“You think I care about China? My people second class. We live in ghettos. But that end soon. Soon we have our own place.”
Michael tensed. Soon? The one thing he hadn’t gotten from her was the timeline.
He leapt before she could react. He had her pressed against the wall, his arm at her throat, the weapon knocked aside.
“How soon? When’s it going to happen?”
She spit in his face as a sound came from the hallway.
“Shit.” The side of his hand slammed the base of her neck and she collapsed to the floor. She’d wake with a stiff neck and some explaining to do to her lover.
How much time did he have? Soon.
He collected her gun—narrow in his palm—pulled on his shirt and opened the apartment door a crack. Uigher voices in the hallway, but beyond—where the hall turned towards the elevators.
He slid into the hall and headed in the opposite direction for the stairwell and sprinted up the stairs, for once thankful for the thick concrete that masked his steps. Get to the roof. Ping’s apartment building was one of three towers crammed close together west of town. He needed to get to a phone.
Then he needed to bug out.
As he reached the top floor, he heard a shout. They’d found Ping. He heard her voice yelling in her defense. Footsteps clattered up the stairs.
He slid out the roof door into a maze of flapping laundry and fought his way to the edge.
As he’d remembered. The next building was a bare fifteen feet away.
He paced to the far side of the roof, clearing the laundry lines into a slumped pile in the center of the roof. He took a breath, swore that he was getting too old for this, and sprinted towards the edge.
The door opened as he reached it. He heard a yell as he launched himself across the chasm between the buildings. Then there was a shot and he waited for the end.
Chapter 10
July 25, 2002, Kaabul, Afghanistan
Khadija had news beyond the plague of dreams that had come since she learned of Yaqub. She scrubbed the top of the clinic’s desk-table with disinfectant, fighting her nervous fatigue and glanced at the back room. Papa drank his tea there. At least he had his rest.
The dreams had disturbed her sleep for the past two months. Last night had been the same.
Tall, dark-eyed, and teasing—Yaqub stood on a mountain and flew a kite for her—fast and light, made of red and green paper like the flag. Another kite—one black as an Imam’s turban—joined his—battling, looping, smashing into her brother’s kite, the glass-laden string of the attacker sawing against her brother’s string as Yaqub’s kite tried to escape.
Not to be. His string parted. The bright paper lifted on the breeze, then tumbled through the sky as the kite chasers raced down the mountainside and into the brown buildings of Kaabul below.
She should run after them, find the precious kite for her brother and return it to him. He would hug her when she did and she would be happy in his strong, safe arms. But the kite had already disappeared.
She turned back to her brother, to console him, but Yaqub no longer waited. Instead Michael Bellis looked at her with those pale, hungry eyes.
She shivered at the memory.
Always Michael Bellis was there. Sometimes he held a gun to Yaqub’s head. Sometimes he tried to save him. Sometimes her hate chilled her and sometime she felt heat flood her limbs. It left her confused and guilty and exhausted. But worse was what the dreams and her knowledge did to her relationship with her father.
Her need for revenge was a wall between them. She could not tell her father—this man of peace—of her dreams nor what she intended. He would be furious if he knew of the use she made of the clinic for Ratbil’s messages. He would say she betrayed him and his principles, and in a way she knew he would be right.
But for Yaqub it was the right thing.
A movement at the clinic door brought her head up and an intake of breath. Mizra stood at the side of the door looking at her, when he should not. He looked away to the street, then stepped inside.
“Khadija,” he said, low-voiced.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she whispered with a glance at the curtain to the back room and a swift tug of the burka to bring the garment down over her face. “It isn’t proper.”
“There was—there is an urgent matter.” He stood close to her, a brief smile on his face. “Besides, Mirri says your father softens to me. She speaks with him each time she comes.”
Khadija closed her eyes. How well she knew it. It was becoming embarrassing that after Mirri’s formal approach her father still held off on a decision. At least with marriage she would be a proper woman again, even though she could not imagine a life with Mizra—living under Ratbil’s watchful eye.
