He was smaller than she’d expected him to be. She’d looked up his photo while on the phone with Adam, and seen his descriptors. This guy might have been five nine, a hundred and seventy pounds at some point, but not anymore. Life had pounded him down good and hard, bending him where people were not meant to bend and shaving pounds and surely years off his life.
Murphy didn’t speak Uyghur or Chinese, so she greeted him in Arabic.
“As-salamu alaikum.”
He eyed her warily, bent as if he might topple forward at the slightest breath or misstep.
“Wa alaikumu as-salam,” he said.
He spoke English, haltingly, but assured her that he understood it very well from his time in U.S. custody.
Murphy introduced herself as a member of an NGO that was working to reunite Uyghur refugees with their children. To her surprise, he invited her in immediately.
“Come, come,” he said, raking the air with a cupped hand. “Please. I make you tea.”
He lived alone, with no family and few hobbies, from the looks of the sparse interior of the shabby but clean apartment. His nails were long, his hair unkempt. His only friends appeared to be the neat stacks of books and magazines in Arabic script and English stacked in various spots around the living area. Murphy noted just a few of the English titles—A Raisin in the Sun, 1984, The Invisible Man, assorted Kafka … A well-worn copy of To Kill a Mockingbird sat open and facedown next to a mug of tea on a small table beside a sagging easy chair, as if he’d been up to the business of reading it when she’d knocked on his door. Not exactly books she’d expected to see in a Uyghur refugee’s home in the suburbs of Albania, but there was definitely a theme. You could get only so much by reading a person’s file.
He brought her tea and then retrieved his own, using a strip of white paper to mark his spot before reverently closing To Kill a Mockingbird and setting it gently on the table. Sitting across from Murphy, he told her that he was sorry but he could not help because he had no children to be reunited with. Where an American or European man might bawdily joke that he had no children “that he knew of,” Urkesh Beg looked at her soberly and left it at the apologetic denial.
Murphy learned early—likely well before The Farm—that a lie was easier to swallow when buttered with some truth. She set her teacup on her knees and bent forward, trying to make herself seem as small and unthreatening as possible. “Mr. Beg,” she said. “I am here on a very delicate matter. There are members of certain … shall we say … groups that China has deemed … outside the law—”
Beg’s countenance fell dark at the mention of China.
Murphy held up her free hand. “Please understand, I am in no way connected to the Chinese government. On the contrary, I do not even represent the American government.”
“That is good,” Beg said. “Because I hate the U.S. only a little less than I hate the Chinese government.”
Murphy had read the man’s file. She felt the urge to explain that although there was no question that the Uyghur people had been severely mistreated, it was no small thing to align oneself with Taliban forces, even for training, and then fire toward U.S. troops. Urkesh Beg was, in point of fact, fortunate to be upright and still breathing. Still, criminals in the United States did less time than he had for a hell of a lot worse. It wasn’t Leigh Murphy’s job to prove to him how right the United States was or was not in detaining him for so long. She needed to find out what he knew.
She took a contemplative sip of tea, letting the silence sink in before beginning. “The people I work with represent separated children, not nations. Unfortunately, members of the groups I’m talking to you about do not contact authorities regarding the location and fate of their little ones because they are afraid the Chinese government—”
Beg scoffed. “Or the U.S.”
“Or whomever,” Murphy continued. “Parents aligned with groups operating on the edges of the law fear making contact, leaving my organization with no way to find extended family for the children in our care—many of whom are too young to communicate with us.”
“Maybe you give me names of the people you are looking for,” Beg said. “I am not part of all this you speak of, but I know people who know.”
“I have a list at my office,” she said. “Perhaps we can meet tomorrow or the next day and speak in more detail. I do remember several of the smaller children had family members in the ETIM …” Murphy listed two other known Uyghur groups before bringing it home. Yao had been vague about why he was looking for Medina Tohti, but did mention she had a daughter. Murphy flipped the script on the details but kept the issue of parent and child the same. “… at least one, a three-year-old boy, if I am correct, has a father who is part of … I’m not sure I’m saying it correctly, the Wuming group.”
Beg shook his head emphatically, lips pursed, a child refusing to eat his oatmeal. He took two slow, deep breaths before saying, “Wuming?” His hand trembled as he took a sip of tea. “Wuming means nameless. Nobody.”
“Anonymous?” Murphy offered. If this man was reading A Raisin in the Sun and George Orwell, he had a decent vocabulary.
“Yes,” Beg said. “Anonymous. Maybe other groups do things and Wuming gets the blame.”
“Or the credit,” Murphy said. “The Chinese believe they are behind several killings.” She put her hand to her chest now, over her heart. “This boy I spoke of, he believes his father is Wuming. I hope they are real. Someone needs to fight the Chinese oppression.”
Beg leaned back in his chair, eyeing her carefully. “Do you know of Baihua Qifang?”
Murphy thought for a moment, then shook her head. “I don’t recognize it.”
“The Hundred Flowers Campaign,” Beg said. “Decades ago, Mao allowed open criticism of the Communist government. ‘Let a hundred flowers bloom and a hundred differing thoughts contend.’ A Chinese poem.” Beg turned up his nose. “Far inferior to Uyghur verse.”
