Chapter 17
Kashgar, 7:15
AM
T
he day was still pink and new when Quinn and Thibodaux arrived at the open field adjacent to the livestock market. The sun wouldn’t clear the eastern horizon for another half hour but the area around the outer edges of the field was already filled with intently focused men and excited horses.
Gabriella Deuben had invited them to spend what was left of the night in the bottom floor of her clinic, but Quinn had been unable to purge his mind of the whirlwind of thoughts. Images of his seven-year-old daughter, Mattie, tormented his mind, chasing away any semblance of sleep. She was stashed away with friends in Russia to keep her safe, and operational security meant that he rarely even got to speak with her. In the end, he lay on the makeshift pallet and tried to rest his body if not his mind, finally drifting off a scant hour before he had to get up. He could get by for weeks on three hours a night, but one left him groggy and slow and wishing he’d just stayed awake. His father, a commercial fisherman in Alaska, was fond of saying that the older he got, the more mortal he felt. The older Quinn got, the more he understood his old man.
Quinn shut the driver’s door to the little micro van and rubbed his hands together against the chill. A rusted set of five-tier bleachers like Quinn remembered from his Little League days listed heavily, looking like it might collapse at any moment under the weight of dozens of spectators who’d crammed themselves on the ancient metal benches. Frenetic
dutar
music twanged over a crackling loudspeaker. Men who seemed to have no regard for personal space shouted exuberantly whether they were half a field apart or standing nose to nose. Volkswagens, Citreons, and rusted Toyota trucks ringed the expansive dirt field. Many of the vehicles had livestock trailers in tow.
A constant line of traffic flowed in from the city, sending a curtain of dust drifting sideways against the sunrise. More and more cars arrived, each spilling out more spectators. When the rickety bleachers were full, spectators began to line up ten and twelve deep around the field. Grown men and boys stood packed together munching on snacks and chatting with each other. The smell of hot bread and sweet chai worked to chase away the chill in the morning air. A squad of uniformed Chinese soldiers had even come to watch the action from folding chairs set up in an open-backed six-by-six troop truck similar to a US deuce and a half.
Horses groaned and stomped as fierce-looking riders tugged their rigging tight before climbing into their saddles. Some of these men wore padded Soviet-era tanker helmets; most wore hats fashioned from leather and ringed in fur or wool. Thick, quilted clothing was the uniform of the day. All but the youngest few had wild beards. A ragtag bunch, they possessed the intense focus of professional athletes.
“There’s Hajip,” Quinn said, nodding toward the Uyghur, who stood beside a tall dapple-gray horse. His arm hung in a homemade sling of colorful cloth.
“Chair Force,” Thibodaux said, shaking his head, lips turned down in a disgusted frown. “I seem to remember you saying this would be like a rodeo.”
“It is,” Quinn said, nodding to a line of nickering horses.
The big Cajun pointed a flat hand toward a group of men standing over a shaggy black goat. One held the bleating animal’s head by the horns while another man ran a long blade across its throat, slaughtering in the traditional Islamic fashion without stunning it before the cut. The animal struggled as it bled to death, and then the man with the knife hacked off the head. A long-haired child of five or six swooped in and grabbed the head the moment it was free of the animal, carrying it away as if he’d won a prize. A third man squatting at the rear end of the goat slit the animal’s belly and removed the paunch. He took a heavy needle and thread from the lapel of his jacket and began to sew up the carcass before the child with the head had even made it back to his family.
“Warning,” Thibodaux said in a mock announcer’s voice. “Animals will be mutilated during the filming of this movie. . . .” He breathed a heavy sigh. “There’s a hell of a lot of goat killin’ going on in this damn country, I’ll tell you that. I ain’t never been to a rodeo where full-growed men chop off a goat’s head, then fight over the body.”
“Well,” Quinn said as they came up beside Hajip. “Now you can say you have. I told you
buzkashi
means ‘goat bashing.’ What did you think it would be like?”
“I don’t know,” Thibodaux said. “Maybe a pointy oval ball made of goatskin that you kick, throw, or carry down the field.”
“It’s a rough game,” Quinn said. “But this is a rough country. The big games are played in the winter, so it’s easier on the horses. But according to Hajip, they hold a competition once a month early in the morning like this while it’s still cool enough.”
“Ain’t that just the luck,” Thibodaux muttered.
“As-salamu alaykum,”
Hajip said through clenched teeth as the men approached. Eyes still red and brimming with vengeance for the murder of his brother, the Uyghur glared at Quinn as a necessary evil. He pointed to a burly man riding an equally burly bay among the other riders. “That one,” he said. “That is Habibullah.”
Quinn took a moment to think, patting the tall gray’s flank while he sized up the Tajik. Habibullah was built like a tank, with broad shoulders and a bull neck that rivaled Thibodaux’s. High cheekbones and a wispy beard over a strong jaw worked with the peaked fur hat and padded clothing to make him look like one of Genghis Khan’s soldiers. Massive hands clutched the reins, wheeling the horse back and forth to show the animal and everyone watching who was in charge. Quinn’s gray appeared to notice whom Quinn was looking at, and stared intently in the same direction as if studying Habibullah’s much larger mount.
