SILK AND SECRETS (45 page)

When Abdul Samut Khan was mentioned, Ian grimaced. “So you’ve had dealings with that treacherous bastard too. He can be charming when he wants to, but he’s so greedy he’d sell his own grandmother for dog meat if the price was right.”

Ross glanced up. “He showed me a letter you had written, saying how helpful he had been.”

“That was before he asked me to give him a note of hand for ten thousand ducats, to be paid by the British ambassador in Teheran,” Ian said dryly. “When I refused to do it, he denounced me as a spy. The amir was already suspicious, and when the nayeb spoke against me, it was the last straw. The next day I was arrested and taken to the Black Well.”

“He tried to extort money from me too. I’m lucky he was called off to war before he got around to charging me with espionage. We’re getting away just in time.” Finished with the salve, Ross stood and began to give Ian a rough haircut and beard trim so he would look like a Bokharan rather than a desert hermit. “Once we learned that you might still be alive in the Black Well, we couldn’t leave without trying to rescue you. But why do you think the amir claimed you had been executed?”

“Because he thought I had been. Instead, Pyotr Andreyovich was the one beheaded.” Ian gave a ragged sigh and leaned his head against the wall. “Colonel Pyotr Andreyovich Kushutkin of the Russian army. He was caught spying several months before I arrived in Bokhara.”

“A trumped-up charge, like the one against you?”

“No, it was quite genuine in his case. He was an enthusiastic player in the Great Game—his only regret was that he had been caught. Pyotr Andreyovich was some years older than I and had been in the Well longer. He had developed the most horrible cough—sometimes he went on for hours, and there was blood.” Briefly Ian closed his eye, a spasm crossing his face at the memory. “When they came to execute me, he said that since he was dying anyhow, they might as well take him instead of me.”

“No one noticed the difference?” Ross asked, startled.

Ian gave him a sardonic glance. “Pyotr Andreyovich and I were about the same height and had hair about the same shade, though his was more brown than red. But as skinny and filthy as we both were, and hairier than baboons, it would have taken someone who knew us very well to tell the difference.” He swallowed hard. “So he died in my place. I was feverish at the time or I would have protested more. Still, it didn’t seem to matter much, except that he was released from his misery. But now…” His voice trailed off.

“Wherever Colonel Kushutkin is now, he must be pleased with his decision,” Ross said quietly. “From what you say, he probably would not have survived until now, but you have. Now you can send his Bible to his family, as he wished.”

Ian’s expression eased a little at the words. “He kept a journal in the blank pages at the front and back of the testament, using a pencil he had on him when he was imprisoned. He taught me Russian and I helped him with his English. Spy or not, one couldn’t have asked for a better cellmate. Present company excepted, of course.” Ian began putting on the Turkestani clothing that Ross handed him. “Since my jailers thought I was him, I swore at them in Russian whenever they spoke to me. No one ever guessed that I wasn’t Pyotr Andreyovich.”

After dressing, Ian wound a turban, wrapping one of the turns of fabric over his blind eye. When he was done, he said, “You and Juliet—you’ve reconciled?”

Ross hesitated, thinking that that was a complicated question, one that he did not have a clear answer for. Finally he said, “Yes. For the moment.”

“Good.” Ian sat down and pulled on Ross’s best pair of leather boots, which he had donated to the unknown prisoner. “Then perhaps something worthwhile has come out of this mess.”

Hearing a sound in the outer room, Ross turned swiftly, but it was just Juliet, returned from exchanging their mounts. Her eyes widened when she saw her brother. “Amazing. It’s hard to believe that you’re the same man who came out of the Black Well less than two hours ago.”

Ian said with dry humor, “Eton College and the British army were wonderful preparation for a year or two in a dungeon.”

Juliet’s face lit up and she went to give her brother a longer, more leisurely hug than had been possible earlier.

But while she accepted the words at face value, Ross saw how much effort it took Ian to create that illusion of jauntiness. A stiff upper lip did not come cheap.

Stepping back from the hug, Juliet said to Ross, “Have you told Ian how he and I are leaving Bokhara?”

