C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY-TWO
Western China
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T
he wizened old Uyghur who picked them up at the Kashgar airport wheeled his lime-green VW Santana away from the chipped curb and onto Yingbin Avenue. The paved road would take them six miles to the south and into the city. He wore a ratty gray suit coat and a stained shirt, making his bright yellow four-angle traditional silk hat seem out of place. Wisps of thin gray hair peeked from the edges of the hat, hanging down in the old man's wrinkled face. He reminded Quinn of a moldy raisin.
“Have you and your wife come for the Sunday Market,
tovarich
?” The man knew Quinn wasn't Uyghur since he couldn't speak the language and he obviously wasn't Chinese. Proclaiming that no American could learn Mandarin so fluently, he decided Quinn must be a Russian and referred to him as
comrade
at the end of every phrase. Ronnie played along, speaking sultry Russian to Quinn in hushed tones. He had no idea what she was saying.
“We very much hope to see it,” Quinn said, still in Mandarin. Memories of his previous trip to the Silk Road city flooded back to him as they drove. “They say one may find everything at the Sunday Market but the milk of a chicken... .”
“Everything indeed,
tovarich
.” The old Uyghur laughed, showing his grizzled face in the dusty rearview mirror. The fact that he had only two surviving teeth made his Chinese slurpy and difficult to understand.
He laid on the horn, honking at a driver atop a two-wheel cart behind a placid donkey clomping patiently down the middle of the road.
As they neared Kashgar proper, Quinn was startled to find how much of the old city had been demolished in the years since his visit. It was as if the boxy concrete buildings commissioned by Beijing were a virus, consuming anything and everything with history or character. He looked out the window at the benign face of the cart driver as the taxi rattled past. At least some things about the place hadn't changed.
“I know of a place that sells vodka,
tovarich
,” the old man said, working for a tip. “Perhaps you wish to stop?”
“I believe we'll just go to the hotel,” Quinn said.
“A most excellent and noble choice,
tovarich
.” The old man scooted forward a little in the seat, squaring his shoulders. “It is good to meet another upright man in the world... .” His eyes flicked up, looking into the mirror again. “But if you should change your mind, I will leave my number with the hotel staff.”
A city bus belched black smoke in front of the
Chini Bagh
hotel. The taxi driver shot around to take them into the circular portico, narrowly avoiding an oncoming scooter truck. Now that was the old Kashgar, where every drive was a near-death experience, Quinn thought. A chorus of blaring horns, shouting men, and braying donkeys struck Quinn like a slap as he opened the taxi door and helped Ronnie step out onto the curb. She looked ravishing in her light khaki travel pants and airy cotton shirtâlong sleeved so as not to offend Muslim sensibilities. Her big Hollywood sunglasses and modest silk scarf knotted at her chin made her look like something out of a 1960s travel poster.
Quinn gave the wrinkled driver thirty yuanâa little over four dollarsâand assured him his services wouldn't be needed later for any vodka runs. Motioning for Ronnie to walk ahead, Quinn grabbed his waterproof duffel and walked toward the gaudy new hotel. During the days of Rudyard Kipling and the Great Game, the grounds had been the home of George and Lady Macartney, British consul to Kashgar. Though their orchards and gardens were gone, the old residence, home to no small amount of intrigue against the Russians, still stood on the hotel grounds, converted to a Uyghur restaurant.
The waifish Han Chinese girl at the front desk handed Quinn a handwritten message while she ran his credit card. It was scrawled on a sheet of lined paper torn from a spiral notebook and folded in half.
Welcome to Kashgar. Will call your room around four p. m. to set up a meeting.
Bestâ
G. Deuben
It was nearly five, but the desk clerk said there hadn't been any calls. She knew Deuben and rang up her office, passing the handset to Quinn.
Deuben's assistant, a woman named Madame Claire, refused to speak anything but French on the phone. Quinn was able to establish little more than the fact that the doctor was not in.
