Mandarin Gate by Eliot Pattison

out. The lieutenant would not have gone far. He spoke in a low whisper. “Which explains why you might steal. But I asked you about those tablets.”
    Jigten lifted a clump of wool from the dirt floor. It was the season for shearing sheep. When he pressed the wool to his nose his eyes took on a melancholy expression.
    “This is a town of professors,” Jigten explained. “They like old things, especially old Chinese things. They speak of dead emperors like they were old friends. Sometimes they have medicine I can trade for. That’s all I want. Medicine. They refuse us any real medicine in our camp. There’s a professor with wire-rimmed glasses who has a daughter with lung sickness. Sometimes he has extra medicine. Those tablets would have meant a week’s worth at least.” He seemed to sense Shan’s hesitation, did not miss the worried glance Shan shot toward the entry. He rose and took a step toward the window, then another.
    “Did Jamyang know these professors?” Shan pressed.
    “Jamyang was a ghost,” Jigten said, taking another step. “People don’t really know ghosts. You can’t really steal from a ghost.” He put a hand on the sill, paused to see if Shan would stop him, then climbed outside.
    Shan stared after the forlorn, limping shepherd, watching him disappear back into the marketplace crowd.
    “Interesting technique,” came an amused voice behind him. “I heard about it in a seminar once. Yo-yo style. Reel them in and terrify them, then release them when they least expect it. When you pull them in again, when you really need them, they’ll be begging to help you.”
    As Shan turned to face the knob lieutenant, she reached into a pocket and produced a bag of salted sunflower seeds, which she extended toward Shan before gesturing him to the bench against the outside wall.
    He stole a long look at the slender woman as she sat down beside him. The lieutenant had probably been with Public Security for years but she did not have the brittle features and frigid eyes of most knob officers Shan had known. There was an unexpected softness in her face, an intelligent curiosity in her eyes. In another place, out of uniform with her hair loose over her high cheekbones, she would have been attractive.
    But her reflexes were that of a knob. “I’ll try to arrest him for something soon,” she said in a distracted tone as she watched the throng. “Let him spend a night in my holding cell, then tell him I’m releasing him as a favor to you.” She sat down beside him. “A favor to Comrade Shan,” she added pointedly.
    He returned her steady gaze as he took some of the offered seeds, struggling not to betray his fear. Tibet was rife with secret Chinese operatives. She had decided he was some kind of undercover officer, building a network of informers.
    “To whom do I owe my gratitude?” he asked.
    “Lieutenant Meng Limei, local liaison for Public Security,” she offered, then went back to watching the market. With a shudder Shan saw that two Public Security vehicles had arrived, parked on either side of the market. As he watched, a truck of armed police eased to a stop on the road. “At headquarters they always say the only way to round up the traditionalists is sending out teams to scour the mountains. Then Major Liang arrived. ‘Don’t be so clubfooted,’ he said, ‘haven’t you ever heard of letting the flowers bloom first?’”
    It was one of Mao’s most infamous campaigns. Let a Hundred Flowers Bloom. Mao had told intellectuals and other rightists that they could criticize the government with impunity, even encouraged them to gather in protest and paint walls with democratic slogans. Public Security took months to secretly photograph them and record their identities, then closed in and arrested thousands.
    “‘Let them come down on their own,’ Liang said,” she continued. “‘Find a way for them to feel comfortable with their traditional ways. Announce some kind of Tibetan festival,’