“Not yet.” Ross lifted two folded garments and handed one each to Juliet and Ian. “Riding in camel panniers and wearing these women’s mantles, you’ll make a nice pair of wives.”

“Ingenious. We’ll be totally covered and the panniers will disguise height.” Ian lifted the horsehair mantle and dropped it over his head. Called a chador, it was a huge, shapeless black sack with a small woven screen over the eyes so that the unfortunate occupant could see out.

After rubbing off her mustache, Juliet also donned her chador. The longest garments available were too short for her and Ian, but once they climbed into the panniers, the deficiency would be unnoticeable. “Time to go. The sooner we’re outside the city, the sooner we can take these wretched things off.”

She and Ian left the room, her hand on his elbow giving him unobtrusive support. Ross took a quick scan to make sure that nothing had been forgotten. Ian had the Bible; his ragged trousers were being left behind. Tomorrow a Kasem servant would come and clean up all traces of the late-night occupants.

When Ross stepped out into the courtyard, he could hear camel honks and driver curses, the unmistakable sounds of the caravan that was assembling only a few hundred yards away. To his delight, the camel turned out to be Julietta, thoughtfully sent by Hussayn. While Juliet and Ian squeezed their tall bodies into the panniers, Ross greeted Julietta and fed her an apple, which she gobbled happily. Then he mounted one of the placid donkeys as Murad got on the other. A few minutes’ ride brought them to the square where the caravan was preparing to leave, and it was easy to merge into the unruly mass of animals and men. If their luck held, in another hour they would be outside the city.

Shahid Mahmud found that two caravans had departed from Bokhara that night, a small one south through the gate of Namazgah and a larger one east toward Samarkand. After sending a patrol after the southbound group, he personally went to investigate at the Samarkand gate.

Main gates were not opened at night, so traffic was channeled through a small side door that would allow only one beast to exit at a time. For that reason Shahid had hoped that some of the large caravan would still be within the city walls, but he was too late; by the time he reached the gate, the last of the eastbound caravan had already departed. However, the customs officials who had checked loads and passports were still on duty, and furious questioning elicited the information that several men who fitted Khilburn’s description were in the caravan.

Shahid had been a hunter ever since he learned to ride as a child, and his finely honed predator’s instinct told him that Khilburn had left this way. Picking the dozen best-trained and best-armed soldiers to accompany him, he set off into the night. It was unlikely that the ferengi bastard would stay with the caravan long, but he couldn’t be more than an hour ahead. And no matter how far and fast he ran, Shahid would be right behind him.

The last piece of advance planning clicked flawlessly into place; four superbly fit Turkoman desert horses were waiting at the remote barn that had been previously agreed upon. Also there were the rifles and ammunition that Juliet had retrieved from their hiding place the previous week.

What was unexpected was the presence of Hussayn Kasem himself. As Juliet supervised the changeover to the horses, Ross thankfully peeled off his itchy, uncomfortable beard and said farewell to Julietta, who bawled sadly, as if guessing that she would not see him again. After a last affectionate rumpling of her long ears, Ross turned and almost fell over Hussayn, who had been waiting with an amused smile.

After greeting his friend, Ross said, “I’m grateful for the chance to say thank you and good-bye, Hussayn. What you have done for us is beyond price.”

The other man made a deprecatory gesture. “You gave me back my father—it is only right that I help you regain your brother.”

“You helped me far more than that.” To offer payment would have been an insult, but on impulse Ross pulled out the ancient Greek coin he had received for being the victor in the
bozkashi
match. He had carried it with him ever since. “Will you accept this as a token of a journey I will never forget?”

Hussayn smiled, his teeth white and even. “I will accept it as the token of a man I will never forget.”

“If and when I return to England, I intend to found an institute where men of goodwill can gather from all over the world and learn to better understand and respect each other,” Ross said hesitantly. “Perhaps someday you might visit me there.”

Hussayn shook his head. “It is not a journey I will ever make, but who knows? Perhaps when my son is grown, he will.”

They shook hands for what both men knew would be the last time. Then Ross swung onto his spirited bay mount. Dawn was beginning to show in the east. By the time the sun had fully risen, they would have circled Bokhara and would be on the road west to Persia. By noon they should be crossing the Oxus.

