Eliot Pattison - Bone Mountain

"Mai xiao nu," Winslow announced with a sense of wonder as they sat down, staring back at the overdressed women. It meant women selling smiles. "Mai xiao nu," he repeated with a grin, as if he found the words amusing. When Somo blushed he shrugged apologetically, then declared that he would get them soft drinks and strode toward the bar. Somo looked at Shan, biting her lower lip. She stood and stepped purposefully toward the Chinese man sitting with the Westerners. She leaned over him a moment; he looked up with what Shan thought was relief, offered a gesture of farewell to his companions, and walked with Somo to the door. They stood and spoke for less than a minute until, with a worried glance toward Shan, she followed the man down the corridor.

Shan studied the strange collection of people in the room. His eyes began to sting from the tobacco smoke. A man nearby began belching repeatedly as his companions applauded. Shan could not shake the feeling he was being watched. What had Jenkins called the headquarters camp? Hell on wheels.

Winslow appeared a moment later with three red cans of American soda with a Chinese label, and the two sat uneasily for ten minutes before Somo reappeared with the man in the blue shirt, who distributed key rings with plastic tags like hotel keys to Shan and Somo. Each tag held a letter of the English alphabet and a number. The man introduced himself to Winslow as the administrative manager, and explained that Winslow would be accommodated in the special housing for distinguished visitors. Shan and Winslow exchanged a nervous glance. They were being split up. The American frowned but, as the manager turned and gestured him toward the door, he rose to follow the man. "In the morning," he said uneasily, and soon disappeared out the door with the manager.

"There are separate quarters for female workers," Somo announced unhappily as she downed her drink and pocketed her key.

"I will sleep in that truck," Shan suggested.

"No," Somo said nervously. "It could be moved, even driven to some other camp. And I saw a security patrol in the hallway. Not police or soldiers, just men in brown jackets. But if you're found without a worker's card you'll be taken into Golmud, or worse. They have trouble with thieves infiltrating the camp."

Five minutes later he was wandering along the dark rows of trailers. At the end of each row was a dimly lit sign with a letter. Each trailer had a huge number painted over its center door. He found his assigned trailer, unlocked the door, stepped inside, and found himself standing between two long rows of metal bunkbeds, half of which were occupied with sleeping figures. Two men sat on a cot at one end playing mah jhong by the light of a flashlight. Shan moved in the opposite direction and found an empty bunk at the end of the trailer. He was asleep seconds after his head touched the pillow.

It seemed only moments later when someone began pushing one of his feet. He woke with a start, remembering Somo's warning about the security patrols. Sunlight poured through the small metal-framed windows of the trailer.

"Breakfast stops in ten minutes, buddy," declared a young Han Chinese man at his bedside. "Sorry," he said as he saw Shan's nervous reaction. "If you wind up waiting in line most of the day for a job assignment you won't be able to eat until tonight." The man studied Shan uncertainly, wiped his thin, wispy moustache, and shrugged.

Shan mumbled his thanks and followed the man outside, warily studying the long alley between the rows of trailers before stepping beside the young Chinese.

"I saw a truck by the ops center," the Han said. "You must have come in late. From Tsaidam?" he asked, referring to the huge oil field in western Qinghai, one of the most famous in all China.

"Yapchi," Shan said.

The man glanced at him in surprise. "You asked to rotate out of Yapchi? Are you crazy? I hear there's going to be big bonuses there. American," he added. "I love Americans. Hamburgers. Las Vegas."

They arrived at the same big building Shan and his friends had been in the night before, but entered now at the opposite end, stepping directly into a huge messhall. A gust of humid air poured over him as the door closed, carrying with it a melange of scents: Pickled cabbage. Bacon. Cheese. Black pepper. Cigarette smoke. Eggs. Strong black tea. Fried rice. Coffee. Marinated fish.

Shan wandered around the room until he spotted Winslow sitting at a long table with over a dozen Western men and women, most of them younger than Winslow. A large black box on the table blared loud music. A young blond man with a ponytail pounded out the rhythm with two spoons on his plastic plate. Beside him a thick-set, square-jawed woman with short brunette hair played solitaire. Three others, including two of the men Shan had seen by the stage the night before, were studying a map, unrolled on the table. One was nursing a mug of coffee, the other a thick cigar.

Shan sat beside Winslow, who quietly reported that Somo had not yet appeared. The American gestured toward a line of workers at the side of the hall where attendants in white aprons hovered over steaming metal trays of food. Shan shook his head, and the American handed him a piece of cold toast from his own plate. Shan accepted the toast and reached for a Chinese newspaper near the end of the table. It was published in Golmud, dated just the day before. He quickly scanned the headlines. The authorities were closing in on the reviled Tiger, the reactionary wanted for murdering a Religious Affairs official in Amdo town. Large rewards were offered to citizens who assisted in his capture. A companion article explained that the effort to take the Tiger was a two-pronged campaign against such reactionaries, the second element being the separate search for the abbot of Sangchi, whom reactionaries working for the Tiger had kidnapped to steal him away to the Dalai Cult.

"Mostly Europeans," Winslow reported in a low voice, in Tibetan. "None of them has been here longer than a week. All in from other assignments. Most of them about to rotate out from home base."

Shan surveyed the men and women at the table. They seemed to be studiously ignoring Winslow.

"They have pointed out that of all the foreign countries represented in the venture, the only embassy that has ever challenged the venture on anything is the American."

"You mean your questions about Miss Larkin?"

"No. Environmental studies. Somebody else from the embassy came a month ago, saying the venture was not properly assessing environmental impacts. These engineers say the venture could block further investment by the American partners if we're not careful. There's lots of capital available elsewhere with no strings attached."

The man nearest Winslow pushed his chair back and lifted his tray. "I'll be sure to brush off my tuxedo for next time we dine, Mr. Ambassador," the man said in English, with an exaggerated bow of his head. He studied Shan a moment and turned back to Winslow. "Don't take any shit off of them," he added in a tone that was almost apologetic. "Give one of them an ear and you'll have a hundred hounding you. Every damned one expects us to help with a visa to move to the States."

"I have never expected to depart the worker's paradise," Shan said slowly, in English, fixing the man with a steady stare.

The man returned his gaze uncertainly, then broke into a grin. He looked from Shan to a table at the far corner of the room before grinning at Winslow. "Glad Comrade Zhu has his team on the case," he said, then hurried away.

Winslow and Shan exchanged a worried glance, and Shan found himself slowly surveying the messhall. Workers were rapidly filing out of the chamber. Several of the aproned staff wheeled food carts through a set of double doors while others began wiping tables with rags from buckets that reeked of ammonia. But near a door that opened to the interior of the operations center a slender man with hooded eyes, wearing a stylish brown nylon jacket, leaned against the wall, repeatedly glancing at them as he spoke into a portable radio. Shan rose, slowly, without fully standing, to look toward the corner where the American had glanced. The entire table was occupied by men and women in brown jackets. With a pang of fear he recognized the sleek man sitting at the head of the table, gesturing emphatically as the others listened, as if he were holding court. Special Projects Director Zhu.