Thibodaux stepped up and took the gray by the bridle. “Now let’s all just hang on a second,” he said. “You fall off your horse out there and you’ll be stomped to puddin’. Tell me again why you don’t just go up and ask this Habibullah guy which way the Feng brothers went and we can be done with it. He’s a big dude, but if he decides he don’t want to talk to you, I’ll ask him.”
Quinn translated this into Mandarin for Hajip. It was a valid question, and one that bore repeating, though Quinn already knew the answer.
“Our ways are not your ways,” the Uyghur said in Chinese. “All is honor with Habibullah.” Quinn translated for Jacques as he spoke. “His word—even with men like the Fengs—is a matter of honor. But, to him, the game of
buzkashi
is also a matter of honor. If we work with him, he is more likely to help us. You see how his horse has a bit of red cloth tied to the bridle?”
Quinn nodded. “As does mine.”
“That mean you’re on the same team?” Thibodaux was keeping up well for all the back-and-forth translation.
“Yes and no,” Hajip said. “All the riders with red bits of cloth may indeed work together, helping one get the
buz
back to the goal. On the other hand, they may just as easily decide to work independently, fighting with any and everyone else on the field for their own chance at glory. The object of the game is to carry the
buz
down the field around the flag and then bring it back to deposit it in the circle. Only the rider who scores with the
buz
is paid a prize. It is his responsibility to pay the rest of his team—or not. Any rider may lean down and pick up the carcass so long as he remains in the saddle, or he may wait until someone else retrieves the animal and then steal it from him.” He shot Quinn a challenging look as if all of this might be too much for him. “You said you ride. Did you not?”
“I’ve been riding since I was four,” Quinn said truthfully, though the bulk of his riding experience had been in high school. His mother had taken up riding and it had been something they could do together when she hadn’t been out on the fishing boat with his dad. Quinn found that he loved horses nearly as much as he loved motorcycles and, as a natural athlete, found sitting one fairly intuitive. “Don’t worry about me.”
Thibodaux scoffed and shook his head, watching a procession of men on foot make their way through the crowd and fling the goat carcass among the waiting horses. The animals stomped and kicked at the thing, obviously trained to treat it with a sort of contempt.
“Very well,” Hajip said, looking only half convinced. “Do you see how the riders carry small leather whips and riding crops between their teeth?”
“I do,” Quinn said, already thinking on what kind of platform the back of a horse would make in a fight.
“In the strictest rules of
buzkashi
,” the Uyghur continued, “it is forbidden for one rider to strike another with a whip or any part of the body. But, I must confess that these men do not often choose to conform to the strictest sense of the rules, especially at these summer contests. I count twenty riders this morning. Most of them know each other, if not by name, then at least by reputation. None of them know you. Some of the spectators are prone to the forbidden vice of gambling. A popular wager is on how many will leave the field because of broken bones. If I were a gambler, I would bet on at least one third.
“The Afghans say the
buz
belongs to the horse.” The Uyghur looked Quinn in the eye. “And these horses are bred to believe that as well. They develop rivalries with each other and are prone to bite and kick. Aggressive does not come close to describing them.” He patted the gray on its rump. “This horse is worth at least twenty thousand American dollars and will likely make my family many times that over its lifespan. It belonged to my brother.”
“I still say we wait until the game is over and have a sit-down with this guy.” Thibodaux set his jaw, looking at Quinn. He shook his head in disgust. “You’re looking forward to this. . . .”
“You are strong men,” Hajip said, “cunning and handy with your fists. But there are only two of you. When the game is over, Habibullah and his men will leave. There is no way short of killing him that you could stop him if he does not wish to be stopped.”
The Uyghur handed Quinn a leather tanker helmet. It smelled like someone had tried to cover the scent of blood and sweat with a bottle of condensed Aqua Velva cologne. Quinn strapped it on anyway, not knowing how many more bashed noggins he could afford at his age.
“Now go,” the Hajip said. “Help Habibullah get the
buz
to the circle. Allah willing, he will see you are riding my brother’s horse and point us toward Ehmet Feng.”
Thibodaux patted Quinn on the knee. “All right, my goat-bashing buddy. You watch yourself out there.”
“Don’t get all emotional on me.” Quinn winked.
“It ain’t emotion,” Jacques said. “I’m too big to fit behind the wheel of that midget clown van. There won’t be anybody to drive me around if you get turned into hoof jelly.”
“I’ll be fine.” Quinn scanned the field of shouting riders and nickering horses, already forming the basics of a plan. Wheeling the gray on its haunches, he shot a glance down at Thibodaux, then back at a broad rider with a sun-burnished face beside Habibullah. “See that guy on the black horse?”
The Cajun nodded.
“His name is Muzra,” Hajip said. “A competent horseman and Habibullah’s most trusted lieutenant.”
“Keep an eye on him,” Quinn said to Thibodaux. “In about two minutes he’s not going to like me very much.”
