His Teeth are the Best Thing

HIS TEETH ARE THE BEST THING

NOVEMBER 2023

The only flight on Somon Air into Tajikistan from Istanbul arrived at six a.m. Other than the pilot and copilot, the plane was empty. Which made John wonder what everyone knew about flying into Tajikistan that he and Davila didn't.

Mercifully, nothing fell off the plane; none of the engines exploded. After taxiing to the jetway, the copilot emerged from the cockpit and opened the cabin door and left. A second later, the pilot turned off the power and also exited.

John and Davila traded looks, and then John said, "I don't think we're supposed to clean the cabin."

Grabbing their packs from the overheads, they went down the steps. The tarmac was deserted. No baggage handlers. No ground crew.

"This isn't promising," John observed .

"Let's not panic yet," Davila said.

"Me? Panic? I was only stating the obvious. This is just culture shock speaking. You wait, though, until I settle down and get my bearings."

"What are you talking about?" Davila asked, still looking around for signs of life.

"When it's time for me to start panicking." Clearly, Davila didn't know Douglas Adams. He also didn't look like the type of guy who covered his anxiety by making bad jokes. "Never mind." He hooked a thumb toward an open door into the terminal. "Shall we?"

Once inside, they followed arrows. Their footsteps echoed. After walking down a long corridor, they came to a border guard wearing a uniform and what seem to be a scowl tattooed onto his face. The guard spoke no English but went through their passports with a meticulousness bordering on the obsessive: each page front to back then back to front. Twice.

"Think he wants to bust our balls?" Davila opined as the guard started on the ritual for the third time.

"He might just be bored." The guard, John noticed, had also gone still and watched with narrowed eyes. "Or waiting for a bribe."

He watched Davila think about that. "Might be a very good way to wind up in jail. Bribing a security guy, I mean. Hank said the border guys, you know...but he meant the border -border, not the airport."

John tended to agree. Worst-case scenario, they got locked up without so much as a phone call to the U.S. Embassy, much less an interpreter. So, he yawned and stretched and said to the border guy, "Knock yourself out, man. We got all day."

At that, the border guy's features darkened. Maybe nothing doing, bub was the same in every language.

"They toss you in jail," Davila said, "I'm not bailing you out."

"Just remember to put a metal file into that apple pie," John said.

"You're awfully cool for a guy a step away from incarceration."

"Hey, I'm only looking at the doughnut, man."

Grabbing a stamp, the border guy jammed that down twice onto an empty page in both passports before tossing them back and hooking a thumb over a shoulder.

"Another universal." John shoved his passport into an inner pocket of his jacket. "Let's blow before he changes his mind."

"Yeah," Davila said. "And I have got to get Hannah to think of a different metaphor."

The main terminal was a long, single-story building, whose interior was bathed in a myriad of colors from light streaming through a stained-glass front. The effect would've been stunning if the place hadn't felt like a neglected side-chapel in a derelict cathedral.

"Welcome to busy, bustling Dushanbe." Davila turned a circle. "Where is everyone?"

"Maybe they've got the day off?" John said. The place was silent and virtually empty. No employees behind the counters. Perched on a stool in front of a corner kiosk selling candy and ice cream, a woman slowly leafed through a magazine. At the sound of their footstep, she looked up, decided they weren't customers, and went back to her magazine. A smattering of passengers with luggage were scattered up and down the length of the concourse.

"Kind of spooky," Davila said. "Next thing you know, Count Dracula's going to jump out from behind check-in."

"Naw, it's the daytime. He's probably in luggage class with his coffin." But this is ridiculous. Pulling out his water bottle, John swallowed a lukewarm swig as he checked the board for outgoing flights. Moscow, Dubai, Istanbul…

"Nothing scheduled to leave until later today," Davila said. "Probably accounts for why it's so empty."

"Great." His restless fingers fiddled with the fresh duct tape he'd wrapped around his bottle back at Brighter Days. Patterson had given them both a clean cell and a mini satellite phone. The mini-sat was only for extraction , as Patterson put it, though the unit was also equipped with an SOS broadcast beacon. The cell had one number on speed-dial, which went directly to Patterson, but that was only useful if there was a signal or Wi-Fi. John had no one to text. He wasn't on social media and there was probably no cell coverage once they go out of Dushanbe. In the end, he'd downloaded some books and a couple of maps just to be on the safe side. Once they were into the mountains, the only way to talk to anyone was via the sat. John couldn't help but remember that film with Wahlberg where the men can't raise anyone and the one guy who ventures out into the open to try gets aerated. "We could call Patterson, I guess. See if he can track down our contact."

"Let's give it a couple minutes." Davila turned a full circle. "I trust Hank, and he said this was arranged. Someone'll find us."

