?”

“I don’t know.”

“Is that a denial?”

“It’s the truth.”

Sung holds the page in front of the monk’s face. The grainy black-and-white image is of a man and woman standing in front of a mountain. They are showing off their bad teeth, wrinkled clothing, and unkempt hair.

“Who are the people in the picture?”

“You were talking about a girl.”

The colonel torques Losang’s collar. “Now I’m asking about the people in the photo. Let’s try it again. Do you recognize them?”

The monk studies the picture. Then meets the colonel’s gaze.

“I’ve never seen them before.”

His head is still throbbing. But his stomach has settled down. He normally battles a migraine attack by sequestering himself in a dark room, lying down, and keeping his eyes closed. He can’t do that tonight. It’s the engineers’ last evening on the Silk Road Express. They’ll expect him to party until last call. Even when he leaves, he won’t go right to bed. He has to pack his belongings and get ready to disembark at the crack of dawn.

He slides off the bed and checks the time. The cocktail party has already begun. He didn’t tell anyone—other than Kylie—that he was ill. The others will be talking about why he’s absent again. He worries his photophobia will come back and doesn’t turn on the lights. He enters the bathroom and steps into the narrow shower stall. He feels dizzy and holds on to the grab bar. The spray is more dribble than massage, but the hot water eases his pain.

The week has gone by quickly. It began at Beijing’s Peninsula Hotel. Global’s chief security officer, Harry Dyer, arrived two days early. The former FBI assistant director deactivated the bugs the Chinese planted in the engineers’ suites and their private dining room. In addition to his daily sweeps, Dyer vets Brannigan’s electronic devices. He’ll be aboard the Silk Road Express the entire trip and serve as Brannigan’s wingman when they helicopter from Kashgar to the Tarim Basin.

The Chinese weren’t keen on letting him fly but relented after reviewing his credentials. Certified and instrument rated, Brannigan owns a Robinson R44 and commutes between Manhattan and his Shelter Island beach house. He upgraded his skills last spring by training on a jet-powered Bell 407. The unfamiliar terrain doesn’t faze him. The sandstorms in western China can’t be worse than what Harry encountered during Desert Shield. Navigating in Xinjiang Province should actually be safer than in New York City. The airspace will be far emptier than the skies over Kennedy and LaGuardia.

Brannigan was on his way to the gym when he saw her checking into the hotel. She stopped him dead in his tracks. Her well-turned ankles are what he noticed first. Moving up from there, he wasn’t disappointed. The willowy blonde was tall and well dressed. Her mod hairstyle, short and playful, accentuated her figure.

He wondered about her face. That could have ruined it all. But he never got to see her features. Intent on her registration form, she didn’t turn around. He assumed she was attached and tried to forget about her. Even if she were unattached, it wouldn’t do him any good. He was leaving Beijing in a few days and heading west.

There she was again, the blonde with the exquisite curves. She had exchanged her business attire for a shimmering black dress. Although he only saw her left side, he couldn’t take his eyes off her. He still wasn’t sure he was at the right event. But when he canvassed the room, he recognized more than half the men. They were part of his group.

He shook hands with two engineers and their wives. One couple was German, the other Japanese. After the usual small talk—great to see you again, business has been terrific, we took the most fabulous vacation—he asked about their families. They knew not to inquire about his.

He had an unobstructed view of the blonde. That changed when another spouse joined their group and got in the way. He pretended to need a napkin, circled around her to get one, and restored his sight line.

She had to be married to one of the engineers. He knew he had no basis for feeling deprived, but did anyway. He tried to identify her husband. There were no candidates in the immediate vicinity. The blonde and two other women were off by themselves. He presumed they were swapping domestic tales and talking about their children.

He surveyed the entire room and took a head count. He already knew the denominator. All the professionals on the trip, eleven engineers and one geophysicist, were men. The males listed on the manifest—including Brannigan—added up to a total of twelve. All the other men indicated they were bringing spouses. There were only ten women in the room including the blonde. The females were one short.

He counted the guys. Same result. The manifest and the actual numbers didn’t match. He scanned the room again. Using his fingers, he came up with the same tally. There were ten other men, eleven counting him. One member of the male contingent was somewhere else. He surmised that the missing guy, and his or someone else’s wife, were outside the banquet room. They were probably smoking, calling home, or in the WC.

He was too worked up to think straight. He ran the numbers a third time and reached the same inescapable conclusion. The blonde must be married to one of the guys in the group. He took another look at the men in her vicinity. The blonde’s husband was still nowhere in sight. Brannigan finished his conversation with the German and Japanese couples. He couldn’t remember a single thing they discussed.