Chapter 18
Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, 7:14
PM
R
onnie Garcia pretended to window-shop, strolling from store to store with the pockets of tourists who were in town after a long day at the battlefield looking for something to eat. She watched a young college-age woman leading a group of three or four families on a walking tour of downtown. Ronnie was sure the tour had all kinds of interesting history behind it, but ambling through a bunch of pastel brick buildings had to pale next to a day at the hallowed grounds like Cemetery Ridge, the Round Tops, and the Copse of Trees from where General Pickett led his ill-fated charge.
The point of choosing Gettysburg for the meeting was that anyone suspicious would be more likely to stand out. But Ronnie hadn’t considered the fact that she, herself, could look quite suspicious loitering around alone in the quiet little town. She did her best to blend in as much as possible while scanning passersby for weapons and intent to do her harm. Her instructors had taught her during CIA countersurveillance training that everyone had quirks. Trying to be too average only made one draw more attention. A female instructor had gone so far as to point out that while Ronnie’s biggest problem was her figure, it was also her greatest asset. This instructor, a longtime operative herself, observed that if Ronnie were to rob a bank, some witnesses might not remember her deeply tanned complexion. Others would fail to note the thick, ebony hair that she’d inherited from her Cuban mother or the broad shoulders and high cheekbones of her Russian father. But any adult that saw her would recall her figure. “T and A,” the instructor had noted, running a manicured hand over her own shapely rear end. “Hard to put these particular Talents and Assets in a lineup, kiddo. Remember to use them responsibly.”
Ronnie had learned early as a young woman that few people she met, particularly the men, would spend much time looking at her face.
The comforting whine of Miyagi’s Ducati revved behind her, toward the traffic circle and Lincoln Square. Garcia found it comforting to know she was there—a mother hen on a motorcycle . . . with a sword.
The weather was hot and extremely muggy compared to the canned air of the bunker. Garcia had exchanged the cashmere for a light blue button-down oxford and the loosest pair of jeans she owned. Her ex called them her “mom jeans.” Half expecting her meeting to turn into a run for her life, she opted for a light pair of Nike sneakers instead of more fashionable shoes. Far from formfitting, the outfit still drew plenty of nods from passersby, both male and female.
She was fairly certain she hadn’t been followed but used a half dozen countersurveillance measures in any case, doubling back on herself and stopping at intersections through two complete light cycles as if her car had stalled. If anyone had known where she was, Palmer and everyone else would have all been dead in a ditch somewhere. Her concern was that someone would follow the delegation. Palmer had briefed his friend, Congressman Dillman, on how to watch for surveillance. Dillman supposedly had considerable experience in combat, but like Thibodaux had pointed out that from his experiences in both, combat and tradecraft were about as far apart as a tickle and a slap. Their lack of covert experience notwithstanding, both Gorski and Dillman appeared to be extremely intelligent people. Ronnie was depending on that to keep them all alive.
All associated with the effort to bring down the administration were careful not to carry anything that would incriminate them or tie them to any organized effort. They committed information to memory, sent notes in encrypted e-mails, and used old-fashioned dead drops, but recruiting powerful politicians to the cause—convincing them to move forward and actually put themselves at risk—meant certain lines needed to be crossed.
Garcia had to take risks to show the others that certain risks were worth taking. The encrypted IronKey flash drive in her pocket contained photos and detailed charts that tied the Vice President to the Pakistani Qasim Ranjhani, and medical records connecting President Drake to known terrorist plotter Dr. Nazeer Badeeb. Any one piece of it would no doubt get her shot if found in her possession, but the fact that she was willing to hand carry the thumb drive to the meeting and look the congressional delegation in the eye when she handed it over should carry some weight. She would explain the contents during their meeting, and then provide the delegation with a password after they parted company.
Garcia stopped to look in the window of a shop selling Civil War chess sets, thinking idly of her parents. Revolution and civil war had been constant topics in her home. Her father, a rule-keeping Russian who taught math and science under the Soviet-backed education system in Havana, saw no room for anything but unwavering loyalty to the party. A devoted Cuban wife, her mother was the daughter of a man who had been a successful grapefruit plantation owner before Castro. Ronnie never acted on it, but the blood of a revolutionary ran deep within her veins. She missed them both to the point of tears.
Mind snapping back to the moment, Garcia reversed direction, wanting to make one more pass down the street. Miyagi kept coming, off her bike now and looking like a tourist in crisp white slacks and a navy T-shirt. She wore a white ball cap to match her slacks and dark shades that mercifully shielded others from the intensity of her eyes. The two women passed, acknowledging each other with the polite nod of two strangers and nothing more. No one else on the sidewalk knew that inside Miyagi’s oblong messenger case was a Japanese short sword that had tasted more than its share of blood. Garcia smiled to herself, thinking how odd it was that she found such a thing comforting.
Halfway down the block, she paused in front of a small café that sold Dutch apple pie and scrapple. Lifting her hand from the pocket of her jeans, she let a red crayon fall to the ground. Without looking down, she used the heel of her Nike to grind the wax into a small circle on the sidewalk. Satisfied she’d left a mark small enough to go unnoticed by most, but large enough to get the attention of anyone who was looking for it, she made her way across the street to another espresso shop. Ordering her third cup of coffee for the evening, she took a seat by the window to wait.