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  If he hadn't been exhausted and weak from blood loss, Zakat knew he stood a good chance of deflecting that blade, even turning it on its wielder. As it was, he could only stand as the shaman's eyes filled his field of vision, then his mind. He tried to erect a barrier around his thoughts, visualizing an impenetrable brick wall.

  A ghost of a smile creased the shaman's thin lips, and the edges of Zakat's vision blackened. The insubstantial cobweb ensnared his mind, capturing his dreams, his desires and most secret yearnings like a fisherman would net a school of fish. He felt the black-turbaned man examining them as they wriggled and thrashed.

  Then, for an instant that felt like a chain of interlocking eternities, his mind meshed with the shaman's. A tsunami of raw, naked ambition crashed over him, the undertow dragging his conscious mind into dark, cold depths. Suddenly, Zakat felt trapped, his spirit locked forever with a black yet somehow shining stone, its facets cut to form a trapezohedron.

  The sleet-blurred sun seemed to reel in the sky. Zakat was only dimly aware of falling, first to his knees, then on his face, stretching out on the snow-encrusted flagstones. Right before he sank into the warm embrace of unconsciousness, he heard a deep voice bellowing commands. He didn't respond to it, assuming he was delirious.

  The language the voice spoke was Russian.

  * * *

  "Easy," the voice whispered. "Easy."

  Grigori Zakat grunted and opened his eyes. He was a little dismayed by how much effort it required and even more dismayed when he saw nothing but a dark, blurred shape looming over him. Still the shape spoke in a language he knew.

  Clearing a throat that felt as though it were lined with gravel, he managed to husk out, "Russian. I thought I dreamed hearing it."

  A deep, slightly mocking laugh boomed from the shape, and the rich odor of wine wafted into his nostrils. "Perhaps you are dreaming still, no? Perhaps you are freezing to death out on the plateau. The mind plays cruel tricks on the dying."

  Zakat blinked several times, and the laughing shape slowly resolved into a more or less human outline. A big man beamed down at him. Although burly, with a massive belly straining at a blue-and-gold satin tunic, he didn't look fat. A thick gray beard spilled over his chest, and his small brown eyes, bagged by flesh pouches, twinkled with amusement.

  Squinting around the small stone-walled chamber lit by torches sputtering in sconces, Zakat became aware of the overpowering smell of rancid yak butter drifting in from the corridor. The only decoration in the room was provided by a hanging tapestry, covered with geometric forms. The central one, worked in black thread, appeared to be a trapezohedron.

  "Where am 1?" he asked.

  "Directly above the center of the Earth," the bearded man replied. He unsuccessfully swallowed a belch. "Tibet. You are enjoying the hospitality of the Trasilunpo lamasery. I am the high lama here. My name is Dorjieff."

  The name rang a distant chord of recognition in Zakat's memory, but it was so faint he didn't care to seek it out. He shifted on the hard cot, and flares of pain blazed all over his body. Lifting his trembling hands in front of his eyes, he saw they were swathed in bandages, soaked with a foul-smelling unguent.

  "Frostbite," Dorjieff said. "I believe you'll recover without the loss of any extremities."

  Lifting the blanket, Zakat saw his naked body was covered with blue contusions and raw abrasions. Many windings of bandages encircled his midsection. He kept his expression blank, even when he noticed that his Khlysty emblem was no longer around his neck.

  "You were blessed, all things considered," continued Dorjieff. He pinched the air with a forefinger and thumb. "That sword thrust missed your vitals by this much. I was able to suture the wound without complications. Internal bleeding was slight. You'll bear a rather unsightly scar, I fear."

  "You are a doctor?"

  Dorjieff shrugged. "Necessity has forced me to act in many roles during my life."

  "How long have I been here?"

  "Your second day draws to a close." Dorjieff's hair-rimmed lips quirked in a smile as he added, "Father Twilight."

  Zakat did not react. He only gazed up at the bearded man with a mild question in his eyes. Like a street conjurer performing before an audience of urchins, Dorjieff made exaggerated passes through the air with his hands. When he opened his left hand, the tiny wooden phallus dangled by its thong from his forefinger, the crystal testicles reflecting the torchlight.

