by Joanne Pence
An open jeep with six well-armed men stopped at the van. They looked like a group of wandering marauders in search of something to steal—and quite similar to yesterday’s bandits.
Jianjun saw Kira shift her weight. He tried to stop her, but before he could, her foot lightly tapped a small rock. It slid from their hiding place and bounded down the hill, cascading into an ever-growing rock slide. One of the marauders saw the rock and angled his gaze upward. With a shout he fired at them, just missing Renata.
Jianjun fired back at the attackers.
He saw that Kira knew next to nothing about using a rifle, and Renata wasn’t much better. Kira kept her head down, not daring to move after what she had done, while Renata fired infrequently. Jianjun used up the shells in his rifle, and then Kira’s. He wounded two men, but the four remaining were not giving up. When Renata handed over her rifle, their eyes met. They were nearly out of bullets.
He wracked his brain for a way out. There was no cover for them to run. Would these people take them captive, or simply kill them? Given what was sometimes done to captives in this area, he had no choice but to fight on.
He picked off a third attacker when steady rounds of gunfire, as if from semi-automatic rifles, sounded.
Jianjun watched the attackers grab their wounded and flee back to their jeep, spin it around, and drive off.
Jianjun, Kira and Renata looked at each other.
On the road below, all was quiet.
“Michael?” Jianjun called.
“No, it’s not Michael, but we know who he is,” came the reply.
“Americans,” Jianjun whispered, recognizing the accent. “Who are you?” he shouted.
“Hank Bennett and Stuart Eliot. You should know us.”
The last two Navy men in the old photo, Jianjun thought, the only two still alive.
“We also know what you look like,” Kira called. “Show yourselves.”
The two men walked along the road with their arms raised, holding semi-automatic rifles over their heads. “We’re here to help you,” Hank said. “Can’t you see that?”
“Do you trust them?” Renata whispered.
“We may have to,” Kira said as three other men, muscular, puffed-up, and also armed with semi-automatic rifles, joined Hank and Stuart.
“Stay down,” Jianjun said. “I’ll talk to them.”
“No.” Kira grabbed his jacket, stopping him. She called out, “I’m Daniel Holt’s daughter.” She slowly got to her feet. Jianjun rose with her, holding his gun on the newcomers, ready to shoot anyone of them who even thought about firing at Kira.
“We know.” Hank stepped closer. “We’ve been tracking you ever since we realized you folks have the pearl. When we figured out what you were up to, we thought we’d better show up in case you got yourselves into a shitload of trouble. Looks like we were right.” He and the men around him put their rifles on the ground and waited.
Renata also stood. No one moved a long moment, then Jianjun, Kira, and Renata glanced at each other, nodded, and headed down the hill.
They introduced themselves to each other. The three strangers were former US Army rangers, now working as bodyguards, Carter, Polk and Taft. Hank called them his “three presidents,” then gave a boisterous laugh.
Such a wit, Jianjun thought. Hank struck him as the kind of guy who expected to be the center of attention. It took a lot of chutzpah to call three ex-military tough guys as “his” anything. Stuart Eliot, on the other hand, looked like a pudgy wuss.
“Where is Michael Rempart?” Stuart asked.
“We don’t know,” Jianjun said. “Last night, someone attacked us, and we became separated.”
“With all this noise,” Hank said, “if he was still around, and alive, he’d have found you. I suspect he’s already far from here. He was trying to get into China, right?”
“Most likely.”
“Sounds like we need to head towards China ourselves.” Squinty-eyed, hands on hips, Hank looked over Jianjun and the two women. “You’re welcome to follow our SUV if you want to come along.”
“Hold it!” Jianjun shouted as the two started to walk away. “Why aren’t you two dead like the others in the photo?”
