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.
“There now,” the doctor said in passable Chinese. “I think we’ve gotten out all the debris.”
“You hurt me worse than Gao,” Tina Fan sobbed.
“I know it seemed so, child,” Deuben sighed. “But you risk infection from the filthy rope he uses as a belt. It’s probably full of camel dung… or worse.” She pulled a sheet up to gently cover the girl’s legs, leaving her back open to the air. “Stay facedown for a few minutes and I’ll put on a dressing.”
Belvan Virk looked on with a sparkling eye. He had an easy smile, almost hidden under the massive black mustache. He seemed to revere the doctor to the point of worship and Quinn found himself wondering if there was more to their relationship than the Sikh had admitted.
Tina Fan sobbed softly as Deuben stood and peeled off the blue gloves.
“Mr. Quinn,” she said in clipped but perfect English. “Thank you for coming. Forgive me if I am not too happy with the male gender at the moment.”
“I understand completely,” Quinn said. “Do you know why they did this to her?”
“Misogynists.” The doctor shrugged, scratching her nose. It was not too big, but it looked as though she was the lucky one in a family of otherwise very large noses. “You know what misogynist means?”
“I do,” Quinn said.
“It means,” she explained anyway, “someone who hates every bone in a woman’s body except his own…” Her voice trailed off to watch his reaction before she continued. “More than likely these men wished to stake a claim since the owner and pimp of this lovely establishment has gone missing. Or maybe beating the poor girl excited them. I’ve long ago given up on understanding what men will do for a shake and a shiver.” She suddenly turned to Quinn. “In any case, I’ve been writing to the United Nations for over a year and you’re the first they’ve sent out to investigate my claims.”
“I believe there may have been a mistake, Dr. Deuben.” Quinn shot a look at Virk, half expecting the big man to try and grab him by the scruff of the neck if he delivered any unwelcome news. “I am from the U.S. government, not the U.N.”
“Is that so?” Deuben studied him for a long moment, her slate-colored eyes playing over him in the smoke of the flickering oil lamp. She folded her hands together in front of her, chest moving slightly with each breath. At length she clapped her hands. “All the better,” she pronounced. “The United Nations does little but talk. Your government actually has some teeth-if they would only use them. Are you prepared to bite with those teeth Mr. Quinn?”
Quinn considered his answer, but his thoughts were cut short by a pitiful yelp from the Filipino girl in the lobby.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Heavy footfalls approached, clomping up the wooden steps. On the mattress, Tina Fan’s bony shoulders began to heave so hard she retched, curling into a fetal ball.
An instant later, three Chinese men appeared, silhouetted against the open doorway by the naked lightbulb in the hall. All were thick-necked and brawny, dark and accustomed to hard labor under the sun. The apparent leader was bald but for a ring of greasy hair on his wedge-shaped head. Sneering with stained yellow teeth, he slapped a short, hardwood truncheon against his open palm.
Quinn’s eyes shot from the newcomers to Belvan Virk. Men with clubs at the door of a brothel would not have good intentions. The massive Sikh let his hand fall to the dagger at his waist. He tipped his head slightly in answer to Quinn’s unspoken question.
These were the same men who’d given Tina Fan the beating.
Without waiting for the thugs to speak-or even move-Quinn closed the distance in one quick stride. Feinting with a quick right jab, he slammed the flat of his left hand into the leader’s nose, then, twisting toward the thumb, wrenched the club away. He brought the heavy wood up hard and fast, catching its owner on the point of the chin. There was a satisfying crack as teeth crunched and gave way.
Wasting no energy on excess movement, Quinn used the downstroke to catch the second thug in the center of his forehead. Black eyes rolled back as wood smashed into bone. The third man raised his hands, but Quinn thumped him too, driving him to his knees. He’d come along for the whipping. It was a little too late to back out now.
All three thugs were facedown on the dirty green rug in a matter of seconds.
Virk smiled broadly, bright eyes dancing above his black beard in the lamplight. He clapped his hands softly, giving a respectful half nod.
“No need to answer my previous question, Mr. Quinn.” Dr. Deuben knelt beside the unconscious attackers to check their pulses. A moment ago they would have been happy to beat her senseless. “I’m certain you will have no trouble biting whoever needs to be bitten on behalf of the American government. Now we just have to make sure the rest of Gao’s crew don’t cave in your skull before you can get out of town.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Ronnie spoke a smattering of French and it was fairly simple for her to track Quinn to Happiness Foot Wash. She arrived while Gabrielle Deuben was still dispensing medication to a subdued and sheepish Gao.
The doctor had been completely won over by Quinn’s methods and insisted on being their guide for the evening, escorting them around Kashgar. Belvan Virk led the way through the teeming streets, his red turban looming above the throng as he scanned for signs of danger.
Ronnie walked a half step behind, enjoying the opportunity to observe Jericho Quinn in his natural environment. She’d never met a man so self-assured. He walked by plate-glass windows without once checking himself out, and seemed somehow connected to the “now” of every situation. His uncanny ability at languages surely helped with that.
Though Uyghur spoke their own language, more closely related to Tajik Persian, most spoke passable Arabic or Mandarin. Quinn slipped effortlessly from one language to another as he stopped to chat with this shopkeeper or that, inquiring about the price of a silk hat or a piece of yellow pottery.
Watching him, Garcia realized Kashgar was the perfect metaphor for Quinn. The more civilized, manicured part of him was somehow strained and unnatural. It was the haphazard, uncivilized nature-the feral labyrinth of instinct and uncertainty-that gave man and city endless possibilities.
“And here we are.” Deuben clapped her hands in front of her waist as seemed to be her habit when she was pleased about something. She waved at a middle-aged Uyghur man using a piece of cardboard to fan away the smoke from a grill of sizzling lamb kabobs.
They were in Kashgar’s famous Night Market-a sea of food and people. Mounds of saffron yellow noodles vied for space between tables piled high with baskets of naan that bore a suspicious resemblance to bagels, and platters of dumplings, vegetables, and boiled goat heads. A half carcass of mutton, split down the spine, swung from a metal hook ten feet from the table where Deuben had decided to sit. Knives, hatchets, axes, and swords seemed to be everywhere.
Quinn seemed fascinated by the frenetic sights and sounds of the place. It was as if he was coming home. Virk stayed on his feet, facing outbound behind the doctor.