Virk smiled broadly, bright eyes dancing above his black beard in the lamplight. He clapped his hands softly, giving a respectful half nod.
“No need to answer my previous question, Mr. Quinn.” Dr. Deuben knelt beside the unconscious attackers to check their pulses. A moment ago they would have been happy to beat her senseless. “I’m certain you will have no trouble biting whoever needs to be bitten on behalf of the American government. Now we just have to make sure the rest of Gao’s crew don’t cave in your skull before you can get out of town.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Ronnie spoke a smattering of French and it was fairly simple for her to track Quinn to Happiness Foot Wash. She arrived while Gabrielle Deuben was still dispensing medication to a subdued and sheepish Gao.
The doctor had been completely won over by Quinn’s methods and insisted on being their guide for the evening, escorting them around Kashgar. Belvan Virk led the way through the teeming streets, his red turban looming above the throng as he scanned for signs of danger.
Ronnie walked a half step behind, enjoying the opportunity to observe Jericho Quinn in his natural environment. She’d never met a man so self-assured. He walked by plate-glass windows without once checking himself out, and seemed somehow connected to the “now” of every situation. His uncanny ability at languages surely helped with that.
Though Uyghur spoke their own language, more closely related to Tajik Persian, most spoke passable Arabic or Mandarin. Quinn slipped effortlessly from one language to another as he stopped to chat with this shopkeeper or that, inquiring about the price of a silk hat or a piece of yellow pottery.
Watching him, Garcia realized Kashgar was the perfect metaphor for Quinn. The more civilized, manicured part of him was somehow strained and unnatural. It was the haphazard, uncivilized nature-the feral labyrinth of instinct and uncertainty-that gave man and city endless possibilities.
“And here we are.” Deuben clapped her hands in front of her waist as seemed to be her habit when she was pleased about something. She waved at a middle-aged Uyghur man using a piece of cardboard to fan away the smoke from a grill of sizzling lamb kabobs.
They were in Kashgar’s famous Night Market-a sea of food and people. Mounds of saffron yellow noodles vied for space between tables piled high with baskets of naan that bore a suspicious resemblance to bagels, and platters of dumplings, vegetables, and boiled goat heads. A half carcass of mutton, split down the spine, swung from a metal hook ten feet from the table where Deuben had decided to sit. Knives, hatchets, axes, and swords seemed to be everywhere.
Quinn seemed fascinated by the frenetic sights and sounds of the place. It was as if he was coming home. Virk stayed on his feet, facing outbound behind the doctor.
Deuben patted the seat of a metal folding chair beside her, looking up at Garcia. “Come,” she said. “You must sit. This place has the best suoman in Kashgar, I promise.”
Ronnie’s eyes shot to Quinn, looking for approval. He’d promised not to let her accidentally eat any goat lung or other so-called delicacies without a warning.
“Not dog.” He grinned. “ Suoman is a sort of stir-fry with noodles, peppers, and meat. Pretty good stuff.”
“Pretty good stuff?” Deuben pounded a glass bottle of red pepper sauce against the flimsy wooden tabletop, squashing a fat black fly. “Ali’s suoman is heaven on earth.” She held up four fingers to the man fanning smoke from the kabobs. He gave her an almost imperceptible nod, passing the cardboard fan to a teenage boy in a V-neck sweater so he could get to work on the suoman.
In the stall next door a young woman in a white bonnet pressed pomegranate juice into shot glasses. Beyond them three young male barbers gave as many gray-bearded men haircuts and vigorous face rubs.
“I love to come here,” Deuben said. “The old cultures in Central Asia are all being… how do you say? Zerstueckelt… broken apart.”
“It has changed,” Quinn sighed.
“And so,” Deuben said, clapping her hands together in her lap. “Did anyone tell you about this orphanage?”
“Only that you’d reported stories of a place that seemed to prefer blond, blue-eyed children.”
Deuben took a deep breath. “I have not seen the place myself, but my work often finds me for some weeks at a time among the Kyrgyz horse camps in the High Pamir. They speak of such a place in hushed tones. So, so many of the Kyrgyz have succumbed to opium addiction. It’s not uncommon to see women blowing opium smoke into their babies’ faces to ward off hunger. Officials don’t pay much attention to such women when they say their fair-skinned children are being carried away in the night. Most have been taken at gunpoint, their parents slaughtered… but even that draws little notice from the authorities.”
“So kids are actually kidnapped?” Ronnie weighed in. “It’s not just an orphanage?”
“The line is blurry out here,” Deuben said, flicking away the dead fly. “It’s a hard life. Infant mortality is so high parents often won’t even name a child until well after it is walking. Some children are abandoned, some are sold by their parents or unscrupulous relatives. A pretty green-eyed girl can bring an incredible sum from the right millionaire in Dubai or some other place on the pipeline. Along with the missing children, I can name American petroleum engineers, teachers, a Peace Corps volunteer, and a newlywed couple who have all disappeared in the Pamir over the last decade.”
“Is it common for women here to have fair-skinned babies?” Ronnie asked.
Deuben swept her arm toward the Night Market. Strings of electric lights cast a yellow glow over the crowds as twilight gave way to darkness. “Take a look. Tajik, Uyghur, Kyrgyz, Uzbek-the list goes on and on. Under the coat of grime from their hardscrabble lives, many have quite fair complexions. Some claim to be descendants of Alexander the Great and his armies.” She tipped her head toward the kabob grill. “Look there, even Ali’s son has green eyes and an orange tint to his hair.”
“So,” Quinn said. “You’ve had many reports of this place but have never been there?”
“No, but I have spoken with a Kyrgyz woman who has. She described it to me. It’s not too far from here… how do you Americans say it? As the crow flies.”
Virk leaned back a hair, twisting his neck so he could offer an opinion over his shoulder. “Unfortunately, such a crow would have to fly over the Pamir Knot-where the Hindu Kush, the Himalayas, and the High Pamir come together.”
“This is true,” Deuben conceded. “But I can tell you the back way in.”
Quinn continued to study the crowd, eyes flashing this way and that. “I understood you would come with us.”
“Oh no.” The doctor stared down at the stained tablecloth, still fiddling with the bottle of pepper sauce.
“I see,” Quinn mused. “Do we still have the bike rental set up?”
For a brief moment Ronnie thought the fact that the doctor wouldn’t be joining them might jeopardize the mission.
“Of course,” Deuben said. “They are ready to go, along with gear and supplies. The man who owns them will meet you at FUBAR tomorrow morning. It’s near your hotel.”
Quinn had briefed Ronnie on FUBAR. Once the famed Caravan Cafe, it was a favorite stop for adventurers who wanted to share a drink with other expatriates and check their email. Since the Chinese crackdown and near media blackout during the recent Uyghur unrest, email had been spotty at best. Those lucky enough to log on to the Internet experienced extreme government filtering, affectionately known as the Great Firewall of China.
Ali brought four plates of suoman — steaming mountains of noodles with red peppers, onion, and mutton arranged around the outer edge like the spokes on a yellow wheel. Garlic and cumin rose on the heady steam to tickle Ronnie’s nose in the crisp evening air.
Deuben hung her head, twirling at her noodles with a pair of collapsible lacquer chopsticks she took from her vest pocket. “I do wish I could come along, but quite frankly, I would do you more harm than good. I had a bit of trouble with the Chinese military near the checkpoint at Tashkurgan a few weeks ago.” Her face screwed into a distasteful sneer. “The intrusive pests are everywhere. One of their jeep patrols caught me trying to get over the Wakhan Pass into Afghanistan.”
