Murder on the Silk Road

by Stefanie Matteson

  Charlotte noticed Marsha’s quick glance at the conspicuous white circle on his ring finger. Like Charlotte, Marsha had recently been separated, but unlike Charlotte, she wasn’t too old to have given up on romance quite yet.

  Within a few minutes, they were all drinking beer and munching on salted cashews from Marsha’s stash: Marsha, Lisa, and Dogie on one side, and Charlotte, Peter, and Bert on the other. Except for Dogie, it was a compartment full of long-legged people, and their knees butted together cozily.

  “Ugh, I hate this warm beer,” drawled Dogie as he took a swig. “The only thing that’s worse than warm beer is kissin’ your sister.”

  “How long have you been hunting fossils, Dogie?” asked Charlotte.

  “Fifteen years,” he replied. “Do you folks mind if we turn on a little music? After all, we are having a party.”

  “I’ll do it,” said Marsha, reaching for the knob under the fold-down table that controlled the loudspeaker system. Her interest in their impromptu gathering had suddenly picked up with Bert’s arrival.

  In a minute, the compartment was filled with accordion music, a selection from the system’s bizarre assortment of American show tunes, folk music, and jazz, punctuated by the occasional polka or waltz. But at least it was better than “The East is Red,” Marsha had said.

  Cupping his hand behind his ear, Dogie smiled broadly as he recognized the tune. “Hot damn,” he said, chuckling as he slapped his knee. “It’s the ‘Beer Barrel Polka.’ Ain’t this Chinese music a howl.” Removing his hand from his ear, he looked back at Charlotte. “Now, where were we?” he said.

  “Hunting fossils,” she told him.

  “Oh, right!” he said. “I was foreman on the ranch where Bert made his first big find. From the moment I saw that huge ischium stickin’ out the wall of that dry gulch, I was hooked. Before long, I was workin’ for Bert full time. I was too bunged up to ride anymore, anyways,” he added.

  In the winters, Bert explained, Dogie supervised the preparators, the people who reassembled the bones that were collected on their summer digs. Lisa was one of the preparators on Bert’s staff. “The best one,” he added.

  “Lisa’s told us about your expedition,” said Charlotte. “We wish you luck in finding fossils at Dunhuang.”

  “Oh, we know we’ll find fossils,” said Bert. “The question is whether or not we can bring off the expedition.”

  “Why’s that?” asked Charlotte. “Are the Chinese difficult to work with?”

  “No, the Chinese are fine. It’s the other Americans who are the problem.”

  “Case in point,” said Dogie, directing his gaze at the corridor, where an immaculately dressed man (How did he manage to look so unrumpled? Charlotte wondered) was closing the windows which they had just opened.

  “He’d rather roast to death than get his clothes dirty,” said Dogie.

  “Who’s that?” asked Charlotte.

  “Eugene Orecchio,” said Dogie. “A rock jock—also known as a geologist—from the Carnegie Museum. Another member of our team, I’m sorry to say.”

  “Why a geologist, and why sorry to say?” asked Marsha.

  “It’s a long story, and a far cry from Chinese poetry,” said Bert. Lisa must have told him about Marsha after dinner.

  Charlotte checked her watch. “We have another thirty-nine hours.”

  “Yes, I guess we do,” said Bert with a warm smile. “Well, Gene is a proponent of the catastrophe theory of dinosaur extinction. He believes that the dinosaurs died out in a catastrophic event caused by an extraterrestrial object—death star is the popular catchword, though it was actually a comet or an asteroid—that struck the earth sixty-four million years ago.”

  “And you aren’t?” said Marsha.

  “No self-respecting paleontologist is: the evidence proves that the dinosaurs didn’t all turn feet up in a day, whatever Gene might think to the contrary. But he’s not a paleontologist, which is the problem. In fact, he’s very contemptuous of paleontologists. He has been known to accuse paleontologists of being stamp collectors, not scientists.”

  “Those sound like fighting words,” said Charlotte.

  “You bet they are,” Bert agreed.

  “What makes him think the dinosaurs died out in a catastrophic event?” asked Marsha as she munched on cashew nuts.

