by Marc Cameron
“So,” Clark said. “You’re saying I should take one of the guys with me to Kashgar.”
“I believe that dynamic would draw less attention there than in other parts of China,” Yao said. “I could get you set up with Canadian passports and the necessary travel visas.”
“Okay, then,” Clark said. “Midas, you’re with me. You get to be my nurse.”
“Now, Mr. C.,” Midas said. “No hard feelings, right?”
Clark gave him a narrow grin. “Time provides the sweetest revenge. You’ll get old yourself one day, youngster—barring any unforeseen circumstances . . .”
“Well, shit,” Midas said. “Nice knowing you guys . . .”
“How will you get us in?” Clark asked.
“I have a contact with Immigration and Visas in Beijing,” Yao said. “A low-level functionary who helps me get visas on short notice. I never ask him for anything sensitive. He’s an unwitting agent—has no idea he’s helping out the evil American. As far as he knows, he’s doing me a favor and acting as a middleman to help rich Canadians who want to tour China without all the red tape. I helped him out of a little jam involving some video of him and his boss’s wife a few years ago, so he feels some amount of indebtedness toward me.”
“Let me guess,” Ryan said. “You’re the one who took the video in the first place?”
“I’ll leave the honey traps to the Chinese,” Yao said. “But I may have taken advantage of a situation that my asset got himself into on his own—”
“Canadian tourists,” Midas said. “So what’s our cover?”
“You’ll go in separately,” Yao said. “John will be retired, out seeing the world. Midas, I’ll set you up as a former Canadian Forces officer, since you have that military bearing anyway. Easier to explain if it’s in the open. Your girlfriend is a doctor.”
“Girlfriend?” Midas said.
“She was supposed to meet you in Kashgar,” Yao said. “But she got called away at the last minute and wasn’t able to make it. I’ll have tickets for her as well, to backstop the story in the unlikely event anyone checks. Your rich girlfriend is paying for the trip anyway, so you figure you’ll just take advantage of the vacay and see the sights.”
“A kept man with a sugar mama,” Clark said, a little smugly. “I can see that.”
Midas groaned. “So this is how it’s gonna go. I make one little joke . . .”
“Wherever we all end up,” Chavez said, bringing everyone back on track, “we’re likely going in slick. Traveling with a weapon once we’re inside the PRC is one thing, smuggling one in on short notice is almost impossible.”
Yao spoke again. “Depending on where we go, I should be able to outfit us up with some light weapons once we’re in. John, one of my contacts can set you and Midas up as well.”
“There’ll be plenty of weapons lying around Kashgar,” Clark said.
“A lot of Silk Road influence,” Midas noted. “Cleavers and long butcher knives . . .”
“Pretty sure my contact can do a little better than a meat cleaver,” Yao said. “I’ve seen to it that she has a number of useful items in her arsenal in the event any of my friends happen to stop by with the right introduction.”
“And we’ll have the odd Chinese pistol,” Clark said. “Probably used by old Chiang Kai-shek himself, and maybe a Kalashnikov or two we can commandeer if the need presents itself. The way I hear it, Kashgar is going to be big fun—like Indiana Jones, except with People’s Armed Police and XPCC goons instead of Nazis.”
“That’s on the nose, John,” Adam Yao said. “Remember what I said about the boot on the neck of their people. According to my contacts on the ground, there are a couple of things going on with Medina Tohti’s sister that you should know.”
14
Ten-year-old Hala Tohti chewed on the embroidered collar of her loose cotton shirt while she chopped onions with the oversized cleaver as if her life depended on it. The cleaver was four times as big as her small hand, but she was used to the work and wielded it like an expert. Her uncle had always kept the cleaver razor sharp, before he’d been hauled away by the Bingtuan bastards, and he’d not been gone long enough for it to lose its edge. Everyone knew the Bingtuan. Teachers, police, farm superintendents: Anyone with power was part of the Bingtuan—even the man who ran the petrol station where Hala’s aunt filled up her scooter. Hala was not sure what a bastard was, but her aunt had used it to describe the two men from Kashgar City government who’d visited her home every week for over a month, so it must have meant something ugly.
Hala had chewed on her collar when she was nervous for as long as she could remember. Now, since her father was dead and her mother had run away, the only time she stopped chewing was when her aunt gave her a swat.
Zulfira was only twelve years older, barely twenty-two. To Hala, she felt more like an older sister than an aunt. Zulfira’s husband had been taken away two months earlier, to the same place they’d taken Hala’s father. No one had heard from him since that night. The fat Bingtuan bureaucrat named Mr. Suo told Zulfira that her husband had been detained and sent for reeducation because of something the authorities had found on his phone. One of the Three Evils—terrorism, separatism, and religious extremism—but they never said which one.
Hala’s uncle had been a quiet man who kept to himself. He paid his taxes without complaint, and was not overly religious. Even at ten, Hala knew the only “evil” he’d committed was being married to a pretty woman who fat Suo, the bureaucrat pig, wanted for himself.
Mr. Suo’s assistant was not much older than Zulfira, with sickeningly red lips and eyes that drooped as if he smoked hashish—or was simply bored with everything going on around him.