Hank glanced at Stuart, eyebrows high. Stuart nodded, and then Hank spoke. “Years ago, once we realized what was going on, we sold our businesses. We were both rich beyond our wildest dreams and that bought us a lot of knowledge. We went into hiding in the mountains of Idaho. There, we kept track of what was happening with the five men who were in Egypt with us. When we saw that they were being killed, we knew the time had come to use all we had learned. We have to get the pearl to make sure no one else dies.”
“Hank’s a computer expert,” Stuart said, “so he was able to track you. We want to find Michael Rempart and the red pearl, and make sure no one else is harmed by it again.”
“How all this came about is a long story,” Hank said. “But right now, our priority is to get out of here in case those guys come back. There’s a place not too far, kind of like an old caravan stop where we can refresh ourselves. See you there if you want to join us. But we will find Michael Rempart—and the pearl.” Hank and Stuart headed towards their SUV.
“I don’t trust these men,” Renata confided to Jianjun and Kira.
“Arriving in the nick of time was pretty convenient,” Jianjun said. “Almost unbelievably so.”
“True. But the sound of gunfire would have echoed far in these mountains, and they were trying to find us,” Renata said. “I don’t know what else to do. We might have a better chance of finding Michael with them. They seem to know what they’re doing, and they’re well armed.”
“That’s true enough,” Jianjun said. “But still …”
“May we have a minute?” Kira asked Renata and then moved to Jianjun’s side.
Renata looked from Kira to Jianjun, nodded, and went to the van.
Jianjun was surprised at Kira’s request. He saw that her worried frown reflected his own. “What are you thinking?” he asked.
“I want to know what you’re thinking, just you, not Renata,” she said.
Her white skin seemed paler than ever. “Renata was right when she said it’d be easier to find Michael with them than without them,” he admitted. “And also, if Michael thought we would be safer if he left us behind, I could see him doing exactly that. He might be in China right now.”
She studied his face. “So you think we’re better off with them. But do you trust those men?”
“No,” he admitted. “Still, they managed to find us. I’m sure they know a lot more about all this than they’re saying. I’ll drive you and Renata back to Naryn. You’ll be safe there. Then, I’ll do my best to catch up to them and find Michael.”
Kira moved closer and placed her hand on his arm. Her large blue eyes captured his. He saw her sadness, but also her determination. “I’m not going to be shut away like some shrinking violet, and I’m not letting you go off alone with them. For me, this is personal. I’m going with you.”
“Kira, it’ll be too dangerous—”
“I’m going.”
Her lips were firm, and her chin stubbornly tilted. After a moment, he nodded. “We’ll get this worked out. I promise you.”
He started back to the van, but her hand closed on his arm, stopping him. “Thank you for being here, for helping me,” she said. “I don’t know how I could handle any of this if you weren’t.”
He was stunned by her words. To his complete surprise, she kissed him. A light, friendly peck.
He didn’t move a long moment, and neither did she. He placed his hands on her waist. Her eyes widened, but she didn’t pull away from him, not even when he wrapped his arms around her, not even when he gave her a real kiss, the kind a man gives a woman he cares about. Instead, to his relief and amazement, she clutched him tight and kissed him back.
He broke off the kiss. His heart pounding, he placed his hand against the back of her head, his cheek ag
ainst her hair, and continued to hold her, as she did him. Remember this moment, he ordered himself. Remember so you never forget how it feels to hold a woman you care about, how it feels to kiss her, and to be kissed in return.
He took her hand, and they walked together back to the van where they joined Renata.
When Hank, Stuart, and “the three presidents” passed them in a black SUV, Jianjun followed, hoping against hope he was doing the right thing.
Chapter 39
Michael got on the bus in Kashgar and tried to ignore the many eyes staring at him. In a great belch of black smoke, the bus left the market and zipped along at a good fifteen miles per hour until it reached a wide road where it rocketed up to twenty-five. He counted six sheep, several cages of birds, and a baby yak on the bus. Within an hour, the smell of dung was so bad he pulled his tee-shirt up over his nose. After another hour, the bus stopped. Michael wasn’t sure why, but everyone got off, including the animals. He did, too. Maybe, he prayed, someone would hose the damn bus out. Over a half-hour went by before they all climbed onto the bus again, animals included. No one had cleaned out anything.
