“Doctor not here,” she sulked. “You not want Happiness girl, you go now. Gao come back. He beat shit from you like he do Tina Fan. ”

“I was told Dr. Deuben was here right now,” Quinn pressed the issue. He took a half step toward the beaded curtains over the wooden stairs.

“She no here!” the girl snapped in English. “You go now!”

Quinn tensed as heavy footsteps pounded down the stairs.

A dark hand, followed by a mountainous, turban-wearing Sikh, emerged from the curtains and into the vestibule. He stood toe-to-toe with Quinn, tut-tutting the girl with a pointed forefinger. He turned to Quinn and shook his head. “ Trust a Brahmin before a snake, and a snake before a harlot…”

“ And a harlot before an Afghan,” Quinn finished the sentence.

“Ah,” the Sikh said. “Splendid to meet a man who knows his Kipling.” He extended his hand. “I am Belvan Virk, Dr. Gabrielle’s bodyguard.”

“Jericho Quinn.” He shook the offered hand.

Belvan Virk had a good three inches on him, and the broad shoulders and blocky, muscular build of a bare- knuckle boxer. His bloodred turban was wrapped tight and pinned in front with the swords and circle of a Kahnda or Sikh crest. Jet-black hair and uncut beard were tucked neatly beneath the edges of the spotless cloth. He wore dark slacks and a collarless white dress shirt. A curved dagger hung at his right side.

“The doctor has been unable to call because of these recent troubles.” Virk parted the beaded curtains, pointing up the stairs with an open hand. “The… proprietor of Number Six went missing on a trip to Urumqi last week-likely murdered by bandits. In any case, the girls here are without pimp or protector. They have had a bit of trouble from a certain local.”

“Gao?” Quinn mused.

“Yes.” Virk nodded, amused. “You catch on very quickly.”

“Gao come back too,” the Filipino girl threatened, still perched on her stool, arms folded in defiance. “He my customer anyway. Tina Fan stole from me. She deserved, she got.”

Quinn followed Belvan Virk up the stairs and along a windowless wooden hallway to a ten-by-ten chamber that looked more like a jail cell than a bedroom. The enormous Sikh had to stoop under the low ceiling. The odor of sweat, lamb grease, and cheap perfume hung heavy in the close air. An oil lamp only added to the darkness with a thin ribbon of black smoke.

A Han Chinese peasant girl, from Fuzhou, Quinn guessed by her dialect, lay facedown on a sagging mattress set directly on the scabby rug. She wore nothing but a dingy pair of panties that had at one time been white and trimmed in lace. The soles of her tiny feet were black from walking barefoot. Raw pink lines of flesh crisscrossed her shoulders and legs. Ribs pushed, cage-like, against sallow skin as she sobbed. The points of her spine shone through like a row of small stones above a pale yellow sea.

Gabrielle Deuben sat on the edge of the filthy mattress dabbing at the girl’s wounds with a bottle of foul- smelling antiseptic. She wore a blue clinic coat over a pair of khaki slacks and a red T-shirt. Blue nitrile gloves and a silver chain completed her ensemble, accenting sensible brown hiking boots of the type worn by mountaineers. Flaxen hair was piled up on her head as if putting it there had been an afterthought. She kept it in place with luck and a couple of wooden chopsticks.

High, pink cheekbones stood out over a strong, Germanic jaw that clenched in marked concentration as she looked over the wounds. She wore no makeup, and appeared to revel in her plainness. Quinn guessed she was in her mid-thirties. A spartan life in Central Asia kept her a little on the gaunt side and added more than one streak of gray to her hair.

An earthenware bowl sat on the bed next to the two women, filled with pink water and soiled rags.

“There now,” the doctor said in passable Chinese. “I think we’ve gotten out all the debris.”

“You hurt me worse than Gao,” Tina Fan sobbed.

“I know it seemed so, child,” Deuben sighed. “But you risk infection from the filthy rope he uses as a belt. It’s probably full of camel dung… or worse.” She pulled a sheet up to gently cover the girl’s legs, leaving her back open to the air. “Stay facedown for a few minutes and I’ll put on a dressing.”

Belvan Virk looked on with a sparkling eye. He had an easy smile, almost hidden under the massive black mustache. He seemed to revere the doctor to the point of worship and Quinn found himself wondering if there was more to their relationship than the Sikh had admitted.

Tina Fan sobbed softly as Deuben stood and peeled off the blue gloves.

“Mr. Quinn,” she said in clipped but perfect English. “Thank you for coming. Forgive me if I am not too happy with the male gender at the moment.”

“I understand completely,” Quinn said. “Do you know why they did this to her?”

“Misogynists.” The doctor shrugged, scratching her nose. It was not too big, but it looked as though she was the lucky one in a family of otherwise very large noses. “You know what misogynist means?”

“I do,” Quinn said.

“It means,” she explained anyway, “someone who hates every bone in a woman’s body except his own…” Her voice trailed off to watch his reaction before she continued. “More than likely these men wished to stake a claim since the owner and pimp of this lovely establishment has gone missing. Or maybe beating the poor girl excited them. I’ve long ago given up on understanding what men will do for a shake and a shiver.” She suddenly turned to Quinn. “In any case, I’ve been writing to the United Nations for over a year and you’re the first they’ve sent out to investigate my claims.”

“I believe there may have been a mistake, Dr. Deuben.” Quinn shot a look at Virk, half expecting the big man to try and grab him by the scruff of the neck if he delivered any unwelcome news. “I am from the U.S. government, not the U.N.”

“Is that so?” Deuben studied him for a long moment, her slate-colored eyes playing over him in the smoke of the flickering oil lamp. She folded her hands together in front of her, chest moving slightly with each breath. At length she clapped her hands. “All the better,” she pronounced. “The United Nations does little but talk. Your government actually has some teeth-if they would only use them. Are you prepared to bite with those teeth Mr. Quinn?”

Quinn considered his answer, but his thoughts were cut short by a pitiful yelp from the Filipino girl in the lobby.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Heavy footfalls approached, clomping up the wooden steps. On the mattress, Tina Fan’s bony shoulders began to heave so hard she retched, curling into a fetal ball.

An instant later, three Chinese men appeared, silhouetted against the open doorway by the naked lightbulb in the hall. All were thick-necked and brawny, dark and accustomed to hard labor under the sun. The apparent leader was bald but for a ring of greasy hair on his wedge-shaped head. Sneering with stained yellow teeth, he slapped a short, hardwood truncheon against his open palm.

Quinn’s eyes shot from the newcomers to Belvan Virk. Men with clubs at the door of a brothel would not have good intentions. The massive Sikh let his hand fall to the dagger at his waist. He tipped his head slightly in answer to Quinn’s unspoken question.

These were the same men who’d given Tina Fan the beating.

Without waiting for the thugs to speak-or even move-Quinn closed the distance in one quick stride. Feinting with a quick right jab, he slammed the flat of his left hand into the leader’s nose, then, twisting toward the thumb, wrenched the club away. He brought the heavy wood up hard and fast, catching its owner on the point of the chin. There was a satisfying crack as teeth crunched and gave way.

Wasting no energy on excess movement, Quinn used the downstroke to catch the second thug in the center of his forehead. Black eyes rolled back as wood smashed into bone. The third man raised his hands, but Quinn thumped him too, driving him to his knees. He’d come along for the whipping. It was a little too late to back out now.

All three thugs were facedown on the dirty green rug in a matter of seconds.

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