Cameron, Marc - Tom Clancy's Shadow of the Dragon

Hala wished she were bigger, stronger, so she could do something to help her aunt.

Zulfira must have read her mind, for she glared at her niece with narrow eyes as she expertly spun and pulled a skein of well-oiled noodles. “You will pretend you are invisible tonight,” she said. “Do not speak with these men. Not a word.”

“They are swine,” Hala said. “I wish I could—”

“Well, you cannot!” Zulfira slammed the noodles against the countertop over and over. “I am not your mother, but your mother has run away and left you in my charge. There is nothing either of us can do about that. We will feed these men and treat them kindly, and I will not hear another word from you about the matter.”

“That is not fair,” Hala said, tears of anger welling in her eyes, her face flushing hot. She chopped harder at her onions, narrowly missing her thumb. “I cannot believe what you are saying. The Bingtuan are the ones who took my uncle. They do not deserve our resp—”

Zulfira slapped her hard across the face, ringing her ear and knocking her off her stool. The cleaver flew from her hand and fell to the floor, where it buried itself into the cheap linoleum like an ax in soft wood.

Zulfira held the skein of oiled noodles in her hand like a club. “And yet,” she said, “respecting them is exactly what you are going to do.” Flour smudged her chin. Her eyes blazed. “Do you understand me, you spoiled little girl? You go away to your fancy gymnastics school with all the rich children and you begin to believe that you are so much smarter than we poor, unlearned Xinjiang Uyghurs who have not seen so much of the world. Well, let me promise you this, your ignorant aunt will break her broom over your back if you do not show these men respect.”

And respect was exactly what Hala showed. It did not matter, even a ten-year-old could see that. The rich odors of Zulfira’s laghman —stir-fried noodles, spiced lamb onions, and peppers—mingled with the smell of black vinegar by the time the men arrived. Dinner dragged on for over an hour, with the bureaucrat demonstrating from his many helpings of laghman why he was so fat.

He tried to make small talk over a sweet pudding of rice, raisins, and shredded carrots, acting as if he had suddenly become head of the household. Hala chewed on her collar, soaking it, chapping the skin around her own neck. She could barely hold her tongue. At length, the bureaucrat excused himself to go to the toilet. Oddly, he carried a small plastic bag with him to the restroom.

As soon as he’d gone, his assistant, Ren, opened his swollen lips to explain why.

“The Xinjiang government has a solemn duty to see to the well-being of all its citizens, especially the poorer, less advanced populations,” Ren said. His voice squealed. Annoying, Hala thought, like a mosquito. “As you may be aware, the Central Committee feels it is beneficial for local officials such as Mr. Suo to become especially familiar with the households under his care. He appreciates the delicious meal and very much looks forward to our stay tomorrow night.”

Zulfira leaned over the table slightly, hands folded in her lap, rocking as if she had a stomachache. Hala had never seen her aunt look so small and frail. She spoke quietly, barely above a whisper.

“Please assure Mr. Suo that we have everything we need in this household. We are happy to provide him with meals, but it would be unseemly for a man to stay in my home with my husband away.”

Ren looked down his nose at Zulfira as if she were a small child and not the woman in charge of her own home. “I can assure you, there is nothing unseemly about it. Mr. Suo has instructed me to spend the night as well, as a chaperone.”

“Mr. Ren,” Zulfira said, head bowed over her own table to show subservience. “Two men will hardly present a more reputable image than one—”

“Phhft.” Ren waved away the notion. “If any of your overly pious neighbors have an issue with the business of the government, they may take the matter up with Mr. Suo’s office, at which time they will be reminded that religious extremism is one of the Three Evils.” Ren now leaned across the table as well, craning his neck like a chicken to get as close to Zulfira as was physically possible without actually touching her. Hala was sure her aunt could smell the man’s horrible breath. “Exactly which of your neighbors do you believe will have a problem with a city official doing his duty? Perhaps this person should attend a few classes.”

Hala and Zulfira both knew “taking a few classes” meant being carted off to a reeducation camp.

“All is good,” Zulfira said, lifting her chin to give Ren a timid smile. “Please excuse an overreaction from a distraught female. Of course Mr. Suo is welcome in our home. I will prepare a pallet on the floor by the stove and he may have my sleeping shelf.”

“Now, Mrs. Azizi,” Ren said, shaking his head. “You are a lone woman with no one to take care of you. Who knows if your husband will even wish to come back here. Most women in your shoes are happy to have the guidance of a strong man in the home, someone to teach them, watch over them, to keep them from feeling so alone. Sometimes, mutual feelings blossom—”

Fat Suo’s voice came from behind them as he emerged from the narrow hall, drying thick fingers on a white handkerchief from his pocket.

“Do not frighten her, Ren,” he chuffed. He smiled broadly, swelling his fat cheeks so they all but eclipsed his eyes. “We are supposed to be helpful to our citizens. The forecast calls for snow. I would not presume to have Mrs. Azizi move from her own bed on a night that is to be so cold.” He placed his hand gently on Zulfira’s shoulder. “I represent not only the local government, but Beijing—the Party, the Motherland. Mrs. Azizi knows she has no reason to mistrust my intentions.”

“Thank you,” Zulfira said, trembling, breathing through her mouth. “I was not planning to bring it up, but the pipe under the kitchen faucet has leaked ever since we were told to leave our previous home and moved into this one. Perhaps you could fix that, if you were looking to be helpful.”

“Ren will have someone look at it, of course. But in the meantime, you and I will be fine on the same sleeping shelf. You have nothing to fear from me. As I said, it will be cold.”

Zulfira’s lips parted. “But, sir—”

The bureaucrat clapped his hands together, evidently signifying to his assistant that it was time to go, because Ren was on his feet in an instant.

Zulfira flinched at the noise. Hala thought she might run, but she just sat there, shaking.

“I left a few of my favorite toiletries in your bath,” Suo continued. “You have given so freely of your hospitality with this delicious meal, I do not want to take advantage of you by using your soaps when I shower.” He turned up his nose, transforming his noxious smile into a pinched sneer. “In truth, I do not particularly care for the odor of the soaps you Uyghurs use. I am not … how shall I put this? I am not completely sure that Uyghur products are as effective as they should be at getting the body clean.” He clapped his hands again, a judge delivering his ruling. “I will be back tomorrow afternoon. Please feel free to make use of the soap and shampoo I left when next you shower.”

Hala wanted to scream, but Zulfira flashed her a hard look, quieting her as surely as another slap to the face.

“You are … most generous,” Zulfira stammered. “But—”

“Make use of the soap!” He left no room for argument.

The bureaucrat walked out the door without looking back. Ren paused, his slender hand trailing on the wall as he looked directly at Hala.

“I meant to ask you earlier, child. Have you by any chance had any communication with your mother?”