Suo and his assistant had surprised Hala and her aunt earlier that morning, before daybreak. Hala recognized the electronic beep when Suo’s assistant used his handheld machine to scan the barcode beside Zulfira’s photograph and trustworthiness rating posted beside the front door. Zulfira said the men had to make a record to prove to someone higher than them in the government that they had checked on all the Uyghur homes in their area.
They’d come unannounced six times in as many weeks after Zulfira’s husband was taken, always on some pretense—plastering the barcode on the door or checking the water quality from the kitchen tap—smelling, but not actually tasting it—and finally checking the structure of the house. The water often came out of the tap brown, and there were many cracks in the wall plaster, but Suo and his assistant ignored all those problems. The Bingtuan had condemned Zulfira and her husband’s comfortable old home in an old section of Kashgar and promptly bulldozed it to the ground.
The visits were always a surprise. Each time they’d come, fat Mr. Suo had stood on the front step with his hands behind him and asked if he and his companion could come inside. This morning, the men simply scanned the door code and barged in as if it were their home.
They looked surprised and disappointed that Zulfira and Hala were already out of bed and up working. Fat Suo said he needed to look at the walls again, paying special attention to the bedroom, picking up Zulfira’s blankets and putting them to his nose when he thought no one was looking. The younger man licked his freakish lips and looked oddly at Hala.
Suo turned suddenly, leaving the house without a word. The assistant had made a note in his small book and told Zulfira that he and his boss would return that evening. She would be well advised to have a hot meal prepared. She was, he said, to treat them as family, for that is what they were to be. The young man barked when he spoke, like someone who worked for the person in charge and thought that made him in charge as well. He never introduced himself, but Hala had heard the fat bureaucrat call him by name.
Ren.
Ren the bastard, Zulfira said, though Hala still did not quite know what that meant.
Hala wished she were bigger, stronger, so she could do some
thing to help her aunt.
Zulfira must have read her mind, for she glared at her niece with narrow eyes as she expertly spun and pulled a skein of well-oiled noodles. “You will pretend you are invisible tonight,” she said. “Do not speak with these men. Not a word.”
“They are swine,” Hala said. “I wish I could—”
“Well, you cannot!” Zulfira slammed the noodles against the countertop over and over. “I am not your mother, but your mother has run away and left you in my charge. There is nothing either of us can do about that. We will feed these men and treat them kindly, and I will not hear another word from you about the matter.”
“That is not fair,” Hala said, tears of anger welling in her eyes, her face flushing hot. She chopped harder at her onions, narrowly missing her thumb. “I cannot believe what you are saying. The Bingtuan are the ones who took my uncle. They do not deserve our resp—”
Zulfira slapped her hard across the face, ringing her ear and knocking her off her stool. The cleaver flew from her hand and fell to the floor, where it buried itself into the cheap linoleum like an ax in soft wood.
Zulfira held the skein of oiled noodles in her hand like a club. “And yet,” she said, “respecting them is exactly what you are going to do.” Flour smudged her chin. Her eyes blazed. “Do you understand me, you spoiled little girl? You go away to your fancy gymnastics school with all the rich children and you begin to believe that you are so much smarter than we poor, unlearned Xinjiang Uyghurs who have not seen so much of the world. Well, let me promise you this, your ignorant aunt will break her broom over your back if you do not show these men respect.”
* * *
—
And respect was exactly what Hala showed. It did not matter, even a ten-year-old could see that. The rich odors of Zulfira’s laghman—stir-fried noodles, spiced lamb onions, and peppers—mingled with the smell of black vinegar by the time the men arrived. Dinner dragged on for over an hour, with the bureaucrat demonstrating from his many helpings of laghman why he was so fat.
He tried to make small talk over a sweet pudding of rice, raisins, and shredded carrots, acting as if he had suddenly become head of the household. Hala chewed on her collar, soaking it, chapping the skin around her own neck. She could barely hold her tongue. At length, the bureaucrat excused himself to go to the toilet. Oddly, he carried a small plastic bag with him to the restroom.
As soon as he’d gone, his assistant, Ren, opened his swollen lips to explain why.
“The Xinjiang government has a solemn duty to see to the well-being of all its citizens, especially the poorer, less advanced populations,” Ren said. His voice squealed. Annoying, Hala thought, like a mosquito. “As you may be aware, the Central Committee feels it is beneficial for local officials such as Mr. Suo to become especially familiar with the households under his care. He appreciates the delicious meal and very much looks forward to our stay tomorrow night.”
Zulfira leaned over the table slightly, hands folded in her lap, rocking as if she had a stomachache. Hala had never seen her aunt look so small and frail. She spoke quietly, barely above a whisper.
“Please assure Mr. Suo that we have everything we need in this household. We are happy to provide him with meals, but it would be unseemly for a man to stay in my home with my husband away.”
Ren looked down his nose at Zulfira as if she were a small child and not the woman in charge of her own home. “I can assure you, there is nothing unseemly about it. Mr. Suo has instructed me to spend the night as well, as a chaperone.”