The
Chini Bagh
clerk, eager to help, happily pointed out that Deuben's office was just a few blocks away.
Ronnie wasn't happy about it but agreed to wait in the room for Deuben's call while Quinn ran up the street to try and speak with Madame Claire in person. They agreed to call each other as soon as either of them got a location on the doctor.
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“Do you know Wash Feet Number Six?” Madame Claire was a withered French woman reminiscent of Mother Teresa. She wore a tattered purple and blue scarf over graying hair and tried her best to communicate in a fricassee of butchered Chinese, English, and French.
“Doctor, she is mop up trouble at Wash Feet Number Six. Easy from here.”
“Trouble?” Quinn asked, fearful he'd open up a can of conversation Madame Claire was not able to handle.
“Bad men.” A frown fell over the French woman's face. “Rough up Tina Fan. She is no terrible girl. Stupid, yesâno terrible.”
Bad men roughing up women, Quinn thought, half smiling. At least he was heading in the right direction.
Madame Claire stepped out the clinic door and looked carefully up and down the teeming street as if fearful of getting run down by a passing donkey cart or motorcycle taxi. She pointed east with a bony hand, past street vendors selling spices, nuts, fall squash, and pottery under red and white canvas awnings. The odor of peppers and cumin filled the air.
“Walk by,” she said, standing on tiptoe as if it would help her reach farther. “...
naan ... pain
... bread cooker ... go this.” She held up her left hand to illustrate. “Wash Foot Number Six one block down ...” She held up her right hand. “This side.”
Quinn gave Madame Claire a two-hundred-yuan donation for the clinic and thanked her for her help.
He chuckled as he walked past a street vendor selling fragrant bowls of
ququ
, wonton mutton soup. “Wash Foot,” he mused under his breath.
Xi yu
âfoot washingâwas big business in China. Stalls could be found from the fanciest hotels to the seedy, red-light shops where considerably more than one's feet got a rubdown. Six was an auspicious number in Chinese since it sounded somewhat like the word for
happiness
. Wash Foot Number Sixâ
Happiness Foot Wash
.
Since the good doctor's medical ministry was bent toward downtrodden silk-road prostitutes, she'd located her clinic close to where they worked. Madame Claire's directions were choppy, but they were dead-on.
Quinn didn't have far to walk before he found Happiness.
A sullen Filipino girl looked up from a cell phone when Quinn stepped into the dim interior of Wash Foot Number Six. She sat on a tall wooden stool, her narrow back to a Chinese anatomical chart on the peeling wallpaper. Tight spandex shorts displayed everything she had to offer. A tired blue halter top hung off her bony chest. She wouldn't have been out of high school if she'd known the luxury of such a thing. The heavy smell of cheap perfume and talc hung like a toxic cloud beyond the beaded curtains dividing the cramped wooden vestibule from a set of stairs rising into the shadows of a sagging upper floor.
“I'm looking for Dr. Deuben,” Quinn said in Chinese. He'd called Garcia with directions to where he was going, but if trouble was brewing, he didn't want to wait.
The Filipino girl's cloudy eyes fluttered when he spoke, her body flinching slightly like one who was accustomed to being beaten along with conversation. When she realized Quinn wasn't going to strike her immediately, she leaned forward, her red-caked lips twisted into a brazen smile. It was a terrifying thing to see on one so young. Quinn guessed she might be all of fifteen.
“Maybe you don't need doctor,” the girl sneered, running chipped nails through dull black hair that lay in strands on her shoulders. She was so small. He imagined her playing dolls with Mattie.
“I think you need Happiness girl. I give you damn good foot wash, no shitâfifty yuan.” She quoted him the lustful foreigner rate. In a place like this, Quinn knew her normal price was likely not half of thatâabout three dollars.
“Anything else negotiable.” She tossed her head in an effort to look cute, but only managed to look dizzy.
Quinn swallowed, trying to keep from getting sick. “No, I'm pretty sure I'm looking for Dr. Deuben.”