He was certainly finding his vocabulary now.
“I have heard of the Hundred Flowers Campaign,” Murphy said. “It did not go well.”
“It did not,” Beg said. “Some say it started with good intentions, but I think Mao told everyone to speak the truth of how they disagreed with him so he could kill them or put them in prison later.”
“Fair assessment,” Murphy said. “But what does that have to do with us?”
“You come to my house, telling me you are happy with crimes committed against Han Chinese military and police. You think this will make me agree with you and get me in trouble.”
“I told you,” Murphy said. “I represent no specific country, but I am obviously not Chinese.”
Beg gave a derisive laugh. “You Americans believe only people who look Chinese help Beijing. China has lots of money. Americans who look like you help China, Africans help China, even some greedy Uyghur work for China against other Uyghur. I told you, I am not a part of any organization you are asking about and I have no children.” He stood. “There are Uyghur families in many free countries who I imagine would happily raise these children. I think you should go and use your time to contact them.”
“I will,” Murphy said, getting to her feet. The fire in Urkesh Beg’s eyes made her grateful for the weight of the little Glock in her waistband. “But I would still like to try and place the children with family if possible. You said you know people who might know. This little boy who says his father is Wuming is so—”
“Wuming is no one. Little children’s stories, yes, but that is all. Wuming is just story.”
Murphy bit her bottom lip, making her chin quiver. She could not only turn her wiggle off and on, but the waterworks as well. “Honestly,” she said, sniffing for effect. “Hundred Flowers Campaign be damned. Think whatever you want. Whoever is doing these things, Wuming or whatever they are called … Who could blame them? There are evil people out there, taking children from parents, husbands from wives … I worry about the children, but you’re probably right. It would be
better to place them with unrelated Uyghur families. Chinese authorities are relentless. They will eventually find and imprison everyone who even thinks a separatist thought, even the Wuming.”
“I will tell you this much,” Beg said, growing animated. “If Wuming was real, no stupid Han Chinese soldier would be able to find them. Wuming is shapeless. No … how do you say it? Formless. Wuming can never be caught. They would never preach. Never say a bad word against China. Never talk aloud of a free East Turkestan. He shook his head again, snorting, almost a chuckle. “Wuming is no one, but could be anyone. So many borders, they will never be found. They don’t speak of what they must do, they do what they must. If anyone looks, they will only disappear into wilderness like fox or melt back into the fabric of regular folk.”
“I understand,” Murphy said. “Do you have a mobile?”
Beg looked around his modest apartment and gave a wan smile. “A phone is expensive,” he said. “And I have no one to call.”
“I’ll check back tomorrow or the next day,” she said.
“As you wish,” Beg said. “But I doubt I can help.”
She said her good-byes and left a card with a hello-phone callback number—the voicemail gave an extension, not a business name. Pondering what a colossal dead end this had proven to be, she rounded the brick wall on the way back to her car and nearly jumped out of her skin when Joey Shoop stepped from behind the creepy witch’s cottage.
“Nice haircut,” he said.
“Hey,” she said, trying to remain nonchalant.
“Hey, my ass,” Shoop said and sneered. “I about smacked into a meat truck trying to find you. What’s with trying to lose me back there?”
“I wasn’t trying to lose you, nimrod.” She wagged her head. “I was running this little thing we do in intelligence work called a surveillance-detection route. Maybe you’ve heard of them.”
Shoop just stood there, glaring at her. “Rask was right to wonder about you. You got something going on, don’t you?”
“You’re an idiot, Joey. You want to hear him yell at me, I’m going back to the office to type up a report now.” She gave him a disdainful shrug. “I guess you’re welcome to follow me if you think you can keep up.”
27
Adam Yao was running out of options. Two days of interviews and meetings hadn’t got him any closer to finding Medina Tohti. Leigh Murphy had come up dry as well.
The Usenovs were his last shot.
Adam Yao arrived unannounced, but that did not matter. Kambar Usenov answered the door, heard Yao say he was a journalist from Taiwan who had a few questions, and waved him inside out of the chill. Russian was the lingua franca of Kazakhstan, but the Usenovs were Oralman—literally “returnees” who had come back to their ethnic roots after living for generations in another country. Kambar and Aisulu Usenov had fled Xinjiang, so their first language was Mandarin—making Yao’s job much easier. His Russian was halting at best, but he spoke Chinese like a native—which at first appeared to put Usenov on edge, until Yao showed him the Taiwanese journalist credentials. Usenov, a bear of a man with a slight limp, gripped Yao’s hand firmly with both of his. He peered into Yao’s eyes for just long enough to make Yao think he might have to pull away.
At length, Usenov gave a satisfied grunt and let go, welcoming Yao into his home as if he was a long-lost relative. Mrs. Usenov set a third plate at the low table situated on the colorful Asian rug in the middle of the Usenovs’ main room. She was a quiet Kazakh woman with flour on her dress and a light blue scarf tied above a handsome oval face. She wore little makeup, but a thin black pencil line connected her dark eyebrows. Yao had seen it many times before on women in Central Asia.