  "A Khlysty cross," Dorjieff murmured. "I was under the impression the sect was outlawed in the motherland, much like the Skotpsis."

  Zakat couldn't disguise his distaste at the comparison. Skotpsis were among the most ancient of Russian sects, true enough, and savagely persecuted. An all-male cult, its followers paradoxically swore fealty to the pagan goddess Cybele. The primary expression of their worship was the surgical removal of their penises and testicles.

  Dorjieff noticed his sour expression and chuckled. "I did not mean to insult you. I was under the impression the Skotpsis were a breakaway group of the Khlystys."

  "A common misapprehension," Zakat murmured.

  "I understand that Khlystys practice a so-called communal sin," Dorjieff said. "An indiscriminate sexual orgy among the male and female apostles. A ceremony difficult to participate in if the males have had their tools put away."

  Dorjieff's gentle smile disappeared. "However, what is not a misapprehension, common or otherwise, is that for an officer of the ISN to be a Khlysty priest is more than a conflict of interest — it is a firing-squad offense."

  As much as he wanted to, Zakat did not reach up to take the talisman. In a low voice, he said, "We are far from the motherland."

  Dorjieff gusted out a sigh overlaid with the smell of wine and dropped the emblem onto Zakat's chest. "And from District Twelve."

  Zakat covered his astonishment by hiking himself up on his elbows and slipping the thong over his head. "You are now a Buddhist?"

  The bearded man shrugged noncommittally. "As I said, necessity has forced me into many roles. Soldier, doctor, holy man. Guardian."

  Zakat was puzzled by the remark, but he didn't question the man. Swinging his legs over the edge of the cot, he tried to sit up, but his head swam dizzily. Dorjieff put a hand under his elbow and steadied him until he had planted both feet firmly on a woven-reed floor mat.

  "I took the liberty of looking at your identification papers and orders," Dorjieff said. "That is how I know your name and your affiliation with District Twelve. Or at least, the name you currently use. I suppose you have played many roles with just as many affiliations."

  As the vertigo ebbed, Zakat saw the torchlight reflected in a pinpoint from a ring on the middle finger of Dorjieff's left hand. Made of thick, hammered brass, in its setting was a single stone, cut in a confusing geometric pattern. It took him a moment to recognize it as a trapezohedron.

  "How do you know of District Twelve?" Zakat asked.

  Dorjieff combed a hand through his beard, smiling crookedly. "Many years ago, I was an operative. I was dispatched here to establish an intelligence network in the Himalayas, just in case our old friends, the Chinese, tried to reclaim Tibet."

  His smile became a broad grin. "You might say I went native. I found higher rewards here than any Mother Russia could offer. My intelligence network is still intact. A sherpa brought to me the tale of your aircraft crash. And of its one survivor, struggling through twenty miles of rugged snowfields in subzero temperatures. An endurance born of your Khlysty training?"

  Zakat nodded. "The power of the mind controlling the limitations of the flesh."

  "You intrigue me, Father. We may perhaps be of some use to each other. Tsong-ka-po, the lama who founded the Trasilunpo order many centuries ago, made a prophecy associated with a man much like you."

  That piqued Zakat's interest, and he lifted his head to stare into Dorjieff's eyes, searching for indications of deception. He saw only a glaze from imbibing too much wine. He didn't stare long, as two figures appeared in the
arched doorway on the far side of the cell.

  One was a diminutive girl of perhaps sixteen years, wearing the black shirt and baggy red trousers of a Tibetan peasant, her glossy black hair intricately braided on both sides of her head. Even in the dim light, Zakat noticed her firm breasts swelling beneath the coarsely spun fabric. The other figure was a man, not much taller than she.

  Glancing over his shoulder, Dorjieff said, "Come in, Trai. Gyatso, our visitor appears to have recovered from your ministrations."

  The black-turbaned Bon-po shaman stepped into the room, a thick yellow robe folded over one arm. The girl held a pair of sandals. Her black almond eyes were cast downward. Gyatso fixed an unblinking stare on Zakat as he approached him.

  Zakat tried to meet it.

  Dorjieff chuckled softly, and said, "The secret of Bon training consists of developing a power of concentration surpassing even that of men like yourself, who are the most gifted in psychic respects."

  Dorjieff turned to Gyatso. "This is Father Zakat," Dorjieff told him genially. "He will be staying with us for a little while."