“What’s happened?” He leaned in close so she could smell the mint of his midday meal.
“Our apartment was broken into. Police we think. Or military. The neighbors say there were kofr with them. We think they watch us. I chanced coming because any man may seek a doctor for his ailing brother.”
“Khadija? Is someone there?” Papa stirred in the other room. She heard his halting footsteps and Mizra stepped away.
“It’s Mizra, father. Ratbil is ill. I’ll give him some medicine and send him on his way.”
She went to the locked cupboard and drew out her key. Inside were the packages of antibiotics, anti-inflammatories, and pain killers her Papa prescribed.
“Here you go. It’s a shame Ratbil’s poor leg causes problems. Please tell him to get well.” She pulled out a package of painkillers and leaned in close. “Papa goes on a journey north. His old friend Rabbani has asked him to assess the state of medical care in Badakhshan. It seems the President does not always trust his military allies.”
She placed a few pills in Mizra’s hand.
“There. You see he takes one every four hours.”
The curtain pulled back and Papa stood there, hand out.
“Young man? You speak to my daughter?”
Guilt flooded color up Mizra’s neck. He was a good man, a proper Afghani trying to do things the traditional way. She would be lucky to marry such a man.
“Sir. Doctor Siddiqui.” There was a tremor in Mizra’s voice as he caught her papa’s hand. “I don’t even have a gift for you. I’m sorry if I cause affront. It was not to see your lovely daughter that I came. Truly, neh?”
He glanced back at Khadija.
“Khadija, leave us. We men must talk awhile.”
Papa motioned her to the door and she stepped into the street. Would her father agree to Mizra’s marriage request? That thought made her mouth go dry as the clay dust under her feet. She would obey, of course.
Mizra shared her beliefs. He was honest. He cared for her.
Her wedding would be a happy affair for her father. He would know she had a life ahead of her. There would be grandchildren. A grandson named Yaqub. The thought left her sad.
Mizra stepped backward through the door, bowing all the way.
“Thank you, Sir. Thank you. You give me hope.”
It was done then. A hollow feeling filled Khadija’s stomach. Mizra saw her and hurried to where she stood, a broad smile on his face.
“It is good, Khadija. He spoke to me—asked me how my family does. How Ratbil does and who will marry my sister. We even spoke of his friend, my good father.”
She looked back at the door.
“That’s all?”
Mizra almost caught her hand, then stopped himself.
“It’s enough. He speaks to me as an equal. Someone worthy. It won’t be long.” He grinned. “Not long at all—but I forget myself.” He checked the street.
“Your father. You must go north with him, no matter what he says.”
“Me?”
“I told you—we are watched. We can’t go and there is a message to be passed—urgent beyond anything. Beyond even my life.” He leaned towards her and she saw a strange light in his gaze.
He must have seen her hesitation. His hand grabbed her arm.
“As my future wife I swear it to you: If you wish to avenge your brother, you will go!”
Chapter 11
July 25, 2002, Kashgar, Xinjiang Uigher Autonomous Zone, Western China
Air. Only air under Michael and far below the narrow slice of Chinese real estate that would smash his body if he fell. The bullet whizzed past. It slammed into the wall ahead.
More shots as his hands caught the rough edge of the roof. Concrete exploded around him. Shards punctured his face. His feet scrambled for purchase, up, up over the edge, to cover. Dust in his nose. An old sock by his face. Bullets parted the air over his head. Allah be praised the Chinese didn’t allow target ranges.
He crawled through laundry lines towards the door at the center of the roof, reached up for the knob, and bullets exploded the wood around his hand. He rolled inside.
The door slammed behind him—meager safety. If he didn’t beat them downstairs he’d be trapped.
He took each flight of stairs in huge leaps, sliding down the banisters for support. When he reached the bottom, he pushed open the rear exit.
Voices, coming fast.
