Shadow of the Dragon полностью

“He says we should not worry,” Hala said. “He was once Bingtuan, when he was young and foolish, but not now. He… He has many Uyghur friends. He believes Timur Samedi will help us, but not if he finds out we killed his cousin.”

Hala spoke directly to the old man for a moment, and then turned to Clark. “I asked him how we can know Timur is good when Yunus was also Uyghur, also Muslim, and he tried to rob us.”

Little Ox leaned against his stick and gave a sad chuckle before he began to speak in accented English. “Yunus Samedi was watermelon — green on outside — good Muslim, but red on inside — like Communist Chinese. Muslim, Christian, it does not matter. Religion only teach people what is right, child. Maybe they do it, maybe not…”

The old man looked at Clark with narrowed eyes. “We must hurry and hide the body. Timur Samedi will take you to cross at Wakhjir Pass. Long drive down Karakoram Highway, then you walk in Afghanistan. Very high. Very hard. Many checkpoints on highway, but not so much after you start to walk—”

Clark drew Hala closer, surprised the old man knew their route. “Who told you this?”

The old man smiled, showing his teeth, or what was left of them. He took a cell phone out of his coat and waved it around the interior of the warehouse. “These my chickens. Samedi work for me. I truck carpet and cloth for woman you speak to at the market. She call and let me know you need help. My trucks go across borders all the time, Pakistan, Tajikistan, Kyrgyzstan… all over. Bingtuan and border guards know all my drivers, even Uyghurs hardly ever searched.”

Clark rubbed his face, frowning. “‘Hardly ever’ doesn’t sound good,” he said. “And it seems like the entire world knows we’re trying to get out of Kashgar.”

Hala translated and the old man shrugged.

“Only peoples who can help you know,” he said in English. “Like I say, police know my trucks. We pay them good baksheesh to… how do you say, oil the gears, wave us through checkpoint. Probably nobody suspect you get out that way.”

Hardly ever. Probably. Not odds on which Clark would have normally based a plan. He considered his options — which were damned few — then asked, “You say your trucks get waved through checkpoints? That gets us down the Karakoram Highway, through Tashkurgan, but the Wakhjir isn’t a border crossing, it’s a rural pass, likely guarded by foot patrols.”

“Truth.” Little Ox nodded, pursing his lips in thought. “Much opium come over that pass. Smugglers, they pay big baksheesh to keep border guards away.” The old man gave an emphatic shake of his head. “Probably not many patrols.”

There was that word again. Probably.

Clark pressed the issue. “What are our chances of getting across the Wakhjir? Be honest.”

Hala translated again.

The old man leaned on his cane and thought about it. “Fifty-fifty,” he finally said. “Would be better if you had help on other side. Timur be here soon. We should hide the body.” He stuffed the cell into his vest pocket. It was an iPhone, resembling Clark’s.

“I may be able to improve our odds,” he said. “If you have a cell-phone charger in your truck.”

The old man leaned against his cane and gave a single nod. “I do.”

“Got him,” Adara said, binoculars to her face. She was angled away from the tour boat, as if looking at the wooded valley beyond the parking lot.

Instead of binoculars, Yao used an SLR camera with a zoom lens. So as not to draw attention with them all looking at the same spot, he and Ryan concentrated on the lake and the handful of crewmen who remained aboard Eternal Peach. He panned sideways, bringing the parking lot into view.

Gray clouds had rolled over the mountains surrounding the lake, and a light snow began to fall with the dusk.

“I see him,” Chavez said. “Tall guy in the blue parka.”

“Yep,” Adara said. “That’s the one. No idea if he’s who we’re looking for, but he’s definitely zigzagging to stay in the black with the cameras.”

“Adam,” Chavez said. “Tell me you don’t think that guy is Han Chinese.”

“He’s not Uyghur,” Yao said after a moment. “You’re right. He is Han. Maybe mixed blood.”

Chavez took a deep breath, let his binoculars hang against his chest, thinking. “The Wuming are separatists,” he said. “I’d assumed anyone associated with them would be Uyghur.”

“That’s two of us,” Yao said. “But this makes a hell of a lot of sense. The authorities rarely even stop Han citizens at checkpoints. When they do, the scrutiny is light. This could explain how they’ve stayed hidden.”

“He’s stopped to talk to another guy at the hotel,” Adara said. “Taking a smoke break…”

“Keep an eye on him,” Chavez said.

Yao swung the camera back toward Eternal Peach, pausing now and then to snap photos. The falling snow, tree-covered mountains rising straight up from the shores of the crystal blue lake and into the clouds — he had no shortage of subjects.

Adara gave a peaceful sigh. “Best surveillance ever…”

Yao’s phone buzzed in his pocket.