  Charlotte couldn’t help but notice the deep interest that she was suddenly taking in paleontology.

  “The K/T boundary. It’s the boundary between the sediments of the Cretaceous—K is for Cretaceous, to distinguish it from Carboniferous—and the Tertiary Periods at about the time the dinosaurs died out. The soil from the boundary layer contains soot that the catastrophists say is from fires that blanketed the earth at the time of the catastrophic event.”

  “And you say what—that a death star didn’t strike the earth?”

  “No. Only that the dinosaurs weren’t wiped out by it. The dinosaurs had been dying out for a long time before. Not that the catastrophic event didn’t contribute, but it wasn’t the deciding factor. There were lots of factors involved. Not only does the catastrophe theory go against all the evidence, it’s much too simplistic an explanation.”

  Without the cross breeze from the open windows in the corridor, the tiny compartment was becoming uncomfortably hot again. There was also a strong odor emanating from the toilet at the end of the car.

  Pulling a red bandanna out of the pocket of his blue jeans, Dogie wiped his cherubic brow. “Speakin’ of soot,” he said, “I think it’s about time that we introduce some soot into this car. What do you say, boss?”

  “I think that’s a very good idea,” Bert replied.

  Excusing themselves, the two men went out into the corridor and lowered all the windows which their colleague had just closed. The hot air hit them like a blast from a coal furnace, but at least it was moving.

  When Bert and Dogie returned, they poured another round of beers and continued their conversation about dinosaur extinction.

  “If all the evidence goes to the contrary, why is the catastrophe theory taken so seriously?” asked Charlotte as she sipped her beer. She had read a lot about the catastrophe theory in the newspapers.

  “Two reasons,” said Bert. “The main one is that there have never been any significant dinosaur fossils found above the K/T boundary layer. That’s not to say there will never be, only that there haven’t been so far.”

  “That would seem to be pretty strong evidence,” Charlotte observed.

  “Not really. We estimate that the dinosaurs lived on in reduced numbers for hundreds of thousands of years after the catastrophe. To us, that seems like a lot of time, but geologically speaking it’s an instant. Finding a fossil from that period would be the equivalent of finding the needle in the haystack.”

  “But when and if a significant fossil is found, it will blow the impact theory to kingdom come,” added Dogie.

  “What’s the other reason?” asked Charlotte.

  “The second reason is political,” Bert replied.

  “Political?”

  “If you believe that a catastrophic event caused a disruption in the earth’s climate significant enough to wipe out life on earth, then you must also believe that a nuclear war would lead to a nuclear winter that would wipe out life on earth, and therefore you are a pacifist.”

  “With God on your side,” said Dogie.

  “If, however, you believe that the dinosaurs died out gradually, then you must also believe that life could survive a nuclear war, and therefore you are undermining the nuclear-winter hypothesis. Which means that you are a militarist, at best; a right-wing warmonger, at worst.”

  “I’ve been called a helluva lot worse,” said Dogie.

  “By me, for one,” said Bert.

  “But that’s ridiculous,” said Charlotte.

  “Ridiculous, but true,” said Bert. “Grant proposals and research papers have been rejected because their authors—myself among them—contradicted the politically
acceptable attitude toward dinosaur extinction.”

  “I know the mentality,” said Marsha. “Someone recently told me that the word Oriental had imperialist overtones. What are we supposed to do, change our name to the Japanese, Chinese, Korean, Vietnamese, etcetera, Institute?”

  Bert smiled at her with his navy-blue eyes. In the tiny compartment, the attraction between him and Marsha was almost palpable.

  “It sounds horrible,” said Charlotte. “Like the McCarthy era all over again, but in ideological reverse.”

  “Exactly,” Marsha agreed. “It’s like being called a Communist in the fifties was. Whatever explanation you offered, you were always suspect.”

  From where Charlotte was sitting she could see Orecchio making his way back down the corridor from the washroom. This was going to be interesting.

  “Speak of the devil,” said Dogie, who sat next to her.

  As he caught sight of the open windows, a frown crossed Orecchio’s beetled brow, and he began closing them all again.

