unnoticed at any time, particularly after dark, hiking or riding in overland in vehicles or on horses, or disguised as tourists or vendors.
At the same time, the news from the prison was encouraging: The lockdown was over. No pallet check tonight, and tomorrow morning the prisoners would return to the fields. The harvest season had begun — cabbage, beets, bok choy, tomatoes, as well as the usual rice and chili peppers. Asgar figured that had played a large role in the decision. Once darkness had cloaked Dazu’s rolling hills and valleys, Jon, Asgar, and a dozen guerrillas drove to the prison and hid their vehicles as before. Now they and two of the Uigher fighters lay flat in cover across from the no-man’s land and chain-link fence. The prison yard appeared quiet. The mess hall was shadowy and still. The double doors in the rear wall were closed, the rutted dirt drive deserted. From the barracks, an occasional voice rose in mournful song or macabre laughter, but the governor and the guards made no showing. All of this information was vital, since the prison was still on medium alert. Jon and Asgar had decided they would improve the odds of a clean, quiet escape for Thayer and Chiavelli if they sneaked inside. They planned to take the same hidden route in which they hoped to bring them out.
Motionless, growing tense, at last they spotted movement. One of the double doors had opened and closed. Or had it? Jon stared, trying to pick out a shape, a form, anything. Then he saw it — a wraith low to the ground, a cross between a snake and a cat, scrambling through the ten-yard-wide blind spot to the fence. It was a small man in the usual drab prison uniform. He looked up at them once, spotted Asgar, and nodded.
Asgar nodded back and whispered to Jon, “It’s Ibrahim. Let’s cover him.”
Noise was an enemy tonight. The last weapon they would use was their guns, even though they had screwed on noise suppressors. It was a myth that “silenced” gunfire was silent. Although it was quieter than regular fire, each bullet still gave off a loud pop, like a low-grade firecracker. With luck, their hands, feet, knives, and garottes would be enough. Still, they raised their pistols, sweeping over the grounds, in case of the worst. Beside them, the two Uigher fighters did the same.
They must protect this man who was risking so much. Jon’s heart held a slow, steady beat, while tension fought to accelerate it. Ibrahim continued to scrape away the loamy soil until he had gone down what looked like a foot. Moments later, he raised a square of wood about three-by-three. He dove into the hole and vanished. Almost immediately, the dirt moved on the other side of the fence. It shifted, shook, and another wood panel arose. Ibrahim’s head popped out, disappeared again, and reappeared on the far side of the fence. The channel was clear. Asgar whispered, “Our turn.” He rose to a crouch and scuttled to the fence, with Jon and the two Uigher guerrillas close behind. Jon peered down into the hole. It was a deep depression that had been scooped under the fence and covered with the two wood squares that met just beneath the chain links. “Go,” Asgar said in a low voice. “I’ve got your back.”
Headfirst, Jon scrambled down, emerged on the prison side, and ran after Ibrahim to the mess hall, dirt flying from his clothes. He slid inside and turned to aim out his Beretta. The Uighers had replaced the wood on both sides of the fence and were pushing dirt back over. As Asgar ran to join Jon and Ibrahim, the remaining pair outside produced brushes and meticulously smoothed the dirt, making the night’s disturbance unnoticeable. When the last Uigher bolted into the mess hall, Ibrahim led them at a trot through the shadowy kitchen and deserted mess hall.
They peered out the windows. Moonlight illuminated wood walkways that united three large barracks, joined them with the mess hall, and branched out to other buildings, guaranteeing dry feet for the governor during rainy seasons. All the buildings were raised on three-foot posts, indicating the seriousness of the seasonal storms. There were no trees and no grass, just soil that had been packed hard by many feet. Two armed guards patrolled this area, rifles over their shoulders, yawning sleepily, perhaps because they’d had to patrol last night during the lockdown, too. Ibrahim consulted in a low voice with Asgar, who nodded and told Jon, “Be ready. When I say go, we run out to the right and slide under the barrack there.” Ibrahim waited until the guards were at the ends of their routes and their backs were turned. He and Asgar clapped each other on both shoulders in farewell, and Ibrahim raced out of the mess hall, but to the left. He made no attempt to be silent. In fact, his footfalls were thumps on the hardpan. Both guards revived from their walking doze and spun, rifles aimed. Each barked the same Chinese word, which Jon figured must mean “halt.” Ibrahim froze. His head dropped in fake guilt. The men approached warily. They relaxed when they saw his face. Their lips curled as they spoke mockingly in Chinese.
