The younger woman shook it off, and jumped in the front passenger seat. Benavides dragged Senator Gorski into the back, sending the remaining two agents to take care of Miyagi as the SUV sped away.
Both agents began to shoot immediately, oblivious of the crowd of pedestrians that had gathered to watch the spectacle. Miyagi sprang sideways, letting her blade clatter to the sidewalk. She drew her own sidearm, desperate not to lose sight of the departing SUV. Her Ducati was parked around the corner. If she could see to these two remaining agents, she’d be plenty fast enough to follow and see where they took Garcia.
Two more IDTF agents rolled up in a black Crown Victoria sedan, bailing out behind the cover of their car and sending Miyagi diving into a nearby shoe store. Rather than trying to capture her, the agents simply kept her pinned for two minutes before speeding away in the opposite direction of the maroon SUV.
Sirens began to wail as onlookers figured out this wasn’t some reenactment or street performance and called 911. Miyagi pushed her way through the gathering crowd, down the street to her Ducati. The SUV, Ronnie Garcia, and Senator Gorski were long gone. Miyagi had seen Dillman’s body as she’d run past the espresso shop and known from the blood on Ran’s clothing that she’d been the one to murder him.
Straddling the bike, Miyagi caught her breath as she punched a number into her cell. The shock of finally seeing her daughter after so many years combined with the frustration at having lost Garcia. Her shoulders shook uncontrollably, and for the first time in many years she felt as if she might break down.
Winfield Palmer picked up on the first ring. “Yes.”
“All is lost,” Miyagi said, clearing the catch in her throat. “I repeat. All is lost.”
Chapter 24
Quinn sat on a concrete bench under the mottled shade of a mulberry tree along Jiefieng Road. He’d chosen to wait in the shadows so he could see the portico to the Blue Sky Hotel and still remain out of sight of any curious People’s Armed Police cruisers. His head throbbed like he’d gone three rounds with Mike Tyson and his stomach still threatened to rebel at any moment from the recent anesthesia. The spinning uncertainty was even worse. It made him crazy to think of the block of time that was simply missing from his memory. Even as a youth, he’d possessed a severe aversion to being out of control, preferring a local anesthetic even to fix a compound fracture of his lower leg from a motorcycle wreck.
He leaned back against the cool concrete of the bench and worked on his breathing to calm his nerves — in for five, holding for five, then out for five. There’d been three hundred RMB in the pocket of the slacks Song had given him. It wasn’t enough to escape the country — about fifty US dollars — but he’d been able to buy some lychee-flavored bubble tea. Even that hurt his throat, but he didn’t know when he’d have the opportunity to eat again and hoped the sweet tapioca and milk would provide some energy and soothe his stomach.
A horn honked on the road and he looked up to see Song pull alongside the curb in a dusty tan VW Santana. She reached across the seat and flung open the passenger door as if she’d always expected him to be waiting in the trees.
Quinn climbed in and shut the door, trying not to look as sick as he felt. Midday traffic poured back and forth in a mad rush as if half the residents of Kashgar were streaming into the city while the other half fled. Song made liberal use of her horn and nosed her way into the melee in the particular way of someone unafraid of authority — or getting run down by a bus — before heading north.
“You told me to meet you at the Blue Sky Hotel,” Quinn said. “How did you know to pick me up here?”
Song tipped her head to look at him over the top of her black sunglasses. “This is where I would have waited. Anyway, I brought you a steamed bun.” She pushed a grease-stained sack across the seat. She wore the same jeans, T-shirt, and loose vest as before, but had let her hair down so it hung past her shoulders. Quinn thought it looked much better down, but he kept it to himself. Style tips weren’t something you shared with communist spies — even ones who seemed a little muddled as to their own identity.
“I’m assuming you have a lead on the Fengs’ whereabouts,” he said. He considered the steamed bun, but his gurgling stomach made him stick with his bubble tea.
“Habibullah seems to know more than he was telling us at first,” she said. “My assistant is talking to him now.”
“Are we going there?” Quinn asked, wondering what sort of conversation her assistant was having with the big Tajik. They crossed the muddy waters of the Tuman River. Ugly concrete buildings rose up like gray cancers among the pink-brown bastions of old Kashgar. It was easy to see why Gabrielle Deuben got so worked up about the city’s takeover.
“No,” Song said, watching a group of Uyghur youth eye her as she took a corner into one of the few remaining stone and brick neighborhoods down near the river. “We are going to Hajip’s brother’s house.”
“The one the Fengs murdered?”
“The same,” Song said.
Quinn gazed out the window, saying nothing. It made sense to go to the last place the Fengs had been seen. An experienced tracker and hunter, it ate at him that he hadn’t thought of it.
“What do you know of the Fengs, Mr. Quinn?” Song made a tight turn and they rumbled slowly down the narrow ally, tires popping against the cobblestones. Women in colorful scarves stopped sweeping and stood in their doorways. Children leaned out of second-story windows as they passed, boring holes in them with their eyes.
“There were three of them—” Quinn grimaced as Song hit one of the ancient city’s numerous potholes, deep enough that the battlefield acupuncture didn’t stop the pain in his shoulder. He continued once he’d caught his breath. “One apparently died in prison shortly after the US turned them over to Pakistan. Their father was Hui Chinese, mother was Uyghur, both deceased. US intelligence says they were trained at an al Qaeda camp in Yemen.”
Song nodded. “Our intelligence confirms only Ehmet attended the terrorist camp. Yaqub is the eldest, but he is more of a follower. Ehmet ran away when he was not yet thirteen to seek glory in Yemen. Yaqub would have been recruited as a suicide bomber had he attended such training. It is not uncommon to use more slow-witted youth in such a way. Ehmet’s complete disregard for human life apparently demonstrated great promise to his teachers. He began sawing the heads off people he considers infidels while the ISIS darlings we are watching on the news these days were still attending European boarding schools.
“The odd thing,” Song continued, “is that there does not seem to be any pivotal event that turned Ehmet into a killer. His parents died while he was in Guantanamo Bay, but he was already responsible for hundreds of deaths long before he was arrested by your military. Though he may be a believer, it is my belief that his jihad provides him a convenient vehicle to further his lust for blood and death.”
“Maybe,” Quinn said, thinking that he’d met a great many evil men and he’d given up trying to figure out what tragic event had made them that way. Some people were simply born broken.
“In any case,” Song said. “Ehmet Feng is a fighting machine. Our sources say he absorbed the weapon practice and hand-to-hand training in Yemen as a natural. I am a hundred seventy-two centimeters — you would say five eight. I believe Ehmet to be significantly shorter than I am. But many soldiers and police officers have paid a heavy price for underestimating him because of his size.”
“I try not to underestimate anyone,” Quinn said.
Song turned, deadpan. “Except men on horseback carrying spears.” Quinn thought it might be her attempt at humor, but couldn’t be sure.