by Joanne Pence
On the low, candlelit table, the old monk placed a cup of tea and a bowl of soup, and then put a thick rolled-up blanket on the floor. He walked out of the building, exiting by the main door.
“Thank you!” Michael called after him, unsure what to make of this.
He hadn’t thought he was hungry until he tasted the soup made with noodles and mutton. Considering the strong odor of the mutton, he must have been famished. The tea was made with salted yak butter in the Uyghur tradition. Not long after he finished the meal, he stretched out on the rug and pillows, and covered himself with the blanket to ward off the cold, dampness of the building. He listened to the falling rain and slowly, finally, began to relax.
He opened his eyes with a start. He must have fallen asleep because someone had shut the one light, blown out the candles and removed the dishes. A faint glow of starlight came through the barely opened shutters, but it wasn’t enough to see the hands of his wristwatch. His eyelids felt heavy, but something had awakened him, and the little part of his mind that remained clear told him to protect himself.
The rain had stopped. All was quiet, and he was about to berate himself for foolish nerves when something banged hard against a shutter. From his backpack, Michael took out the knife Brother Sirom had given him and held it close as he lay propped up on one elbow. Whatever it was struck again, but it was more of a knocking this time, as if someone—something—out there wanted to be let it in.
He would have liked to believe the banging was only the branch of a tree, but no trees stood in this barren desert. His tormentor was most likely nothing but a crow that had lost its way. Yet, the thought penetrated of how very alone he was out here, and how very unnatural all this felt.
He had no sooner convinced himself that all was fine around him, when a furious shriek shattered the night, rattling the shutters and doors. He wondered if the window would hold, if the door was locked. He lay still, listening. If whatever was outside came in, he had little with which to protect himself.
He was afraid—he’d be a liar not to admit it. And with that fear, he also admitted that something was in the church with him.
Chapter 40
Jianjun, Kira and Renata found themselves crossing the Torugart Pass into China with Hank Bennett, Stuart Eliot and their bodyguards. Jianjun was curious about the strings Hank Bennett must have pulled to have been allowed to bring rifles into the country. That was all but unheard of. He asked, but Bennett refused to say.
Renata spoke to the guards in the Uyghur language about Michael. They remembered the man she described and told her he had entered China the prior morning traveling with a group of Buddhist monks on the way to Kashgar.
Renata bubbled with joy as she told Jianjun and Kira, who met the news with both relief and not a little wonder. Jianjun had called Charlotte Reed on the satellite phone the night before and again that morning to ask if she had heard from Michael. She had not and promised to phone him if she did.
They reached Kashgar in late morning. It was both larger and more modern than any of them expected, but with areas more ancient looking than expected as well. The streets were packed with people, but few were European. To find Michael in this crush of humanity seemed hopeless.
Jianjun found an Internet café and connected with his phone. He tapped into a program on his home computer and was using it to scan for Michael’s cell phone’s location when Chinese police came up to him and shut him down. It seemed foreigners weren’t allowed to use the Internet without signing up at the police station and giving lots of personal information. Jianjun told them he was only looking up information about hotels and hurried away.
“So much for technology,” he said, when he rejoined the others.
“It would have been difficult for Michael to rent a car without the government’s involvement as well,” Renata said. “It was always that way to a degree in China, but here, after Uyghur riots against the government, things have really cracked down. We should ask about Michael at a CITS office. They keep watch over all foreigners. And we need to check in with them as well.”
At the second CITS office they tried, they found an officious agent who definitely remembered Michael. He spoke down to the foreigners, all but sneering at them, until Jianjun spoke to him in Chinese, using better Mandarin than he did. Also, since Jianjun had been born in Beijing, he had the same accent as top government officials. Jianjun found the accent was useful in getting people in China to take him seriously—at least, those who weren’t the police.
The agent told them Michael had bought a bus ticket to Khotan, but if he was there, he had not checked in as he had been ordered to do. The agent was most unhappy.
The group got into their vehicles and drove to Khotan. They arrived at night, and Renata went straight to the CITS office to see if Michael had arrived. She learned the agency was searching for him, no one knew where he was, and everyone was furious about it.
“How can that be?” Hank asked Renata. “Surely, people on the bus noticed him.”
“Of course they did. But they’re Uyghurs, and not about to help Chinese bureaucrats. They simply say they weren’t on the bus he was on, or that they saw him, but they got off before he ever did, or whatever. We’re going to have to find someone who will talk to us.”
