Clark dragged Samedi’s body to the corner, dumping it in the shadows behind a metal desk. It was the best he could do in an otherwise empty warehouse. He knelt beside the body, checking for an extra magazine for the Makarov. Finding none, he opened the man’s wallet. The ID card was in Chinese, with the Uyghur name spelled out in phonetic characters with Arabic beneath. Clark’s Arabic was rusty, but if he read the script correctly, this man’s name was Yunus Samedi, not Timur Samedi, whom Clark was supposed to meet.
Clark left the wallet on top of the body, open, to lead authorities to think Samedi had been killed in a robbery. He could hear Hala jabbering at the chickens, and stooped so he could look under the belly of the truck.
Halfway down, he froze.
Hala was kneeling in the dirt on the other side of the truck, at ease, smiling, completely unaware that less than ten feet behind her, a man stood, watching.
Derringer in hand, Clark used the truck as cover and padded quickly to the doorway, where he risked a quick peek outside, suspecting the man with Hala might have friends.
He appeared to be alone.
The stolen Toyota was around back, out of view from the road, and the only other vehicle in the lot was a hulking Czech ten-wheeler called a Praga that looked like an old M35 Deuce and a Half with a botched nose job. It couldn’t have been there long, but the windshield was covered with a fine layer of yellow dust — as everything was eventually in this part of the world.
Clark had only gotten a view of the newcomer’s legs, and he was surprised when he stepped around Samedi’s box van to find not a soldier or policeman, but a bent old man, leaning on a polished stick. Probably no more than five and a half feet tall in his youth, age had now stolen a good chunk of that. He stood passively, hands folded on top of the stick, a half-smile on his weathered face. His features were Han Chinese rather than Turkic. A sun-bleached ball cap that had once matched his red down coat took the place of a fur hat or more traditional Uyghur doppa. Clean blue jeans suggested he had enough money to get out of the dust when he wished. Clark couldn’t help but picture him in with a group of other old men, John Deere and Caterpillar hats tipped back on graying heads, reminiscing about the good old days over eggs and coffee.
Clark moved the derringer to his coat pocket, out of sight, and stepped around the corner.
The old man looked up, still leaning on his cane, not at all surprised.
Hala spun in the dirt, scrambling to her feet, and ran to Clark at the truck. Clark gathered her to him with his free hand and returned the greeting.
The old man dipped his head, bowing slightly, both hands still resting on the cane, and began to speak. Clark’s Chinese was passable, but he tapped Hala’s shoulder, asking her to translate so he got it all.
“He knows I am the Tohti girl,” she said. “The police are looking for me… They say I was kidnapped by a European or American man… They offer a reward… Seven thousand yuan.”
A little over a thousand bucks. Not exactly America’s Most Wanted, Clark thought, but it was more than half the yearly income of some of the farmers in Xinjiang.
“Okay,” Clark said, his hand gripping the pistol in his coat pocket. “Ask him what he plans to do.”
The old man hunched over his cane and listened. When Hala finished, he launched into a lengthy dissertation, one hand remaining on the stick, the other waving around the warehouse to illustrate his story.
Hala whispered the translation as he spoke.
“He says we are none of his business… He does not need the Bingtuan reward money. His name is Wang Niu, but everyone calls him
The man smiled broadly, looking directly at Clark.
“He says to tell you
Clark dipped his head, introducing himself as John.
Little Ox waved a hand at the hen and then peered into the darkness at the back of the warehouse.
Hala listened for a moment, then answered back before translating. “He says there is a dry well behind this building. We should hide the dead man in there so his cousin does not see him.”
“His cousin?”
Little Ox nodded as if he understood. Hala translated his answer.
“Timur Samedi and Yunus Samedi both drive this truck,” she said. “Timur is a pretty good man. Yunus is not so good man… Yunus always thinks there is more to… I do not know the word… get more money for a business deal.”
“Negotiation,” Clark said.
Hala nodded enthusiastically.
“I see there is another truck out front,” Clark said. “Is he a driver, too?”
Little Ox squinted, listening intently to the question, and then turned to Clark and said something that made Hala laugh. “He says he came here to visit his chickens.”
The old man kept talking.