For the first time, Ross allowed himself to believe that perhaps this mad escape attempt really would succeed.

Bellowing and firing their long-barreled rifles, Shahid Mahmud and his men stopped the Samarkand-bound caravan, then proceeded to search all five hundred beasts and hundred-plus humans. A tall bearded Pathan had a terrifying few minutes at the hands of a Bokharan soldier before the yawer himself verified that the suspect was not Khilburn.

As the sun rose over the horizon, Shahid gathered the travelers and threatened to treat them all as accomplices unless someone could give him information on the ferengi spy and his party. Doubtfully a young Kazakh said he had seen a camel and two donkeys turning away from the main group.

It was enough to confirm Shahid’s instincts. Like a dove to its cote, the ferengi was going to circle Bokhara and head west toward his own home rather than penetrate deeper into Turkestan.

Gathering his soldiers, Shahid set off at a gallop. He should be able to seize his prey before reaching the Oxus, but even if he did not, no matter. If necessary, he and his handpicked patrol would follow their quarry into the Kara Kum.

Like a hound on the scent, nothing save death could stop Shahid now.

Even a dozen strenuous years in Persia had not prepared Juliet for the rigors of their flight across the Kara Kum. The scorching sands were an anvil for the sun, the merciless rays a hammer that pounded their frail human bodies. Without the cooling effect of the “wind of a hundred days,” it would have been impossible to cross the Kara Kum at all.

But the wind could also be an enemy, for summer was the season of sandstorms. Half a dozen times a day, flurries of biting sand slowed their progress and clogged their lungs, though they were never struck by another storm as virulent as the one that had trapped Ross and Juliet in the dunes.

After they had been ferried across the Oxus, they rode for twenty-four hours straight until exhaustion forced them to rest under improvised tents made of stretched blankets. But even then, the baking heat made real sleep impossible.

When the sun neared the horizon, they remounted and pushed on, riding through the night and the next morning to reach a feeble well around noon. The small amount of water available was not enough to refill their waterskins, so they halted for several hours while more water oozed into the well from the deep sands. Then they were off again.

The choice of the secondary route across the desert had been a good one, for after crossing the Oxus they saw no other travelers. Guided by compass and stars and Murad’s carefully researched knowledge, they made their way across the trackless wastes. Though they avoided the softest sand, which would slow their mounts, soon both humans and horses were tinged the dusty yellow-brown that was the color of Central Asia in summer.

By the third day Juliet was sure they were safe from pursuit. Nonetheless, when they stopped for their midday rest, Ross climbed to the top of a nearby hill with his small spyglass to see if there was anyone else in the vicinity. Too exhausted to sleep, Juliet decided to join him, knowing that it would be restful to spend a few minutes alone with her husband.

Ross sat in the shade of a rocky outcropping, gazing at the shimmering heat-drenched hills with the spyglass idle in his lap. Juliet knew that he had slept less than any of them, for even during halts he stayed alert for danger, but he managed a tired smile when she sat down beside him. “How are you faring?”

“Well enough.” She sighed and loosened her tagelmoust so that she could feel the wind on her face. “But when I get home, I’m going to spend the first week alternating between my bed and the hammam.”

There was no water for shaving, and several days’ worth of gold stubble glinted on Ross’s jaw, but he was still the handsomest man she had ever seen. Needing to touch him, Juliet laid her hand over his where it rested on his thigh. Immediately he turned his hand over and interlaced his fingers with hers. Peace and comfort seemed to radiate from their joined hands; her tired mind was intrigued to learn that such simple contact could be so soul-satisfying, as refreshing as water in the desert.

“It won’t be much longer now,” Ross said. “We’re at the halfway point.”

They sat in silence, enjoying the moments of closeness, until Juliet said, “It’s interesting that, alone among us, Ian is getting stronger rather than weaker. The first night, when you had to lash him to his saddle and lead his horse, I was afraid he might not survive the trip.”

“Instead he ate as much as he could, slept like the dead when we stopped, and woke up capable of managing his own mount. He’s incredibly strong, or he would never have survived the Black Well.” Ross’s eyes twinkled. “No doubt Ian would say that a dungeon is good preparation for an arduous journey.”