Khotan was a much smaller desert town than Kashgar, but old and new also existed here, side-by-side. A few dramatically modern buildings stood near the town’s Union Square, and in the area were night clubs, restaurants, coffee bars, and even supermarkets. But away from that area, the old reigned, with crowded, bustling markets and bazaars. As they walked by a market place, they passed a group of performers and stopped to listen, with Renata offering explanations of the music. A man played a surnay¸ an oboe-like wind instrument with a haunting sound; a woman strummed a dutar, a Uyghur lute with a long neck and two strings; while another woman dancing to their music. All were dressed in colorful traditional outfits. The dancer’s dress was purple and white with elaborate embroidery, high necked, and fitted to the hips which were covered with an elaborate girdle crocheted with gold thread. Below it, the skirt flared out, and hung down to the ankles. On her head was a round hat with a flat top. Sparkling jewels dangled from the front crown of the hat, reaching to the eyebrows and along the sides of the face, essentially framing the woman’s large, dark eyes. At the back of the hat, a long scarf reached her waist. As the woman danced, she performed a number of spins, causing the scarf as well as her skirt to flare out and swirl around her. She was beautiful and graceful, as was the woman who played the lute. Her dress was similar, but its main color was red rather than purple. The man’s jacket was black with intricate silver embroidery along the front of it. His brimless hat was silver with a black pattern woven in.
The music stopped, and the performers began to walk among the small crowd who had watched them, carrying pails into which people dropped coins. The dancer approached Jianjun and the others, and held out her pail as she asked in English, “Are you American?”
“Most of them are,” Jianjun said, looking at her in surprise. He put some coins in the pail, as did Renata and Kira. “Why ask that?”
“CITS is in a tizzy because some American didn’t report in to them. We don’t get many tourists here anymore, but here you are. I guessed it’s all connected.”
The two musicians joined the dancer. Renata asked, “So, do you know where the American is?”
“Why?” the man asked.
“He’s our friend,” Renata said.
The Uyghurs huddled together, whispering. Then, the man approached. “My sisters and I can show you for a small fee.”
“How small?” she asked.
They negotiated a bit because the first amount the brother suggested was hardly small. But Renata knew that if the troupe was telling the truth, they would be able to catch up to Michael a lot faster than otherwise.
“Before we pay you anything, how do we know you’re telling the truth?” Jianjun asked.
Th
e brother, whose name was Az’har, explained that they had traveled from Kashgar to Khotan, and outside of Khotan they heard about a Westerner who got off the bus in a strange area. He was warned not to get off there, but he didn’t listen—or didn’t understand.
Az’har’s sisters, Dilnar and Paziliya, nodded in agreement. “We heard he is very handsome,” Dilnar said. “So we are most interested in meeting him as well.” She and Paziliya laughed, while Az’har scowled at them.
“It is a chore having sisters such as these,” he said, with a shake of his head.
Renata and Kira met each other’s gaze and realized they were having similar thoughts about Az’har. He was remarkably handsome.
Hank and Stuart had approached when they saw that some negotiations were going on. Jianjun filled them in, and the group agreed to give the performers a chance.
“One more thing,” Az’har added. “We should stop at an inn for the night, and could use help paying for our rooms. My sisters and I have worked all day, and there are no accommodations in the village we are going to. Plus, we do not wish to arrive there in the middle of the night.”
“You aren’t the only ones who are tired and in need of a warm bed and a shower,” Renata assured them.
“How do you know such good English?” Hank demanded.
Az’har smiled. “We learned it because it’s the best way to make a lot of money. Just like we’re doing now.”
The performers threw their instruments and knapsacks in the back of the van that Jianjun drove, and squeezed in with him, Kira and Renata since five large men filled Hank and Stuart’s SUV. As Jianjun drove off in search of an inn, the Uyghurs directed them to the “foreigners” section, since that was the only area in which they’d be allowed to stay.
Near Union Square, they found a hotel, several boarding houses, and inns, all within a few streets of each other. Since no one establishment had enough rooms available for all of them, they spread out and agreed to meet at nine o’clock the next morning, giving them time for a good breakfast.
Jianjun glanced at Kira, and the two went together to find a place to spend the night. They found an inn that was quite nice, and expensive, but it offered suites with soft, thick towels, and even bathrobes. After their last few nights, it sounded heavenly. Kira asked for two rooms. Jianjun felt disappointment, but he hadn’t really expected otherwise.
At most, it had been a dim hope.
He had showered and gotten into bed wearing his sweats when he heard a light tap on the door.
It was Kira. “Do you mind?”
She had a bottle of wine in her hand. He opened the door wide. “Of course not.”
“I need to unwind.” Her voice was overly cheery as she entered. “The owner offered this at a ridiculous price, but tonight, I don’t care.”
“I, um …”
“Don’t you like wine?”
“I do. It tends to make my cheeks red, though.”
She chuckled, seeming relieved. “No problem.” She carried two glasses with the wine, put them on the dresser and poured.
Her long red hair was still damp from her shower and hung free. She looked shiny and clean in the fluffy robe and wore socks to keep her feet warm. As he neared her to take the wine she offered, he could smell soap and talc and he didn’t know what else, but the combination was intoxicating.
He took the glass and sat on the end of his bed. She sat on the lone chair in the room, next to the bureau.
“Tell me about yourself.” She sounded a little nervous. “Have you been married long?”
He was surprised that she should ask such a thing, especially as her first question … and especially in his room. His own nerves strummed, and he gulped some wine. “Five years.”
“First marriage?”
“Yes. Were you ever married?”
“One year together, one separated, and then we divorced. It was a few years ago. I haven’t been serious about anyone since,” she said, then blurted, “I want you to know, I don’t make a habit of taking wine to men’s rooms.”
