Lord of Death: A Shan Tao Yun Investigation Read Online Free PDF

the table but a steaming mug of tea. Shan had barely taken his first sip when Cao materialized out of the shadows.
    “I understand there are hundreds of miles of wilderness above here,” the major observed in a sour voice.
    Shan’s answer came out in a hoarse croak. “Thousands.”
    “Good. Get lost in them.” There was a cold vehemence in the major’s words. “If I ever see you again I will find a meat cleaver and a plane, and I will drop pieces of you over the mountains as you watch.”
    Shan silently sipped his tea, calculating the ways Cao could be setting a trap for him, then recalled the gap of hours when the team should have been working on him. “You found the pistol,” he concluded.
    Cao answered by stepping to his side, jerking the glucose needle from his arm and pointing to the door.

    SHAN STOOD BLINKING in the briliant morning sun as the door slammed shut behind him. Shogo town was still waking up. A small flock of sheep wandered along the cracked pavement of the street. A group of shiny sport utility vehicles sped by filled with tourists bound for the Himalayas after a side trip to see the center of commerce at the top of the world. Somewhere someone burned incense, an offering to the gods for the new day. He had taken two stumbling steps before he noticed the well-dressed Tibetan sitting at a table outside the tea shop across the street. He paused as two army trucks, packed with border commandos, sped past in a cloud of dust. Then he limped across the road.
    Tsipon, the leading businessman in Shogo, preeminent local member of the Party, was the only man in the town who ever wore a tie. In his suit and white shirt he looked as if he were attending a business meeting.
    “I am grateful that you tried to get me transferred to the hospital,” Shan offered as he dropped into the chair beside him.
    “It’s the climbing season, damn it. I can’t afford to lose another worker. The fool knobs don’t have a clue about economics.”
    Another man appeared, holding three mugs of black tea, which he placed on the table, sliding one toward Shan, before settling into a third chair. He was tall and athletic looking, his skin bearing the weathered patina of one who spent long days in the high altitudes. With his black hair Shan might have taken him for a Tibetan waiter at first glance. Except that his features were Western and his clothes and boots would have cost a year’s income for the average Tibetan.
    “Look at him,” the man groused in English to Tsipon. “He’s in no shape. The deal’s off.”
    Shan glanced back at Tsipon, who stared at him expectantly. Apparently they were at a business meeting after all.
    Tsipon offered a sly smile, then motioned to a woman standing inside the open door. She leaned over him, listening as he whispered, then hurried away.
    “What day is it?” Shan asked in Tibetan.
    “I’m sorry. It’s Saturday.”
    Shan shut his eyes. For a moment he lost his grip on his pain, every synapse seeming to scream in agony.
    “The region leading to the climbing trails on the Nepal side of the mountains has been sealed off by the Nepali military,” Tsipon said, switching to English. “Problems with the rebels who want to take over Katmandu. No Westerners are allowed to climb the south slope this season. Mr. Yates here has three groups of climbers already signed on for the season, expecting to be taken to the summit in the next six weeks. He needs to put them up the north face instead.”
    As the stranger drank his tea, Shan saw the discolored flesh on two of his fingers, one of them missing its top joint, the mark of frostbite at high altitudes.
    “Impossible,” Shan said. “You know it is impossible.” Putting an expedition on the slopes meant weeks of planning, permits, surveying advance campsites, staging supplies.
    The stranger pushed a small stack of napkins toward Shan, motioning to a wet spot of crimson on the table. Blood was dripping from the bandage on Shan’s