He bummed a cartridge from the guy whose rifle he’d fixed. Wrenched the bullet out, discarded it and the powder, and packed the case with a teaspoonful of the plastic explosive. He crimped the case by hammering the handle of the pliers with a rock. After straightening the nail, fitting it into the switch, and filing on the switch for a while with another rock so that it held the nail back, he screwed the case into it.
He got up and hobbled on numbed legs across the cave, unraveling a string out of Fierros’s disintegrating blanket. He tied that to a broken statue of a dancing god, lashed the other to his improvised device, and tied that to the stone lectern, despite a frown from one of the judges.
Then stood back and, with a bow and a sweeping gesture, invited them to try it: Be my guest.
“Ni neng xíng de,” said Tokarev Guy. He returned Teddy’s bow. No, you go ahead.
Teddy put his hands over his ears, hoping he hadn’t gotten too generous with the Semtex. Then limped between the stones, catching, as if by accident, his trailing foot on the low-strung string.
The loud crack and flash, the ping of hot steel around the cave, brought shouts and exclamations. Also raucous laughter, as Teddy howled and slapped at his buttocks, which stung like hell. Other fighters ran in from side chambers, weapons at the ready. They got loud explanations in jocular tones, complete with acting out and repeated exclamations of “CIA, CIA.”
Teddy made a production out of rubbing his ass and grimacing, but made sure that when he eased himself down again, it was up front, beside his erstwhile judges. He wasn’t sure which one was head honcho. But they’d had the same problem in the Philippines. With the Abu Sayyaf, there’d been three guys to play to. A clan chief, a war leader, and also an imam, a religious leader. But he didn’t see anybody like either a clan chief or a religious leader here. They all seemed to be fighters, and none over thirty, at a guess.
Which might make it easier. He spread his hands, mustering his Chinese. “Women shi mengyou,” he said again, making it slow. “We are allies. The great war. It is still being fought?”
“Oh, yes. America, China… Zhang still fights.”
“Then we both fight Han. Yes? America on east, Uighur on west. Same enemy. Yes?”
He read mingled agreement and doubt in the murmurs, shakes, and nods. Okay, making progress, but not there yet. He gave Fierros a squint, trying to signal him to quit kneeling in the position of the suppliant, the defendant, and to come over with him, with the council, as it were. After a second squint, the airman got up. His guards looked doubtful, but when none of the judges objected, let him join them. Good, another step forward.
“Let me find out… let me…” Christ, his rice-bowl pidgin wasn’t up to this. “Does anyone here speak English? Russian? How about Arabic?”
The reference to Arabic got dropped gazes. Thought so. Teddy almost grinned.
“Ya gavorit’ nim noga Russki,” said White Mustache, reluctantly. “I speak little bit Russian.”
“Great. Horosho’. Kak vas zovut? And I’m calling you… what?”
“My war name is Tokarev.”
Figured. Teddy hesitated. Go with his real name? Probably a bad idea. His Team name? Maybe an op name… But before he could respond, Tokarev was tracing the scars on his face with his finger. “Vy poluch’te eti boyev’ye kitaiski? You get these fighting Han? Or in camp?”
That was an easy lie. “Fighting Han.”
The Uighur laid a hand on his bad leg. Teddy couldn’t help wincing. “And this?”
“Pytali… tortured. By Han interrogators.” No point telling them where he’d picked up the original injury. In the White Mountains, fighting the Taliban.
Tok translated it for the others, who nodded and stroked their beards. Teddy bowed. They bowed back.
“So, you are CIA agent,” Tok said. “Vy tak stary.”
Teddy inclined his head modestly. Time to get the conversation off them and onto their hosts. He said, “Yes, I am old. But not as old as I probably look right now. Please translate this for your friends. I fight Han because my country is at war with Beijing. Zhang is a tyrant. An aggressor. Please tell me why you fight.”
They nodded and milked their beards, and gradually the answers came. “We fight for independent Uighuristan, under rule of true Islam,” said one.
The older guy said, at least as Tokarev translated, “No Muslim should live under the rule of infidels. Those who worship Confucius and Marx are not people of the Book.”
One of the guards, who’d sidled up to join the discussion, put in: “They have taken our land with arms. The mujid must resist until we are free again.”
“We must overthrow Zhang and set up a democracy. Then all can live together in peace, both Han and Uighur. But of course, we were here first.”
Yet another said, “Our brothers in Kyrgyzstan, Kazakhstan, and Turkey are of one blood with us here in Xinjiang. We must all be united. Can America help us in this?”
Teddy nodded sagely at each statement, contradictory though they were, patting his own beard too, as if taking it all aboard. Murmuring “Ah” and “Ponimayu.”
Presently a small figure draped head to toe in black appeared from the shadows. It waited silently until the oldest guy beckoned. Gave peremptory orders. When it returned, accompanied by several others, the women — if that was what the toe-to-head sacks covered — set out plastic trays of rice, naan, and lamb. Not a hell of a lot of any of these, but apparently as close to a feast as the resistance could muster on short notice. Tea arrived too, steam rising from the cups as a trembling hand poured it. The dark eyes behind the hijab never rose to meet his. “Looks like we’re in,” Obie muttered to Fierros, rolling a piece of bread preparatory to digging in.
“No haircut?”
“Not today.”
“What was all that about? I only followed parts of it.”
“They want to know what we can do for them. I had to make some promises.”
“Promises about what?”
“Weapons. Support.”
“I thought the idea was to get across the border. Get the fuck out of this fucking country. We’re still in fucking China. You know that, right?”
Teddy tested the tea. Way too hot. “That’s still the idea, Ragger. I’m just playing with a different approach here, okay? Trying to establish friendly relations. Feel out a quid pro quo. Maybe plant the idea, they help us out, we got something to offer too. Okay?”
The airman subsided, reaching for the rice and lamb. Teddy grabbed his left hand just in time.
Three days later he and Ragger stood under an overhang of rock while the pickup idled not far away, while boys with sticks urged baaing sheep up a plank ramp into the bed. Tok, whose real name was Guldulla, said they had to stay under overhead concealment, and anyone traveling by truck had to remain hidden beneath the sheep while on the road. The Han had drones that watched, and struck from the sky. He and the older rebel, Akhmad, stood a few paces off, letting them say their farewells. The third leader, Nesrullah, had gone over the mountain, into the town on the far side, for supplies.
Teddy doubted that Chinese internal security would have drone coverage out here, in this terrain, but these guys were the local knowledge. They did seem to have an effective lookout system: the shepherds all toted cheap walkie-talkies.
Fierros was dressed like one of the locals. Black embroidered four-cornered hat, long-sleeved black shirt, raggedy pants, cheap Chinese running shoes. With hair all over his face, he might pass. At a distance. If they didn’t get stopped.