  Gyatso nodded. "Yes, Tsyansis Khan-po."

  Trai placed the sandals on the floor mat and, not raising her eyes, backed out of the room, head bowed. Gyatso laid the robe on the foot of the cot. His fingers were exceptionally, almost inhumanly long, the middle ones nearly the length of Zakat's entire hand.

  As he shouldered into the robe, Zakat said quietly, "I know a little of this dialect, Dorjieff. Tsyansis Khan-po translates as 'the king of fear.' A title you assumed or earned?"

  Dorjieff shrugged negligently. "A bit of both over the years. The question of the moment is what to do with you."

  He belched loudly, and Zakat caught the swift, disgusted glance Gyatso flicked toward Dorjieff.

  Standing up, knotting a sash around the robe and stepping into the sandals, Zakat chose his words carefully. "You might look at me as a fellow expatriate seeking asylum."

  Dorjieff threw back his head and laughed. "This lamasery is not a sanctuary. It is more of an embassy… or a guard post. If it had not been for Gyatso's intervention, the Dob-Dobs would have slain you on the spot."

  Zakat glanced quickly at Gyatso and once more experienced the sensation of a cold cobweb wisping over his mind. "Why did you intervene?"

  Dorjieff stated, "He is a priest, like ourselves, but of the old Bon-po religion. He is also an emissary, a hereditary ambassador. Therefore, his whims are given a certain deference."

  Zakat eyed the slightly built, bespectacled man. "Emissary from what nation?"

  "A group of nations, actually, known by different names in different ages."

  Dorjieff seemed inclined to continue, but when Gyatso cast him an unblinking stare, he coughed self-consciously. "You will learn more," the bearded man said, "or you will not. The decision is not mine."

  Zakat steeled himself and fixed his eyes on Gyatso. When he felt the caressing mind touch, he didn't flinch or blink. In a soft, lilting whisper, he inquired, "Is the decision yours, my myopic friend?"

  As if mocking him, Gyatso answered in the same tone, "You owe your life to me, Father Zakat. Do you pay your debts?"

  Zakat allowed a smile to slowly crease his lips. "Always," he answered. "And sometimes, with a great deal of interest."

  Gyatso nodded. "Then we have much in common. And much to share."

  1

  Five months later

  Kane lowered the compact set of binoculars and hissed out a slow, disgusted breath. "Now, isn't this just what we need."

  "What do you mean?" asked Brigid Baptiste.

  Wordlessly, Kane handed her the binoculars. She elbowed closer to the crest of the ridge and peered through the eyepieces, adjusting the focus to accommodate her own slightly astigmatic vision. The microbinoculars' 8x21 magnifying power brought the details of the distant Indian village to crystal clarity.

  The settlement of tepees, looking like upside-down cones, were arranged in two loose circles, one surrounding the other. She caught the faint whiff of wood smoke. To one side of the village, she saw a herd of hobbled horses and on the other were wooden racks upon which animal hides were stretched. Women in fringed buckskin smocks labored over the frameworks, scraping away fur from the hides.

  "The camp of the Sioux and the Cheyenne," Brigid said. "So what? We knew they were here."

  "Look a little to your left," Kane directed grimly.

  As she complied, she heard a faint yell from the outer perimeter of the lodges. In a clear area, she saw barechested men cavorting around a tall wooden pole. Their long black hair was bedecked with sprays of colorful feathers, and their bodies were painted a variety of bright hues and confusing patterns. They canted their heads back so they could stare at the round object topping the pole. She couldn't quite make out whether the object was a stone or part of the pole itself.

  "Some kind of ceremony," Brigid commented, unconsciously lowering her voice.

  "Keep looking."

  Brigid did as he said. After a moment, the cluster of men around the pole separated, and her breath caught in her throat. Auerbach lay staked to the ground, his legs spread-eagled, his wrists bound tightly to the base of the pole. A pyramid of dry twigs rose from the juncture of his naked thighs. She saw how sweat glistened on his face, how his eyes were wide with terror. On the pale skin of his bare right shoulder spread a great blue-black bruise.

  Sweeping the binoculars in a slow scan over the village, Brigid tried to make a head count, but the people milled about among the tepees.

