“I understand,” Quinn said. “It probably would be best if you didn’t come, then. What is your back way in?”
Deuben looked up from the table, gray eyes sparkling with mischief. “Over the Wakhan Pass into Afghanistan.”
A sudden flurry of commotion above the normal chatter rose from a knot of street vendors across the adjacent walkway. Quinn looked up from his meal to see two men in dark suits and wispy, flowing white beards work their way through the milling crowd. Each smiled serenely, holding their hands palms forward, as if to say, “We come in peace.”
Belvan Virk widened his stance as the men approached. He reached to tap Deuben on her shoulder. “Umar’s men,” he whispered.
“Umar?” Deuben’s shoulders sank, deflated. “ Scheisse! I was afraid this would happen.” She pushed back from the table and stood, facing the two elderly men.
“ Asalmu aleikum,” she said, pressing her right hand to her breast.
Both men returned the greeting, hands to their chests. They looked at Quinn through amused, smiling eyes, narrowed into slits by their near-toothless grins. Each wore a fancy four-cornered hat in yellow silk, richly embroidered in geometric patterns. The spokesman, a shade taller than his partner, wore a thick pair of glasses in black frames that made his eyes loom larger than the rest of his wrinkled face. His lack of teeth gave him a handy gap in which to place his hand-rolled cigarette.
“Is this the one?” he said, gesturing to Quinn with an open hand. He smelled of cloves and motor oil.
“It is,” Deuben sighed, as if she knew exactly what the men were talking about.
Quinn, already on his feet, introduced himself, his right hand to his breast.
The men nodded politely but continued to conduct their business with Dr. Deuben.
“Would he accept?” the old man with glasses asked, cigarette dancing between his lips.
Deuben nodded. “I feel sure he would.”
The men smiled in unison at the good news. “Most excellent. Umar will meet him at the small enclosure off the camel pens at five o’clock.”
Quinn started to speak, but Deuben held up her hand to shush him.
“I will bring him,” she said. “What of the Chinese soldiers? They like to patrol the Sunday market. I’m certain they would not approve of such things.”
“We will see to them.” The old man grinned. “I have made the garrison nearest the animal market a gift of two casks of plum wine. They will sleep late tomorrow morning.”
“Very well.” Deuben smiled tightly. “He will be there, insh’Allah.”
The old men bid their good-byes to the doctor, eyeing Quinn as a curiosity, shaking their heads as they disappeared into the crowded night.
Deuben collapsed back in her chair, releasing a pent-up groan. She pushed a lock of blond hair out of her face.
Belvan Virk turned, brooding. “This is madness,” he said. “Umar is a giant…”
Ronnie had watched the entire episode with a string of noodles hanging from her chopsticks. “Would someone like to tell me what just happened?”
“I wouldn’t mind that either,” Quinn said, though he had a sinking suspicion he knew already.
Deuben pushed the plate of suoman toward Quinn, urging him to eat. “Umar is a local businessman who considers himself the best fighter in all of Kashgar. But for Umar, Gao and his little crew were some of the toughest men in town. At least until you came along. When you beat them, you took away some of Umar’s street cred.”
Quinn shook his head. It went against everything he stood for to run away from a fight, but he had the mission to think about. “We don’t have time for this.”
“I agree,” Ronnie said.
“It doesn’t matter.” Deuben picked up a piece of grilled mutton and popped it into her mouth. “It is something you must do.”
“I’m not sure you understand, Doctor,” Quinn said. “I’m not frightened of this Umar. I simply don’t have time to deal with him right now. My superiors are awaiting word about the orphanage.”
Deuben swallowed her mutton and dabbed a bit of grease off her lips with a cloth from her vest pocket. “You simply don’t have time not to deal with Umar.” She pushed Quinn’s plate of suoman closer to him. “He’s the man providing your motorcycles and there’s no one else in town who would rent to you if you snub Umar. Now eat up. He’s a big fellow. You will need all your strength.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Local hunters said the high valley was inhabited by Pari, beautiful female beings with supernatural powers. Dr. Badeeb had played on that fear, calling his school the Pari Children’s Home-or simply Pari.
To an untrained eye, the face of the school looked like a pile of flat gray stones at the foot of a sheer rock face. Two similar peaks rose from the edges of a high alpine meadow surrounding the blue waters of a glacial lake. The peaks were covered with snow year-round, not quite tall enough to draw the attention of world-class mountaineers and much too dangerous to provide any negotiable pass for opium smugglers. Massive golden eagles soared unmolested in the rectangle of blue sky. A small herd of female ibex and their kids nibbled scant vegetation in the craggy peaks.
Flanking the hidden valley on three sides, these giant rocks formed the perfect palisade, protecting the high meadow from unwanted intruders. At the base of the largest mountain, almost hidden among the pile of flat stones, was a dusty wooden door framed by heavy timber supports. A closer inspection revealed a tiny, one-foot-square window, similarly framed a few feet past the door. Seven identical windows strung out along the mountain’s base toward the apex of the valley.
A cluster of smoke-gray felt yurts dotted the valley floor. The protected Pamir provided excellent grazing grounds during summer months, and even now, well into the fall with a skiff of ice ringing the emerald lake, herds of yaks and scruffy sheep still munched on the frost-nipped pastures.
On the other side of the third window down, CIA paramilitary officer Karen Hunt sat in a clammy room carved into the bowels of the mountain. An oil lamp sputtered in a chipped hollow along the inside rock wall.
She’d thought her spine would snap before the caravan arrived at the valley. Two men, one on each arm, had dragged her on wobbly legs from her yak and into the dark twelve-by-twelve cell. When her eyes became accustomed to the flickering lamp, she’d been startled to find Lieutenant Nelson and Specialist Nguyen already lying on a pile of rags in the uneven corner of the cave-like room.
A plastic bucket sat on the floor under a constant drip from the carved stone roof. The water appeared to be clean, but smelled of sulfur. It was a small bucket for the needs of three people, no bigger than a table pitcher, but the dripping kept it full.
The concussion from the stun grenade, coupled with the rigors of the never-ending yak ride, had left Karen’s skin raw and her body past the point of exhaustion. A knot from her beating throbbed behind her right ear. Relieved just to be alive, she collapsed beside a similarly docile Nelson and Nguyen before passing into unconsciousness.
Karen stirred as a ray of pink light sifted in from the single window to paint the only flat wall of the cell. Her eyes were matted shut and every inch of her body felt as if she’d been dragged over an acre of broken glass. Moaning softly, she realized her head was resting in Lieutenant Nelson’s lap. She forced open her eyes to see that he was leaning against the wall, looking down at her. Specialist Nguyen was curled up against her back, keeping them both as warm as possible against the damp stone floor.
“How long have we been here?” Karen blinked. She moved her neck from side to side, awakening the searing pain in the knot above her ear.
“I couldn’t say,” Nelson said. His eyes were glazed in the thousand-yard stare of someone lost in thought. “I’m hungry, if that means anything.”
