Deuben patted the seat of a metal folding chair beside her, looking up at Garcia. “Come,” she said. “You must sit. This place has the best suoman in Kashgar, I promise.”
Ronnie’s eyes shot to Quinn, looking for approval. He’d promised not to let her accidentally eat any goat lung or other so-called delicacies without a warning.
“Not dog.” He grinned. “ Suoman is a sort of stir-fry with noodles, peppers, and meat. Pretty good stuff.”
“Pretty good stuff?” Deuben pounded a glass bottle of red pepper sauce against the flimsy wooden tabletop, squashing a fat black fly. “Ali’s suoman is heaven on earth.” She held up four fingers to the man fanning smoke from the kabobs. He gave her an almost imperceptible nod, passing the cardboard fan to a teenage boy in a V-neck sweater so he could get to work on the suoman.
In the stall next door a young woman in a white bonnet pressed pomegranate juice into shot glasses. Beyond them three young male barbers gave as many gray-bearded men haircuts and vigorous face rubs.
“I love to come here,” Deuben said. “The old cultures in Central Asia are all being… how do you say? Zerstueckelt… broken apart.”
“It has changed,” Quinn sighed.
“And so,” Deuben said, clapping her hands together in her lap. “Did anyone tell you about this orphanage?”
“Only that you’d reported stories of a place that seemed to prefer blond, blue-eyed children.”
Deuben took a deep breath. “I have not seen the place myself, but my work often finds me for some weeks at a time among the Kyrgyz horse camps in the High Pamir. They speak of such a place in hushed tones. So, so many of the Kyrgyz have succumbed to opium addiction. It’s not uncommon to see women blowing opium smoke into their babies’ faces to ward off hunger. Officials don’t pay much attention to such women when they say their fair-skinned children are being carried away in the night. Most have been taken at gunpoint, their parents slaughtered… but even that draws little notice from the authorities.”
“So kids are actually kidnapped?” Ronnie weighed in. “It’s not just an orphanage?”
“The line is blurry out here,” Deuben said, flicking away the dead fly. “It’s a hard life. Infant mortality is so high parents often won’t even name a child until well after it is walking. Some children are abandoned, some are sold by their parents or unscrupulous relatives. A pretty green-eyed girl can bring an incredible sum from the right millionaire in Dubai or some other place on the pipeline. Along with the missing children, I can name American petroleum engineers, teachers, a Peace Corps volunteer, and a newlywed couple who have all disappeared in the Pamir over the last decade.”
“Is it common for women here to have fair-skinned babies?” Ronnie asked.
Deuben swept her arm toward the Night Market. Strings of electric lights cast a yellow glow over the crowds as twilight gave way to darkness. “Take a look. Tajik, Uyghur, Kyrgyz, Uzbek-the list goes on and on. Under the coat of grime from their hardscrabble lives, many have quite fair complexions. Some claim to be descendants of Alexander the Great and his armies.” She tipped her head toward the kabob grill. “Look there, even Ali’s son has green eyes and an orange tint to his hair.”
“So,” Quinn said. “You’ve had many reports of this place but have never been there?”
“No, but I have spoken with a Kyrgyz woman who has. She described it to me. It’s not too far from here… how do you Americans say it? As the crow flies.”
Virk leaned back a hair, twisting his neck so he could offer an opinion over his shoulder. “Unfortunately, such a crow would have to fly over the Pamir Knot-where the Hindu Kush, the Himalayas, and the High Pamir come together.”
“This is true,” Deuben conceded. “But I can tell you the back way in.”
Quinn continued to study the crowd, eyes flashing this way and that. “I understood you would come with us.”
“Oh no.” The doctor stared down at the stained tablecloth, still fiddling with the bottle of pepper sauce.
“I see,” Quinn mused. “Do we still have the bike rental set up?”
For a brief moment Ronnie thought the fact that the doctor wouldn’t be joining them might jeopardize the mission.
“Of course,” Deuben said. “They are ready to go, along with gear and supplies. The man who owns them will meet you at FUBAR tomorrow morning. It’s near your hotel.”
Quinn had briefed Ronnie on FUBAR. Once the famed Caravan Cafe, it was a favorite stop for adventurers who wanted to share a drink with other expatriates and check their email. Since the Chinese crackdown and near media blackout during the recent Uyghur unrest, email had been spotty at best. Those lucky enough to log on to the Internet experienced extreme government filtering, affectionately known as the Great Firewall of China.
Ali brought four plates of suoman — steaming mountains of noodles with red peppers, onion, and mutton arranged around the outer edge like the spokes on a yellow wheel. Garlic and cumin rose on the heady steam to tickle Ronnie’s nose in the crisp evening air.
Deuben hung her head, twirling at her noodles with a pair of collapsible lacquer chopsticks she took from her vest pocket. “I do wish I could come along, but quite frankly, I would do you more harm than good. I had a bit of trouble with the Chinese military near the checkpoint at Tashkurgan a few weeks ago.” Her face screwed into a distasteful sneer. “The intrusive pests are everywhere. One of their jeep patrols caught me trying to get over the Wakhan Pass into Afghanistan.”
“I understand,” Quinn said. “It probably would be best if you didn’t come, then. What is your back way in?”
Deuben looked up from the table, gray eyes sparkling with mischief. “Over the Wakhan Pass into Afghanistan.”
A sudden flurry of commotion above the normal chatter rose from a knot of street vendors across the adjacent walkway. Quinn looked up from his meal to see two men in dark suits and wispy, flowing white beards work their way through the milling crowd. Each smiled serenely, holding their hands palms forward, as if to say, “We come in peace.”
Belvan Virk widened his stance as the men approached. He reached to tap Deuben on her shoulder. “Umar’s men,” he whispered.
“Umar?” Deuben’s shoulders sank, deflated. “ Scheisse! I was afraid this would happen.” She pushed back from the table and stood, facing the two elderly men.
“ Asalmu aleikum,” she said, pressing her right hand to her breast.
Both men returned the greeting, hands to their chests. They looked at Quinn through amused, smiling eyes, narrowed into slits by their near-toothless grins. Each wore a fancy four-cornered hat in yellow silk, richly embroidered in geometric patterns. The spokesman, a shade taller than his partner, wore a thick pair of glasses in black frames that made his eyes loom larger than the rest of his wrinkled face. His lack of teeth gave him a handy gap in which to place his hand-rolled cigarette.
“Is this the one?” he said, gesturing to Quinn with an open hand. He smelled of cloves and motor oil.
“It is,” Deuben sighed, as if she knew exactly what the men were talking about.
Quinn, already on his feet, introduced himself, his right hand to his breast.
The men nodded politely but continued to conduct their business with Dr. Deuben.
“Would he accept?” the old man with glasses asked, cigarette dancing between his lips.
Deuben nodded. “I feel sure he would.”
The men smiled in unison at the good news. “Most excellent. Umar will meet him at the small enclosure off the camel pens at five o’clock.”
Quinn started to speak, but Deuben held up her hand to shush him.
“I will bring him,” she said. “What of the Chinese soldiers? They like to patrol the Sunday market. I’m certain they would not approve of such things.”
“We will see to them.” The old man grinned. “I have made the garrison nearest the animal market a gift of two casks of plum wine. They will sleep late tomorrow morning.”