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
Ronnie 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.”