77

As Stevo maneuvers Ruby toward one of the open hangars, you enter the barrack block escorted by a taciturn Tibetan in thick fur wrappings. Once in the well-insulated structure, welcome heat washes over you. After undoing the chin flaps of your Russian-style hat, you brush the light dusting of snow off your long thermal jacket, peel off your woolen gloves, and walk through into the main barracks.

Jian Zhu is there, sitting at the far side of the long room on a low wooden cot. A tea kettle bubbles away on a portable gas stove on the floor in front of him. He looks up when you enter, stands, and offers you a shallow bow.

"Dr. Spillane, welcome, and thank you for coming. Please, sit across from me. We have much to discuss."

He speaks fEnglish with an upper-class British accent. There is intelligence in his voice, and subtlety, grace and precision in his movements. Zhu is a little on the short side, and slight too, but well proportioned and strikingly handsome. He has smooth skin, delicate features, noticeable long lashes, and a very symmetrical face. But even under the layers of thermal clothing, you can tell that there is strength in his body, that any impression of softness and delicacy that his face conveys is misleading. And, for all its prettiness, perhaps the most striking thing about his face is how neutral he keeps it, a studied, disciplined and practiced blankness. Jian Zhu's features are composed, concealing everything and presenting to the world a perfect image of control.

"Will you take some tea?" he asks.