There was only one thing on his mind, and she had joined a larger group, mixed gender this time. Maybe that would help him identify her spouse. He and the mystery girl were twenty feet apart. He was still limited to a left profile view. She was too beautiful to be real, and he began to free-associate. Conjuring up an image from The Phantom of the Opera, he fantasized that her right cheek was horribly disfigured.

A Caucasian male was standing next to her. The man was tall and handsome, late thirties or early forties, Brannigan’s age. The beauty and the unknown guy were having different conversations. He had to be her husband, but there wasn’t much chemistry between them. Brannigan wondered if they were already bored with each other.

The blonde turned his way. He thought she caught him staring. His face felt warm as he looked in a different direction. That’s when he saw Claude Fournier, a friend and colleague, approaching her. The elderly Frenchman kissed the blonde on each cheek and gave her a big hug. She smiled and returned the endearment.

That exchange eliminated the younger candidate. Brannigan muttered, “Good grief. Has Claude dumped Monique for this young babe?” He wished he had never seen the blonde. Lost in thought, he retreated to the front entrance.

He ordered a beer and stood by himself. He wasn’t alone for long.

“Michael. What a lovely surprise.” The owner of the familiar voice was behind him. When he turned around, she asked, “Why aren’t you mixing?”

“Hello, Monique. I just got here. Where have you been hiding?”

“The ladies’ room.” She was waving a tissue in her left hand. “This is my third nosebleed since we left Paris. Am I still dripping?”

“The evidence has vanished. You look great.”

“Merci beaucoup.”

“I’m glad you and Claude are making the trip.”

“So are we. He’ll be thrilled you’re here.”

She took his hand and headed toward her husband. Along the way she lifted a glass from a serving table. One taste was enough. Her wry smile rated the wine—a Great Wall Cabernet—as inferior to her favorite Bordeaux. She returned it to a busboy and asked Brannigan the question of the day.

“Wasn’t this Dickie Chang’s project?”

“That was the plan. His mother had a sudden illness.”

“Sorry to hear that. Give him our best.”

His head was racing as they approached the blonde. It wasn’t until he was three feet away that she turned and he saw her entire face— the high cheekbones, creamy complexion, and green eyes. Her emeralds danced when she smiled. She was even more beautiful close-up. He wanted to say something witty. Instead he felt tongue-tied.

All that came out was, “Hello, I’m Michael Brannigan.”

Her reply was a demure, “Pleased to meet you.” That was enough for him to pick up on her accent. She could’ve been from the UK or South Africa. Something about her diction made that seem unlikely. He has trouble distinguishing Aussies from Kiwis, but was reasonably sure she grew up on one side of the Ditch or the other.

Claude interjected, “This lady is the top geophysicist in the Eastern Pacific.”

Brannigan sneaked a glance at her ID badge. He was familiar with her employer, Windsor Earth Sciences. Global hired the Sydney-based company to minimize the risk of drilling-induced earthquakes. One of his recent jobs shut down for six months after injection wells shook a nearby town. He didn’t want that happening again.

The blonde was blushing at the compliment. Brannigan’s frontal lobes rallied before she responded to Claude’s praise.

“She may be brilliant . . .”

He paused for effect and sipped his beer. The people around them stopped talking and moved closer. The blonde’s eyes were trained on his. They conveyed something between curiosity and amusement.

“. . . But there’s one thing she’s not—”

Claude was about to come to her defense.

Brannigan cut him off by pointing at her badge.

“—Fred Ward.”

The blonde waited for the laughter to fade. “Thanks for noticing.”

She smiled after he offered his right hand. Hers wasn’t immediately forthcoming. She made him wait for what seemed like an eternity. His entire body tingled when their fingers finally touched.

“If you’re not Fred—”

“I’m Kylie Ryan.”

She took back her hand before explaining the substitution. “Fred’s daughter has soccer playoffs. As for this,” she wiggled her badge, “I’ll get a new one in the morning.”

Monique detached the magnetic name tag and dropped it into an empty glass. “Seriously dear, why bother? I can’t imagine you’ll need one.”

She has never been short of admirers. But that hasn’t led to romantic relationships. She politely rebuffed all of her potential suitors. Kylie considered herself damaged goods and didn’t want to get hurt again. That changed when she came to China.

The physical attraction was strong and immediate, and Michael passed the test most men fail. He didn’t ruin things when he opened his mouth. His high preliminary scores only meant he had made it to the next round. She still had to make sure he wasn’t married or a womanizer. He checked out in both respects.

She knew he was interested in her. He tried to hide his feelings but wasn’t very good at it. She caught him looking at her from across the room. Michael eliminated any remaining uncertainty after they introduced themselves. His eyes were all over her ring finger. He sighed out loud. The relief on his face was unmistakable.

She didn’t expect to meet a guy like this on an engineering trip. His name wasn’t even on the program. Any number of things could have gone wrong. None did. They had a smashing time together. Every day was better than the one before.