He ran, ducking into the brush along the edge of Dong Hu Lake. Keeping to cover, he made his way down to the murky water, then crept along the mud-caked lakeshore. When he reached the far side of the lake he climbed up the embankment and down to the gurgling Tuman River.
The narrow watercourse, the chief source of the town’s water, was low as it looped around the edge of the hill that held ancient Kashgar. Once the oasis town had been the main staging ground for the Silk Road caravans traversing the treacherous Karakoram mountains, or traveled eastward around the edge of the Taklamakan desert.
Though the camel caravans had long since passed, the markets of Kashgar were still the most impressive in Central Asia. Each Sunday, tribes and traders of Kyrgyz, Kazak, Mongol, Uigher, Tajik, Pakistani, and even Afghani origins came out of the mountains and across the borders to trade.
It was the place to make contacts. It was the place he could connect with the Pakistani trader he’d arranged to travel with back to Afghanistan. It was the place he could pass his information to the local contact. But first he needed a phone and the town was the only place to find one.
The river bent towards the market grounds and Michael dared to wade across, past scarved women spreading laundry to dry.
He ducked up into the mud-daub houses and made his way towards the huge old Qiniwak hotel. Once it had been the British Consulate and had played host to many of the players in the Great Game of Central Asia. Now it was a lovely, old dowager clad in white and ringing with the voices of the Pakistani owners.
He stopped in the shadows of a side street and watched the curving driveway. A couple of Uigher lounged beside a rack of bicycles, wearing their ubiquitous flat caps and tweed sports jackets with the labels still on the sleeves.
A couple of backpackers came out of the hotel and approached them but were shushed away. Watchers, then—not bicycle renters.
Michael eased back onto the side street. No phone there, then, and it was likely the government telecommunications building would be watched as well. He’d have been better off losing himself in the market.
He looped back into the old town, making his way to the central square that housed the Id Kah mosque. The bread-maker’s shop clattered as the large rounds of flat bread were tossed out the window to cooling racks. Old men sat talking at the front of the mosque. The street was jammed with bicycles and carts laden with steaming goats’ heads. Normal.
He turned onto Jiefang Bei Lu Road and down around the hill and back across the river. Dust from braying donkeys, horses, camels, and sheep filled the air. The huge fields southeast of the main market stank of raw wool from the seething sheep herded together for shearing and barter. Men yelled at impromptu horse and camel races. Blue-tarped tea stalls were filled with tribesmen in long, oiled coats and fur hats. He could lose himself among them.
Relief flooded through him when he entred the narrow aisles of the wooden shops where the tarp roofs kept the light dim. His pale eyes—what marked him apart—were not so evident there. But relief was a traitor in this situation. Only vigilance would save him. He scanned the masses of people cruising the stalls of dried fruit and nuts and clothing.
Usually Tom Pierce, the ersatz leader of the UNESCO team and the controller of the few US agents in this part of the world, spent time in the market waiting for contacts. Michael had stayed away from him because Pierce’s work for the government was well known.
Now Pierce could get the information out while Michael drew the heat.
He hurried past the barber stalls and knife sharpeners and entered the next aisle. Ahead stood a blond man a foot taller than the dark crowd around him. He wore a clean golf shirt and jeans among the many suit jackets and long oiled coats. Pierce’s blond hair and his height were what killed any hope he might have had of field work, though Michael had gotten to know him in field training.
Michael inched through the crowd. Pierce examined fur hats displayed in one of the stalls. He tried on a luxurious lynx as Michael came up beside him.
“You look like a Minnesota pimp,” he said softly in Mandarin.
Pierce didn’t even interrupt his Uigher banter with the shop owner. He took off the hat and examined its interior for workmanship. “Bellis. Heard you were here. Hadn’t expected contact.”
Michael scanned the crowd.
The tribespeople crowded the spice and vegetable stalls. Here, in the fur aisle, the people were sparser. Fewer ears to hear and eyes to note their conversation. He picked up a mink hat, his fingers sliding through the lush fur and over the slight, rolled brim. It would grace some elder tribesman one day.