Ah, the cause of her uneasiness. “I can tell. And I’m glad you’re here.”
She nodded and took a sip of wine.
“What happened between the two of you?” Jianjun asked softly.
She shrugged. “Lots of little things. A death of a thousand blows. I think we both knew something was wrong right from the start. He didn’t understand me and seemed to think I was someone I’m not. And he said I thought the same about him. He’s now happily married and even has a daughter. But I had found life with him boring and wanted excitement.” She shook her head at that. “Guess I didn’t know when I was well off.”
“You’re a criminal profiler for the FBI and you were bored?”
“The job is fine—or was fine. Not sure if I’ll get it back. It was my home life I had trouble with.”
He nodded, then took another big swallow of wine before admitting, “I know the feeling.”
“Yes, I could tell. When I was at your house …” She hesitated. “Is it always that way between you and your wife, or had the two of you just had a fight?”
He gave a half-smile. “We never fight. To fight usually means there’s something that you care about in the other person, something that rankles and you wish you could change. I mean, she’s a good person. If she was a friend, I probably wouldn’t mind going to dinner with her—maybe once a year, even. So I feel bad for her, that she’s stuck with me. Some days, I even feel guilty.”
“You really are much too nice,” she said.
Her words surprised him. “I’m not!”
“Well, all I know is, it’s not good for you to live that way. And how happy can she be, knowing her husband doesn’t love her?”
“She doesn’t know,” he said.
“Believe me, she knows.”
He finished his wine at that, knowing he had drunk it much too fast. He poured himself a bit more, then sat down again. “Sometimes I think the only reason we’re still together is my job with Michael. If I couldn’t get away from home, often for months at a time, I don’t know what I’d be doing right now.”
“You and Michael seem to genuinely like each other,” she said.
“He doesn’t know it, but he’s my best friend.”
“And you’re his.”
“Maybe. I worry about him.”
“With good reason from what I’ve seen. He’s lucky to have a good man like you on his side.”
He had to ask. “You always say I’m a good man. You don’t really know that. Or me, for that matter.”
“Don’t I? It’s my job to know things like that, remember? I see too many men and women who aren’t. It makes me enjoy being with you.” She stared at the floor a moment, but then looked up at him with blue eyes that were like an arrow to his heart. “No pretense; no trying to show anyone I’m as smart or successful or brave as my father or anyone else.” She ran her finger over the rim of her wine glass. “I’ll never forget you for that reason, if nothing else.”
“Forget me? I’m not going anywhere.”
“Yes, you are. You will.”
He was puzzled by her words, but then noticed that she had finished her wine. He got up, took the glass from her and refilled it. She stood, but didn’t reach for the glass. Instead, she looked at his face, as he did hers.
And he could see her longing.
He placed her glass atop the dresser. “Kira,” he murmured.
She swayed towards him, her hands against his chest. He slid a hand into her hair. It felt damp and cool against his warm fingers. Their eyes met as he drew her closer and then couldn’t stop himself from clutching her tight as their lips met.
She drew back a moment, and lightly ran a hand over his cheek, his ear, his hair, then murmured, “I don’t want to be alone tonight.”
“Stay with me,” he whispered.
She nodded, and then untied the sash of her robe, letting it fall open. Besides the robe, all she wore were thick, dopey lookin
g socks. As he took her in his arms, he was sure he had never seen a woman look more beautiful.
Chapter 41
Michael quietly watched a procession of six Nestorian monks enter the church. Four carried candles, and the last two swung censers that filled the church with incense. At the area where the altar should have stood, they knelt side-by-side and softly chanted. None of them paid any attention to him.
They moved like robots or replicants—too perfect, too stylized. In fact, everything seemed to be a dream, yet he was sure he was awake. Awake, but having a vision, much like earlier with Irina.
Yet, with this vision, the eerie spookiness of the church vanished. It felt warmer now, comfortably so, and the monks’ candles cast a pleasant glow. Even the scent of incense comforted him.
The strong sense struck that this was where he needed to be. No matter how cold and eerie the monastery had felt earlier, the monks gave him a clear message: they wanted him here. They accepted him.
And perhaps they—with Brother Sirom’s help—had led him here.
He lay his head down and listened with his heart as well as his ears as the chant softly echoed through the church.
The shutters lay open and daylight streamed through the windows when Michael awoke. He sat up quickly.
A cup of salted tea and a steaming bowl of soup were on the low table. He rubbed his face and eyes, and couldn’t help but wonder if the sights and sounds the night before had been real or a dream.
The tea cup felt hot. He drank some, and then went outdoors where he found a basin of warm water, a razor, soap, and a towel on the porch. He washed up and shaved. It felt good to get the scruff off his face.
The courtyard held an outhouse in a far corner, but little else. He found a door in the back of the main building, but it and nearby shutters had been nailed shut.
He saw no sign of the monks, or any housing for them.
Back inside, his soup had cooled enough to eat. Mutton soup was hardly his idea of a tasty breakfast, but Uyghurs didn’t consider a meal edible unless it had meat or fish as part of it, and sheep and goat were the most prevalent meats in the area.
