Murder on the Silk Road by Stefanie Matteson Page B

the windows, the more infuriated Orecchio became. Finally, he turned on Dogie. His teeth were bared, and his hand was pulled back in a fist. Sweat was pouring down his brow.
    The temperature in the car must have been a hundred and ten.
    For a moment Orecchio just stood there. Then he spoke, his voice a low growl. “If you open up one more of those windows, I’ll cold-cock you,” he said. Then he added: “Got that, you cowboy asshole?”
    Dogie stood his ground, a faint smile playing around the corners of his lips. “You wouldn’t dare. If you do, I’ll rope, hogtie, and brand you, and throw you so far it’ll take the Chinese a week to find you. I’m a pretty good fighter for a stamp collector. Wanna try me?”
    Neither of them were big men. Charlotte would have put Dogie’s height at five eight and Orecchio’s at an inch or so shorter. But Dogie had a powerful, muscular build, while Orecchio was thin and slight.
    “Excuse me,” said Bert. “Looks like I’ve got to help out a friend.” Standing up to his full height (which must have been six foot four in stocking feet and six foot six with his cowboy boots on), he sauntered out into the corridor. Crossing his arms casually across his chest and leaning his massive shoulder against the window frame, he proceeded to stare quietly at Orecchio.
    Orecchio seemed to wither before their eyes. Charlotte thought of the saloon patrons cowering in the old Westerns as the hero bursts through the saloon doors, and had to suppress a giggle.
    The moment was defused by the sudden arrival of the conductor, but Charlotte had no doubt that Orecchio would have backed down. Seldom had she seen a man use his size to intimidate so effectively.
    After the conductor had stamped their tickets, the moment was over. But it had nearly come to a fist fight.
    “I think this calls for some pijiu ,” said Dogie as the two men returned to their seats in the compartment.
    “Let me get the beer,” said Peter, gesturing for Dogie to sit back down. “I think you’ve done your work for the evening.” Picking up his carry-on bag, he left them to the analysis of Dogie’s dispute with Orecchio.
    Peter returned a few minutes later with another pitcher of beer.
    “How did you manage this?” asked Charlotte in amazement as she picked up the pitcher to refill their glasses. It was ice cold.
    Peter spoke a word in Chinese. “It means ‘the squeeze,’” he explained. In the Middle East, it’s ‘baksheesh’; in South America, it’s ‘the bite.’ The terms may be different, but the concept’s the same the world over.”
    “I thought the Revolution had purged the People’s Republic of corruption,” said Charlotte facetiously.
    Peter rolled his eyes. “There isn’t anybody in China who can’t be bought with cigarettes”—he pointed at his carry-on bag, which was stuffed with cigarette cartons—“or with yuan and there’s nothing that can’t be accomplished through the back door.”
    “The back door?”
    “Knowing somebody. It’s the only way that anything ever gets done in China.” He looked over at Bert. “As I’m sure you’ll find out when you start to go about organizing your expedition.”
    The expedition hadn’t had an auspicious beginning, thought Charlotte as “My Old Kentucky Home” blared out of the loudspeaker. Over the years she had been on a number of movie shoots that had started out the same way.
    They usually turned out to be total disasters.

4
    They arrived at the railhead at the depressing little town of Liuyan on the afternoon of the second day. Including their sightseeing stopover at Jiayuguan, the fortress at the western terminus of the Great Wall, they had been traveling for forty-one hours. And they hadn’t yet reached their destination. Dunhuang still lay another sixty miles to the south. Charlotte had long ago concluded that there was good reason for its being considered one of the least-known wonders of the world.
    A Japanese-made minibus was