  “I’m beginning to feel like I’m trapped in a sardine can on the floor of Death Valley,” said Dogie, wiping his brow again with the red bandanna. He stood up. “If you’ll excuse me, ladies, I have work to do.”

  Taking up a position to Orecchio’s left, he started methodically opening the windows which the geologist had just shut.

  By now, their duel over the windows had attracted the attention of the other passengers, most of whom appeared to be on Dogie’s side.

  His coordination hampered by his temper, Orecchio angrily fumbled with the latches. The more swiftly Dogie opened the windows, the more infuriated Orecchio became. Finally, he turned on Dogie. His teeth were bared, and his hand was pulled back in a fist. Sweat was pouring down his brow.

  The temperature in the car must have been a hundred and ten.

  For a moment Orecchio just stood there. Then he spoke, his voice a low growl. “If you open up one more of those windows, I’ll cold-cock you,” he said. Then he added: “Got that, you cowboy asshole?”

  Dogie stood his ground, a faint smile playing around the corners of his lips. “You wouldn’t dare. If you do, I’ll rope, hogtie, and brand you, and throw you so far it’ll take the Chinese a week to find you. I’m a pretty good fighter for a stamp collector. Wanna try me?”

  Neither of them were big men. Charlotte would have put Dogie’s height at five eight and Orecchio’s at an inch or so shorter. But Dogie had a powerful, muscular build, while Orecchio was thin and slight.

  “Excuse me,” said Bert. “Looks like I’ve got to help out a friend.” Standing up to his full height (which must have been six foot four in stocking feet and six foot six with his cowboy boots on), he sauntered out into the corridor. Crossing his arms casually across his chest and leaning his massive shoulder against the window frame, he proceeded to stare quietly at Orecchio.

  Orecchio seemed to wither before their eyes. Charlotte thought of the saloon patrons cowering in the old Westerns as the hero bursts through the saloon doors, and had to suppress a giggle.

  The moment was defused by the sudden arrival of the conductor, but Charlotte had no doubt that Orecchio would have backed down. Seldom had she seen a man use his size to intimidate so effectively.

  After the conductor had stamped their tickets, the moment was over. But it had nearly come to a fist fight.

  “I think this calls for some pijiu,” said Dogie as the two men returned to their seats in the compartment.

  “Let me get the beer,” said Peter, gesturing for Dogie to sit back down. “I think you’ve done your work for the evening.” Picking up his carry-on bag, he left them to the analysis of Dogie’s dispute with Orecchio.

  Peter returned a few minutes later with another pitcher of beer.

  “How did you manage this?” asked Charlotte in amazement as she picked up the pitcher to refill their glasses. It was ice cold.

  Peter spoke a word in Chinese. “It means ‘the squeeze,’” he explained. In the Middle East, it’s ‘baksheesh’; in South America, it’s ‘the bite.’ The terms may be different, but the concept’s the same the world over.”

  “I thought the Revolution had purged the People’s Republic of corruption,” said Charlotte facetiously.

  Peter rolled his eyes. “There isn’t anybody in China who can’t be bought with cigarettes”—he pointed at his carry-on bag, which was stuffed with cigarette cartons—“or with yuan and there’s nothing that can’t be accomplished through the back door.”

  “The back door?”

  “Knowing somebody. It’s the only way that anything ever gets done in China.” He looked over at Bert. “As I’m sure you’ll find out when you start to go about organizing your expedition.”

  The expedition hadn’t had an auspicious beginning, thought Charlotte as “My Old Kentucky Home” blared out of the loudspeaker. Over the years she had been on a number of movie shoots that had started out the same way.

  They usually turned out to be total disasters.

  4

  They arrived at the railhead at the depressing little town of Liuyan on the afternoon of the second day. Including their sightseeing stopover at Jiayuguan, the fortress at the western terminus of the Great Wall, they had been traveling for forty-one hours. And they hadn’t yet reached their destination. Dunhuang still lay another sixty miles to the south. Charlotte had long ago concluded that there was good reason for its being considered one of the least-known wonders of the world.