“There’s trouble,” he said, switching to Afghani. Pierce had served in Afghanistan in his younger days. Michael prayed he was still fluent. “The Uigher are linking with Islamic Jihad. They’re planning an accident at the Xinjiang Nuclear Facility. I’m not sure what, but it’ll be big. Probably contaminate most of the oil fields. They’ve planned it so the U.S. will be blamed. I’m not sure how.”
Pierce set the hat down and shook his head.
“Not good. We’ve got an agent missing. I’ve got men looking, but so far nothing.”
Michael considered. “If he was found at the accident….”
“That’s what I’m thinking. Shit. What’s the timeline?”
“All I know is soon.”
“I’ll get the word out.”
Michael looked around. Standing in one place like this made him uneasy.
“Do it fast, buddy. They’re on to me, so I’m bugging out.”
He set the mink hat down, smiled at the proprietor, and slid back into the crowd. He had to find the Pakistani trader.
The man had planned to leave the next day. Perhaps he could be persuaded to leave earlier. Alternatively, he could meet the trader on the road west towards Tashkurgen.
He left the fur bazaar and headed towards the carpet makers. The Pakistani made his money buying cheap Uigher carpets and trading them in Afghanistan. Sometimes he managed to find traditional Uigher kilim. Those beauties he sold for high profit in Islamabad’s bazaars.
At least Pierce would do his job. The American government would warn the Chinese and together they’d hopefully stop the incident. A nice patch of Sino-American relations to follow. Relief flooded through him. The Uigher would have to wait a little longer for a homeland. Poor bastards.
A woman screamed behind him.
Michael turned in time to catch a flicker of blond hair at the end of the fur-seller’s aisle. Pierce’s face turned towards him. Blood burst from the American’s lips. It spilled down his golf shirt. Pierce collapsed to the ground.
Tribesmen scattered, leaving Pierce in the dust. Only Michael remained to get the warning out.
Chapter 12
August, 2002, Wakhan Corridor, Afghanistan, near the
Chinese border
Something woke Michael from warm dreams of a woman—the first good sleep he had had in weeks—into the cold and blackness that only came in this part of the world. Instantly awake, he set the dream aside.
Something he heard—there was nothing to see in the complete darkness of his room.
Even in Tibet and Nepal, there was electricity to push back the night, but here there was nothing except the occasional Jeep or generator—or firelight. No phones, either—much to his frustration.
No way to get the warning out.
Outside Kashgar he’d been forced to take refuge against the cold in one of the hay stacks that abounded in the rich oasis. They were looking for him. He’d heard their Jeeps go by.
He’d stolen a man’s long, oiled-wool coat from inside a courtyard and left cash behind even though the coat was far too small for him. He’d stolen blankets as well. The trip into the mountains was no place to go unprepared.
In the morning he’d managed to wave down the Pakistani trader in his battered Jeep. Together they had traveled westward, up over Yuli Pass into the mountain village of Buzai Gumbad, and finally to the circle of mud-brick buildings called Qala Panj where they had stopped tonight. It had taken thirteen days to cross the roof of the world and all he could think was “Soon.”
The lack of a date for the “accident” beat at him like a new pulse.
He inhaled the darkness, trying to understand what had woken him. The snug room in the caravanserai reeked of the musty carpets he slept on, and the tang of the bundles of furs that had been part of his disguise in western China.
The Pakistani had said he brought the goods in hopes that Michael would turn up. The man hadn’t lied well. The furs would fetch him high prices in Islamabad and to hell with Michael.
There—the sudden snort of a horse outside. That was what had woken him. He pulled the cover off his watch and checked the time. Two a.m. Too early for the animal’s natural rousing.
Too early for the Shah of Qala Panj’s men to be readying the horses for the latest Japanese expedition to the peak of Pik Karla Marksa, just across the Tajik border.
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