Asgar translated everything in a whisper:
“You stealing food again, Ibrahim?”
“Don’t you know you always get caught? What is it this time?”
The first guard searched the trembling Uigher and pulled a jar from inside his shirt. “Honey again. You know damn well that’s not for prisoners. We would’ve discovered it was gone, and then we’d have tracked it to you. You’re the dumbest inmate here. Now we’ve got to take you to lockup, and you’ll be talking to the governor in the morning. You know what that means!”
His head hanging lower, Ibrahim was marched to a small building at the far edge of the yard.
“What does it mean?” Jon asked, concerned.
“Detention for a week. Ibrahim’s an operator. It’s his contribution to the cause.” Asgar looked both ways. “Now!”
As Ibrahim disappeared inside, Jon and Asgar slipped out the front door, ran full speed to the right, and dove under the barrack. They clambered underneath to the other side, jumped out, ran again, and dove again, repeating until they were three barracks distant, in another part of the camp. They lay panting beneath the last one, peering out at another group of barracks. The most distant one from the fence where they entered was straight ahead.
Asgar breathed in deep gulps. Jon’s heart pounded, and his face itched.
But all he could think about was … in that barrack was David Thayer.
They studied the new area. Again, there were wood walkways uniting the buildings. Two more guards patrolled 180 degrees apart. As soon as the guards’ backs were turned, Asgar nodded, and they ran once more, this time lightly.
The barrack door cracked open without a sound, and a figure motioned them into the dark interior. He was in his early thirties, with a scar down his right cheek that looked as if it had come from a blade. The man put a finger to his lips, closed the door, and padded quietly off between pallets of snoring male prisoners. Shafts of moonlight from high windows illuminated the bleak, regimented scene, which looked as if it had sprung from some monochromatic moment in a Solzhenitsyn novel.
Jon and Asgar followed the prisoner to a door at the rear. He pointed at it and returned to his pallet. Jon and Asgar exchanged a look in the gloom, and Asgar gestured as if to say, “Your turn, if you want it.”
This was David Thayer’s cell. This last door in the last barrack in the compound. A man who had been declared officially dead for decades. Whose wife had remarried and died. Whose best friend had married her and died, too. Whose son had grown up without him. He had missed several lifetimes.
Jon opened the door eagerly. This man deserved more than pity. He deserved freedom and every happiness the world could offer.
Inside was a tiny room. Two men looked up from where they sat side by side on wood chairs. Each held a small, lighted flashlight, a hand cupping the beam. Jon could see little more. He and Asgar quickly closed the door behind them.
“Chiavelli?” Jon whispered into the dark.
“Smith?” asked a voice.
“Yes.”
The hands released the beams. The cell erupted in shadows and light.
Both men were fully dressed. The one who wore the usual prison shirt and trousers was younger — muscular, with a gray buzz cut and gray stubble on his chin. He immediately crossed the room and pushed aside the pallet in the corner.
The older one stood up, tall and rangy, with sunken cheeks and bony shoulders. He was dressed in a rumpled Mao jacket over loose peasant trousers, a Mao cap on his head. Under it was thick white hair and an aristocratic face that was riven with lines, not from the sun but from more than eighty years of life. Around his waist was a belt with a small pack. He was ready to travel. David Thayer.
Chiavelli said from the corner, “Asgar?” He was on his knees, where the pallet had been. “I could use some help.”