  A Japanese-made minibus was waiting at the curb—if that’s what you could call the edge of the dusty beaten-earth road—to take them to Dunhuang. They were a party of eight: Charlotte, Marsha, Victor, and Peter; and the four members of the paleontology team. If the train had been hot, the minibus was even hotter. Although it must have been equipped with air conditioning—the bus appeared to be brand new—it wasn’t working. Nor did the landscape offer any diversion from the heat. The pitted band of asphalt that had replaced the ancient camel track skirted the edge of the Black Gobi, so-named for its expanses of coal-black gravel. It reminded Charlotte of the most barren sections of West Texas, but at least West Texas had sagebrush and tumbleweed. This landscape didn’t even have a blade of grass. She had read that the top-secret test site for China’s nuclear weapons program was located nearby. It didn’t surprise her that they had chosen, this barren wasteland; there was nothing here that could have been destroyed in a nuclear blast.

  After a little over an hour the soil started turning pinkish-red, and struggling patches of vegetation began to appear—tufts of grass, thickets of bush, and even a tree or two. Herds of camels grazing on the thorny bush placidly watched the traffic go by. Another half an hour, and the appearance of poplar trees in the distance indicated that they were drawing near Dunhuang. Although it had a population of thirty-five thousand, the town turned out to be barely more interesting than the desert around it. A collection of dreary concrete-slab buildings intersected by dusty streets filled with bicycles and donkey carts, it hardly seemed like the Silk Road city of legend. But then it wasn’t—the ancient city had long ago been buried by the sands. After passing through town, they continued south on an arrow-straight road colonnaded with poplars that ran through irrigated fields of corn, wheat, millet, cotton, and vegetables. Then, suddenly, they were in the desert. The desert began precisely where the irrigation left off—not the black gobi, or gravel and rock debris, that they had seen so much of, but a storybook desert of golden, wind-sculpted dunes stretching away to the horizon. “Like the, topping on a lemon meringue pie,” said Marsha.

  A couple of miles later the road emerged onto a barren gravel plain, and followed the wide, shallow, boulder-strewn channel of a stream for another eight or ten miles. Then it turned into the mouth of the narrow valley that was the site of the caves.

  As the member of their group most familiar with Dunhuang (this was his third trip), Victor Danowski was asked to give an impromptu lecture. Like Marsha, he had been invited to Dunhuang to translat
e the recently discovered manuscripts, but his area of expertise was religious texts rather than poetry.

  Assenting to the group’s request, Victor made his way up to the front of the minibus. He was a thin, balding, wiry man—a runner, Charlotte had learned when she encountered him on an early morning walk in Shanghai—with a pale complexion, heavy black-rimmed eyeglasses, and a graying Vandyke-style goatee.

  “If you’ll look to your left,” he said, pointing out the window, “you’ll see a mountain ridge. That’s the Mountain of the Three Dangers, where the wandering monk Lo-tsun had his vision of a thousand Buddhas in a shining cloud of brilliant golden light. He called the phenomenon Buddha’s Halo.”

  “Looks like pretty good fossil huntin’ territory to me,” said Dogie, as they gazed out at the reddish-purple mountain range that rose from the barren plain, its rugged foothills a glowing pink in the late afternoon light.

  “Lo-tsun was traveling in the area in 366 when he had his vision,” Victor continued. “Of course, we now know that it was an illusion caused by minerals in the rocks caught in the glow of the setting sun.”

  “I preferred the shining cloud,” whispered Marsha.

  “Lo-tsun believed that it was a holy place, and decided to build a cave in the opposite mountain, the Mountain of the Howling Sands”—he pointed to their right—“in which to live and to worship. Over the next thousand years, hundreds of other caves were built by Buddhist worshipers.”

  “Here are some caves,” said Bert, looking out the window.

  The cliff face to the west was honeycombed with black holes. To Charlotte, it looked a little like an Indian cliff dwelling.

  “Yes,” said Victor. “We’re now at the beginning of the cave complex. These are the dormitory caves, where the monks and artisans lived.”

  “What are the structures on the left?” asked Bert, indicating a row of domed structures that lined the road at the top of a series of terraces leading upward from the streambed.