Act of Terror

by Marc Cameron

  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.

  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 suspiciou
s 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 Café, 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.”

  “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.”