Not until a forty-five minute stop at a government checkpoint did someone clean the bus, but that was only so that the government agents wouldn’t dirty their shoes as they checked the bus itself for contraband or whatever they were looking for. All Michael knew was that they scowled and yelled at him as they looked over his papers, finally giving them back in disgust and walking away from him. He suspected they wanted to know why he was on a local bus. He played dumb.
People and animals continuously got on and off as the bus drove along the completely flat highway with nothing but rolling sagebrush and a petrol station now and then.
Michael had loaded an e-book of The Travels of Marco Polo onto his phone and now looked at the section on the Taklamakan:
* * *
There is a marvelous thing related of this desert, which is that when travellers are on the move by night, and one of them chances to lag behind or to fall asleep or the like, when he tries to gain his company again he will hear spirits talking, and will suppose them to be his comrades. Sometimes the spirits will call him by name; and oftimes shall a traveller be led astray so that he never finds his party. And in this way many have perished. Even in the day-time one hears those spirits talking. And sometimes you shall hear the sound of a variety of musical instruments, and still more commonly the sound of drums.
* * *
Although the windows were smeared and dirty, there was something serene about the empty beauty before him. The archeologist in Michael knew that the sand dunes of the desert were moving relentlessly southward, and in the centuries since Marco Polo had traveled here, many desert towns and oases had vanished beneath them, such as the town Polo discussed at some length called Pem.
As the bus route edged the desert, it made far fewer lengthy stops. They crossed great parts of it by night but even then the bus crawled between rest stops, to change drivers, and to repair the continuous series of minor breakdowns. Once three hours passed waiting for a part to be delivered. Michael knew getting on that this was not some high speed express bus that would whisk people from one city to the next but it was much worse than he ever imagined. The ride was bone-shaking and Michael often grabbed the back of the seat before him as they bounced over potholes and rocks where a road should have been. Most of the passengers were Uyghur farmers, their features stern, broad, and much more intense than their Chinese rulers. He tried to speak to a few of them, but the men sat in brooding silence, with booted feet spread wide and sturdy on the rollicking, antique bus. Compared to them, Michael seemed happy-go-lucky.
In the morning, a Uyghur student got up nerve to sit next to him and practice his English. He had a map of the highway they were taking. Michael had his own map and had attempted to follow the road signs, but having his location confirmed was a relief. The sun was low in the sky before he saw that his destination was the next stop. He stood to get off. The student grabbed his arm and shook his head, “No. That is not Khotan.”
“It’s okay,” Michael said. “I want to stop here first.”
The boy’s eyes grew wide and fretful. “No!” He clutched Michael’s arm tighter. “It is not a good place.”
A twinge of nervousness shifted through Michael.
He pulled his arm free, jokingly telling himself the student was a secret CITS agent making sure Michael went to Khotan. But the joke wasn’t the least bit funny.
The bus driver muttered something at him, but he had no idea what the man said.
No one else got off the bus at this stop, and no one else got on, which was a rarity for an area where the bus only traveled four times a week. No vendors’ stands were around the bus stop—another rarity. The area was completely still. He saw and heard no birds, no bees. Not even a fly or a gnat. But as strange as it was, it felt like heaven compared to the bus.
He zipped his jacket shut against the chill in the air. Only one narrow, empty road led away from the main road. A painted wooden sign with Chinese writing stood beside it. Michael pulled the piece of paper Brother Sirom had given him from his pocket. Chinese and Uyghur script filled the page and confirmed that he had reached Baigou. Michael scanned the other words Sirom wrote out that he might need to use—words like “bathroom,” “man,” “woman,” “danger,” “hospital,” and “crazy foreigner.” Quite appropriate.
He started down the lonely path.
