Mandarin Gate by Eliot Pattison Page A

he suggested. I told him this market already attracts much of the local population every week.”
    Shan gazed out over the gathered Tibetans, reminding himself that the roundups of Tibetans he had expected after the murders had not yet started. An old man with sparkling eyes sat with a plank on his legs, writing short prayers and handing them out to passersby. A child squealed with delight as another man, fingers extended at his temples, chased her like a wild yak. “These are but the early flowers,” he said, his heart like an anvil. “Arrest them and the ones you really want will burrow so deep it will take years to dig them out.”
    Lieutenant Meng studied him. “You know more about the local Tibetans than you’re saying.”
    “You know more about the murders at the convent than you are saying.”
    Meng chewed on her seeds. “That’s being handled by our specialist from outside. Major Liang is in charge.” She meant, Shan knew, Liang was an elite troubleshooter from Lhasa or even Beijing. “As the senior local officer I am just assisting.”
    “You mean your main assignment is pacification.”
    The lieutenant did not disagree. “There was a new memo. We are supposed to speak of it as assimilation now. Embracing the indigenous population with the open heart of the Chinese motherland.” She spoke the words with raised eyebrows. For a moment Shan thought he detected sarcasm in her voice.
    “Liang’s solution will no doubt make some political officer proud,” Shan observed. “Solving a murder by throwing a grenade in a crowd.”
    “I’m not sure I follow.”
    Shan watched with foreboding as the big Chinese men in plainclothes positioned themselves around the market. “Beijing expects bold responses to murders. In Tibet it’s always simple. Round up a couple dozen Tibetans, sweat a few in interrogation so accusations of disloyalty start flowing. Collect enough statements to arrest a dissident and close the file with a press conference and an article in the Lhasa Times that warns about the ongoing dangers of splittists,” he said, using the Party’s euphemism for those who sought Tibetan independence. “It may sound good in Beijing but it doesn’t stop a killer. It will make your job a hundred times more difficult, Lieutenant.”
    Meng frowned. “People in Beijing went into a blind fury when they saw those crime scene photos. A Chinese flag in red paint and blood. Two dead Chinese men with their boots on some peasant woman. Of course it was a dissident.”
    “You mean they want it to be a dissident. And in doing so they become the murderer’s puppet. You’re in charge of local assimilation. Special troubleshooters sent by Beijing come and go. You’ll still be here. You’re going to let them set things back by years. And set your career back.”
    She lowered her sunflower seeds. “I’m listening.”
    “They haven’t thought it through yet but eventually they will. It will begin like a little bell ringing down a long tunnel. In a case like this it could take weeks before anyone even stops to listen to it. But eventually it will be heard. Eventually the clapper on the bell feels like a hammer on the skull to some of those involved.”
    Meng’s mouth twisted in a half frown. “Do you always speak in riddles?”
    “The truth will come back to haunt you. No matter what public label is put on it, those in Beijing will eventually realize this could not have been an act of political resistance. It was too clumsy, too inconspicuous, too simple.”
    “These are simple people.”
    “They are simple. Not simpletons. Arresting a few random agitators may feel good today but eventually those in Beijing will see it has caused a bigger problem. There’s a new term used by the Party, civil unrest with physical manifestations. The kind of problem it takes a battalion of troops to solve. Colonel Tan runs this county. They will be his troops, led by him personally. Do you know him?”
    “Tan the sledgehammer.