“Mr. Ren,” Zulfira said, head bowed over her own table to show subservience. “Two men will hardly present a more reputable image than one—”
“Phhft.” Ren waved away the notion. “If any of your overly pious neighbors have an issue with the business of the government, they may take the matter up with Mr. Suo’s office, at which time they will be reminded that religious extremism is one of the Three Evils.” Ren now leaned across the table as well, craning his neck like a chicken to get as close to Zulfira as was physically possible without actually touching her. Hala was sure her aunt could smell the man’s horrible breath. “Exactly which of your neighbors do you believe will have a problem with a city official doing his duty? Perhaps this person should attend a few classes.”
Hala and Zulfira both knew “taking a few classes” meant being carted off to a reeducation camp.
“All is good,” Zulfira said, lifting her chin to give Ren a timid smile. “Please excuse an overreaction from a distraught female. Of course Mr. Suo is welcome in our home. I will prepare a pallet on the floor by the stove and he may have my sleeping shelf.”
“Now, Mrs. Azizi,” Ren said, shaking his head. “You are a lone woman with no one to take care of you. Who knows if your husband will even wish to come back here. Most women in your shoes are happy to have the guidance of a strong man in the home, someone to teach them, watch over them, to keep them from feeling so alone. Sometimes, mutual feelings blossom—”
Fat Suo’s voice came from behind them as he emerged from the narrow hall, drying thick fingers on a white handkerchief from his pocket.
“Do not frighten her, Ren,” he chuffed. He smiled broadly, swelling his fat cheeks so they all but eclipsed his eyes. “We are supposed to be helpful to our citizens. The forecast calls for snow. I would not presume to have Mrs. Azizi move from her own bed on a night that is to be so cold.” He placed his hand gently on Zulfira’s shoulder. “I represent not only the local government, but Beijing—the Party, the Motherland. Mrs. Azizi knows she has no reason to mistrust my intentions.”
“Thank you,” Zulfira said, trembling, breathing through her mouth. “I was not planning to bring it up, but the pipe under the kitchen faucet has leaked ever since we were told to leave our previous home and moved into this one. Perhaps you could fix that, if you were looking to be helpful.”
“Ren will have someone look at it, of course. But in the meantime, you and I will be fine on the same sleeping shelf. You have nothing to fear from me. As I said, it will be cold.”
Zulfira’s lips parted. “But, sir—”
The bureaucrat clapped his hands together, evidently signifying to his assistant that it was time to go, because Ren was on his feet in an instant.
Zulfira flinched at the noise. Hala thought she might run, but she just sat there, shaking.
“I left a few of my favorite toiletries in your bath,” Suo continued. “You have given so freely of your hospitality with this delicious meal, I do not want to take advantage of you by using your soaps when I shower.” He turned up his nose, transforming his noxious smile into a pinched sneer. “In truth, I do not particularly care for the odor of the soaps you Uyghurs use. I am not . . . how shall I put this? I am not completely sure that Uyghur products are as effective as they should be at getting the body clean.” He clapped his hands again, a judge delivering his ruling. “I will be back tomorrow afternoon. Please feel free to make use of the soap and shampoo I left when next you shower.”
Hala wanted to scream, but Zulfira flashed her a hard look, quieting her as surely as another slap to the face.
“You are . . . most generous,” Zulfira stammered. “But—”
“Make use of the soap!” He left no room for argument.
The bureaucrat walked out the door without looking back. Ren paused, his slender hand trailing on the wall as he looked directly at Hala.
“I meant to ask you earlier, child. Have you by any chance had any communication with your mother?”
Hala shook her head, collar between her teeth.
Ren’s gaze shifted quickly to Zulfira. “And how about you?”
“My sister is dead to me,” Zulfira said.
“That is too bad,” Ren said, before letting his hungry gaze settle back on Hala. “I would very much like to meet your mother. And, with her gone, that leaves you all alone in the w
orld. Does it not, child?”
Hala pressed against her aunt, who put an arm around her shoulder and drew her close.
“She is not alone,” Zulfira said.
Ren stood there in the doorway, black eyes flitting back and forth between Hala and her aunt.
“We will see you both tomorrow evening,” he said, and then shut the door behind him.
Neither moved until they heard the vehicle start and gravel crunch as it pulled away on the street.
Hala felt as if a sudden weight had been lifted off her back. Even at ten years old, she knew all too well how vulnerable they were as Uyghur females. There was no one to call to protect them. The police were simply another arm of the XPCC. Zulfira gasped, swaying on her feet. She clutched the table to keep from collapsing.
“You must be careful of that one, Hala.” Zulfira’s eyes stayed locked on the door, as if she expected the men to burst back in at any moment. “Suo is focused on me, but his stooge, Ren, he is the more dangerous of the two.”
“Why did he want to know about my mother?” Hala asked.
Zulfira gave a little shrug, but said nothing.
Hala pressed the issue, pent-up words gushing out all at once like water from a broken pitcher. “I wish we could call her on the telephone and see that she is all right. Do you know where she is? How we might find her? I miss her so much, sometimes I think—”