  "I don't see Rouch anywhere," Brigid murmured, lowering the binoculars. "I wish I knew if that was good or bad."

  Kane sighed, running an impatient hand through his dark hair. "Why break with tradition? Let's assume it's bad."

  She imitated his sigh. "What do you want to do?"

  Kane began inching backward from the top of the knoll. "What I want to do is turn around and go back to Cerberus. But I know I'll end up doing what I don't want to do."

  Brigid paused a moment before following him, loath to give up the springtime sun driving the last of the early-morning chill from her body. She tried to enjoy the warm air, rich with the smell of new growth. Under other circumstances, she would have enjoyed the two-day hike from the foothills of the Bitterroot Range. She liked being outdoors, away from the sepulchral silences and cold vanadium confines of the Cerberus redoubt. But neither she, Kane nor Grant was on a nature hike.

  She joined Kane and Grant at the bottom of the slope. "Just like we suspected," Kane said to him. "The Indians have them. They're working up to roast Auerbach's chestnuts."

  Grant winced, then his dark face contorted in a scowl of angry frustration. "How many of the opposition?"

  "I couldn't get a clear idea," Brigid said. "But if you're asking whether they outnumber us — they definitely do, by at least a five-to-one margin. And that's a conservative estimate."

  "What's new about that? We're always outnumbered." A very tall, very broad-shouldered man, Grant's heavy brows knitted, shadowing his dark eyes. A down-sweeping mustache showed jet-black against the coffee brown of his skin. His heavy-jawed face was set in a perpetual scowl. Impatiently, he tugged up the collar of his black, calf-length coat.

  Brigid shrugged. She didn't deny Grant's statement but said, "We don't know if Auerbach and Rouch might have offended the Indians, broken one of their taboos. We should practice a little diplomacy first. They're our nearest neighbors, after all."

  She was a tall, full-breasted and long-limbed woman, and Brigid Baptiste's willowy figure reflected an unusual strength without detracting from her undeniable femininity. An unruly mane of long, red-gold hair spilled over her shoulders, framing a smoothly sculpted face with a rosy complexion dusted lightly with freckles across her nose and cheeks. There was a softness in her features that bespoke a deep wellspring of compassion, yet a hint of iron resolve was there, too. The color of emeralds glittered in her big, feline-slanted eyes.

  Kane glanced toward h
er, a wry smile playing over his lips. "I don't think what they're doing to Auerbach is part of a 'welcome to the neighborhood' routine."

  An inch over six feet, he was not as tall or as broad as Grant, but every line of his supple, compact body was hard and stripped of excess flesh. He looked like a warrior — from the hawklike set of his head on the corded neck, to the square shoulders and the lean hips and long legs. Kane was built with the savage economy of a gray wolf. His high-planed face, normally clean shaved, bristled with a couple days' worth of beard stubble. Though his mouth held a smile, his narrowed gray blue eyes were alert and cold.

  "Anybody got a suggestion of how to play this?" Grant asked dourly.

  After a thoughtful moment, Kane replied, "I think you should stay put, be our ace on the line."

  Out of the pocket of his dark tan overcoat, he withdrew his trans-comm. Thumbing up the cover of the palm-sized radiophone, he pressed a key. "I'll keep the frequency open. Monitor my channel."

  The range of the comm devices was generally limited to a mile, but in open country, in clear weather, contact could be established at two miles.

  Clipping it to the underside lapel of his coat, he continued, "Another option is just to leave Auerbach and Rouch where they are. It'd be simpler all the way around."

  "Safer, too," Grant rumbled. "For all we know, it's how the Indians deal with slaggers."

  Brigid knew they weren't serious, so she didn't respond to their comments. Still, it was a reminder that Grant and Kane had spent their entire adult lives as killers — superbly trained Magistrates, bearing not only the legal license to pass final judgment on slaggers, or lawbreakers, but the moral sanction, as well.

  She couldn't deny their anger was justifiable. Four days ago, Auerbach had volunteered to make the trek from the mountain plateau housing the Cerberus redoubt to the foothills to perform routine maintenance on a motion sensor on the road. The only pass to the plateau had been blocked several months ago by a C-4 triggered avalanche, and the old blacktop highway remained completely impassable by vehicles.