A sharp, cold wind blew, and dark clouds massed against the horizon, casting a shadow across the land. The area was treeless, an arid expanse of yellow, rocky soil and stubble. A feeling of dread permeated everything. Michael wondered if Brother Sirom had been wrong to send him here. Or worse, if he had been right.
An hour passed before Michael spotted the first sign of human habitation—four small buildings against the setting sun. They were unlit and so dreary looking he wondered if they’d been abandoned. An unnatural stillness blanketed the area, and he feared finding himself out here alone in the dark of night. He was definitely nervous now and searched all around.
On a hilltop high above the road stood an impressive structure. A solid wall surrounded it, but the roof was visible, its eaves curved upward in the style of a Buddhist temple. Hoping to find a welcoming face, he turned his steps in its direction. A narrow footpath led up the hill.
It must have been much farther than it appeared since, by the time he reached the wall, the sky was dark and a gentle rain fell. A wooden gate, rough, splintered with dryness, and nearly six feet tall, served as the entry. Through its slats, Michael saw a courtyard and a small glow of light coming from the building beyond it. His spirits lifted.
A rope dangled beside the gate, and he pulled. A bell clanged. He pulled two more times in rapid succession, then waited.
No one answered. The latch on the gate was rusted, but unlocked. As the rain increased, he pushed, and the gate swung open with a piercing shriek of the hinges.
“Hello? Ni hao!” Michael called in the best Chinese accent he could muster.
No plants, not even weeds, grew in the sterile courtyard. A porch stretched across the width of the one-story wooden building. The building’s roofline extended over the porch to provide shelter. Michael ran to the door and knocked hard, calling hello again and again. After no response, he discovered that, just as the gate had been unlocked, so was the door.
The floorboards creaked as he entered. A single light bulb dangled from the ceiling and cast a faint glow. He left the door open but, perhaps caught by the wind, it slammed shut with a bang that made him jump. Something was wrong here, something made him feel as if he had stepped into an ancient spiritual building in which he was alien and unwanted.
On one side of the sparse room stood a low table with two lit candles. Small rugs and floor pillows around it were the room’s only furnishings. Nothing hung on the walls, and the corners of the room were gloomy and shadowed. The inside was much smaller than it had appeared fro
m the road, and Michael was surprised to find it was in the shape of a cruciform—a Christian church with a long center nave, a transept on each side, and the sanctuary at the top, forming the shape of a cross.
This had to be the Nestorian monastery Brother Sirom told him about, but finding it so easily once he reached Baigou filled him with disquiet.
A small door stood on one side of the sanctuary, or what would have been a sanctuary were this a church. Michael went back there, but the door was locked. The rain fell harder now, creating a drumbeat on the roof, and he was glad to be indoors, unwelcoming as it was.
He took off his jacket and shook the rain off it, then ran his fingers through his wet hair. He turned all the way around, not sure why he felt so ill at ease; why the ever present feeling of being watched still clung to him.
Brother Sirom had said demons followed him because of the pearl. Perhaps he was right. Could they be why he had found the spot Father Berosus directed him to so easily?
Or was something very different going on here—something that involved a Nestorian monk who found him in the middle of nowhere on a foggy night, spoke English, and gave him food and shelter?
He sat on one of the carpets, propped a pillow against the wall and leaned back to listen to the rain. One of the candles burned down, flickered, and went out. He looked at it and when he turned back, he became aware of a presence in the room.
From the dark sanctuary a figure strode towards him. He wore a brown monk’s tunic with a cowl, similar to Brother Sirom’s, and carried a tray in his hands.
“Hello,” Michael said, standing. He gave his name. The man never raised his head. He was bald, his face wrinkled with age, and his features were Chinese or possibly Mongolian.
“Do you live here?” Michael asked in English and then in fractured Mandarin, wishing he had paid more attention to Jianjun’s lessons. “Are you a monk? Nestorian? Is there someone in charge, or anyone who speaks English?”