The girl slouched back against the wall on her stool, deflated. White lace stockings rolled down to her knees, leaving a gap of skin between them and the spandex and exposing a map of bruises at various stages of purple and yellow. She was obviously used to a rough clientele.
“Doctor not here,” she sulked. “You not want Happiness girl, you go now. Gao come back. He beat shit from you like he do Tina Fan. ”
“I was told Dr. Deuben was here right now,” Quinn pressed the issue. He took a half step toward the beaded curtains over the wooden stairs.
“She no here!” the girl snapped in English. “You go now!”
Quinn tensed as heavy footsteps pounded down the stairs.
A dark hand, followed by a mountainous, turban-wearing Sikh, emerged from the curtains and into the vestibule. He stood toe-to-toe with Quinn, tut-tutting the girl with a pointed forefinger. He turned to Quinn and shook his head. “
Trust a Brahmin before a snake, and a snake before a harlot
... .”
“
And a harlot before an Afghan
,” Quinn finished the sentence.
“Ah,” the Sikh said. “Splendid to meet a man who knows his Kipling.” He extended his hand. “I am Belvan Virk, Dr. Gabrielle's bodyguard.”
“Jericho Quinn.” He shook the offered hand.
Belvan Virk had a good three inches on him, and the broad shoulders and blocky, muscular build of a bare-knuckle boxer. His bloodred turban was wrapped tight and pinned in front with the swords and circle of a
Kahnda
or Sikh crest. Jet-black hair and uncut beard were tucked neatly beneath the edges of the spotless cloth. He wore dark slacks and a collarless white dress shirt. A curved dagger hung at his right side.
“The doctor has been unable to call because of these recent troubles.” Virk parted the beaded curtains, pointing up the stairs with an open hand. “The ... proprietor of Number Six went missing on a trip to Urumqi last weekâlikely murdered by bandits. In any case, the girls here are without pimp or protector. They have had a bit of trouble from a certain local.”
“Gao?” Quinn mused.
“Yes.” Virk nodded, amused. “You catch on very quickly.”
“Gao come back too,” the Filipino girl threatened, still perched on her stool, arms folded in defiance. “He my customer anyway. Tina Fan stole from me. She deserved, she got.”
Quinn followed Belvan Virk up the stairs and along a windowless wooden hallway to a ten-by-ten chamber that looked more like a jail cell than a bedroom. The enormous Sikh had to stoop under the low ceiling. The odor of sweat, lamb grease, and cheap perfume hung heavy in the close air. An oil lamp only added to the darkness with a thin ribbon of black smoke.
A Han Chinese peasant girl, from Fuzhou, Quinn guessed by her dialect, lay facedown on a sagging mattress set directly on the scabby rug. She wore nothing but a dingy pair of panties that had at one time been white and trimmed in lace. The soles of her tiny feet were black from walking barefoot. Raw pink lines of flesh crisscrossed her shoulders and legs. Ribs pushed, cage-like, against sallow skin as she sobbed. The points of her spine shone through like a row of small stones above a pale yellow sea.
Gabrielle Deuben sat on the edge of the filthy mattress dabbing at the girl's wounds with a bottle of foul-smelling antiseptic. She wore a blue clinic coat over a pair of khaki slacks and a red T-shirt. Blue nitrile gloves and a silver chain completed her ensemble, accenting sensible brown hiking boots of the type worn by mountaineers. Flaxen hair was piled up on her head as if putting it there had been an afterthought. She kept it in place with luck and a couple of wooden chopsticks.
High, pink cheekbones stood out over a strong, Germanic jaw that clenched in marked concentration as she looked over the wounds. She wore no makeup, and appeared to revel in her plainness. Quinn guessed she was in her mid-thirties. A spartan life in Central Asia kept her a little on the gaunt side and added more than one streak of gray to her hair.
An earthenware bowl sat on the bed next to the two women, filled with pink water and soiled rags.