Mrs. Usenov shuffled back and forth from the kitchen, bringing tray after tray of noodles, boiled meat, and fried bread, as if they’d been expecting company.
Kambar put Yao where he normally sat, at the head of the table—a place of honor for the guest. He waved a wind-chapped hand over the top of the feast his wife was busy bringing in.
“We went to a cousin’s wedding,” he said in Mandarin. “My cousin’s wife, she makes the best beshbarmak I have ever tasted.” He smiled, high cheekbones squinting his eyes. “Except for my wife, Aisulu, of course. She is a most excellent cook.”
CIA case officers received language and culture training before heading off to any long-term posting, but most colloquialism and nuance could be learned only firsthand. After ten minutes at the Usenovs’ table, stuffing himself with beshbarmak—literally “five fingers,” because that’s the way the mixture of noodles, boiled horse, and onion was eaten—Yao realized no instructor had ever covered the dangers of too much hospitality.
He took a drink of kumis—fermented mare’s milk—and got down to business.
“Forgive me for being forward,” he said. “But I understand you and your wife were in a Chinese detention center in Baijiantan.”
Aisulu leaned forward, grease dripping off her fingers from the beshbarmak. “Someone reported that Kambar was studying Russian. The authorities said that meant we were thinking about leaving China, so they put us in a camp to remind us that the grass is not greener in Kazakhstan.”
Kambar shrugged. “If I am being honest, we were studying Russian so we could leave. Kazakhstan is the best country in the world. No offense meant to Taiwan.”
“What business is that of theirs if we leave China?” his wife snapped. “We are Kazakh. We should be able to come home if we wish.”
“I agree with you,” Yao said. “If I may ask, were you treated harshly in Baijiantan?”
“We were fed,” Kambar said. “Our heads were shaved and I was separated from my wife. We attended many classes, sang songs about the Motherland, told we should love and respect President Zhao, things of that nature. I was not beaten, if that is what you mean, but I saw it happen many times.”
Mrs. Usenov covered her mouth with an open hand as she chewed a large bite of fried dough. She swallowed. “Same for me. But you do not have to be beaten to be mistreated …”
“I am sure,” Yao said. “I would like to return to the conditions inside at another time, perhaps when we are not in the middle of such a delicious meal.”
Kambar looked heavenward while he chewed, remembering. “Though they never beat me, it was the worst time of my life. One day, after two months, they let us go. It took two days, but I was eventually reunited with Aisulu. She was so frail and gaunt, and both of us had terrible coughs—everyone in the camps did.”
“But they came back,” Yao prompted. “The Chinese authorities, and arrested you again?”
Usenov nodded, heaving a great sigh. “I have no idea why. Maybe they needed more numbers for their quota. Maybe they felt they were in error letting us go the first time.”
“But you escaped?”
Mrs. Usenov rocked back and forth on her cushion, excited at the memory. “Kambar and I were in the back of the same van. The van stopped so quickly it threw us all forward. We heard shouting, then gunfire—and then the van began to move again. We drove for a long time, hours maybe. I fell asleep so I do not know.”
“I, too, slept,” Mr. Usenov said, nodding for his wife to continue the story.
“I felt my ears begin to pop, so I knew we were going up into the mountains. I thought maybe they were taking us far away to kill us, but one of the other men said that the Chinese were in charge. If they wanted to kill us, they would not have to drive out of their way to do it. Finally, the van stopped and the doors opened. A man in dark clothing motioned us out, unlocked our shackles, and pointed us toward the Kazakh border.”
“Who rescued you?”
“They wore hoods,” Usenov said. “They did not say it, but I believe they were Wuming.”
“Wuming.” Yao took another drink of fermented mare’s milk.
“You have heard of them?” Mrs. Usenov asked. “They are angels, I think. Allah’s helpers here on earth. Most in the van had thought to grab a blanket or put on a coat.
Kambar made sure I had a jacket, but the policeman dragged him out before he could retrieve his own. It was bitter cold, snowing, and Kambar was in his shirtsleeves. One of the Wuming saw this and gave my husband his coat.”
“I would love to interview a member of the Wuming,” Yao said.
Mrs. Usenov exhaled softly. “I do not know how that would happen. Surely that would be much too dangerous for them. The Chinese government would kill them all if they could.”
“That’s true.” Yao shrugged. “They sound like incredibly good people, giving you their own coat.”
“I still have it,” Usenov said proudly. “It is the best coat I have ever owned.” He scrambled to his feet, belying his age. “I will show you.”
Yao wiped his hands with a towel Mrs. Usenov gave him and stood, stepping back from the low table to look at the puffy down ski jacket Kambar Usenov brought out from the bedroom.
“Very nice.” Yao opened it to read the tag, knowing he wouldn’t find a name, but checking nonetheless.
Usenov reached into the pocket and showed him something almost as good.
Yao called Leigh Murphy on his secure mobile.
Excited at the prospect of a lead, he began to speak as soon as she picked up. “Tell me again what Beg said about the woods.”
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