"Uh-huh." Digging out the cell, he saw that he had bars. Pulling up Patterson's number, he stared at the screen. Would Patterson have any more information to offer or a contact number in Tajikistan? He doubted it. Patterson wasn't truly in charge.

But can he get through to whoever is? His thumb hovered over the speed dial. There's got to be someone I can talk ? —

A voice, heavily accented, from somewhere behind them: "Mr. Child? Mr. King?"

They turned. There were two men at the airport's main entrance. One was small and wore a felt cap, wide grimy beige trousers, an equally grimy blousy top over which he'd draped a long open vest the color of gunmetal. The other, a bluff man with reddish hair, light blue eyes, and a physique that could've passed for Wisconsin-Lean, waved again.

"You are Mr. Child and Mr. King, yes?" The big man's gaze shuttled back and forth between them. "Which is which?"

Davila hooked a thumb. "He's Child."

"Three guesses who he is." When Davila gave him a sidelong glance, John shrugged. "Doughnut."

"Never mind him," Davila said as the big man's bushy eyebrows drew together in something that resembled a furry caterpillar. "We're the guys you're looking for."

"I see." Though his tone suggested otherwise. "I am sorry we were… ehrm …delayed." His English was good, but his Russian accent was so thick, he could've been an extra in a Sean Connery Bond movie. "The van had a few…mmm…what would you call them? Mechanical difficulties. But Parviz has repaired. "

At the sound of his name, the small guy's thin lips peeled back in a smile that revealed a mouthful of what looked more like rotten tent pegs driven into a bog. "He does not speak English well, which is perhaps to your benefit," the bluff guy confided then offered a hand as large as a bear's paw. Even his huge knuckles and the back of his hand were furred. "I am Ustinov. Alas, no…mmm…how do you say, no family ?"

"What?" Davila asked.

"You mean no relation ?" John said. "To Peter?"

"So, you know? Very good!" Ustinov beamed. In contrast to Parviz, his teeth were large, very white, and very even as if someone had implanted two boxes of Chiclets. "Yes, him , that is correct. We have a…mmm…how do you say? A spiritual connection." Ustinov shrugged. "It's a good name."

"Yes, it is." John would also bet good money that Ustinov was about as real a name for this man as Child was for him and King for Davila. A Russian now in the mix was also…interesting. On the one hand, the Russians were supposed to be gone. On the other, they had occupied Tajikistan for a long time.

There was, of course, a third consideration. If this mission, whatever it turned out to be, was spook-driven, Ustinov might be KGB. Nothing was entirely secret, especially in these days of drone intercepts, AI, and deep fakes. So, anything was possible. The real question was, why would the Russians help retrieve an American's remains? Something did not add up. But what was it?

Interesting, too, that the guy figures I'll get the joke. This implied that Ustinov knew of John's fondness for old flicks and that meant someone, somewhere, had a pretty extensive file on him.

And why was that?

Davila raised a hand. "Seeing as how I'm kind of in the dark here, is anyone going to tell me who this non-relative is?"

"Peter Ustinov was an actor. British. Famous but not Taylor Swift - famous. More like…" John searched for a comparison. "ABBA-famous."

Davila frowned. "Who's ABBA?"

"Exactly," John said. "Anyway, Peter Ustinov died about twenty years ago."

" This is what you do with your downtime? Watch old movies no one else in the universe knows?"

"I have seen only a very few of his movies," Ustinov said. "They are, how do you say…" The Russian put a thick forefinger to his lips. The hairs on his knuckles were like tangles of copper wire. "Ah, yes, classics. " He gave Davila an expectant look. "You like classics?"

Davila shrugged. " Terminator was good."

"Gotta agree," John said.

"Yes, yes!" Ustinov laughed hard enough his belly jiggled. Throw in a little snow, change his clothes, dye the hair, add a beard...the man could be Jolly St. Nick. "I completely agree. Though the sequel was far…mmm…superior. Did you know this was Schwarzenegger's favorite?"

"Yeah? I don't think that crossed my radar," John said. "Which of Peter's did you like?"

"Let me think." Ustinov cocked a single eyebrow then offered John that dazzling smile. "His teeth are the best thing about him."

He instantly recognized the line and the film. "That's an old one all right. Good choice, though."

"What?" Then Davila flapped a hand. "You know, forget it. You guys have fun."

"We're bonding." To Ustinov: "Did you know that Kubrick disowned that film?"

"Really?" Ustinov's bottle-brush eyebrows arched for his hair line. "But Spartacus is a splendid film. Why was Kubrick unhappy?"

"The way I heard it, everybody on-set was fighting with everybody else. Laurence Olivier and Charles Laughton despised each other. Kubrick also didn't like the screenplay or have total control over the shoot. Once it was released, John Wayne tried to have it banned from theaters."

"Finally, an actor I know," Davila said. "Why would Wayne do that?"

"Because of Dalton Trumbo."

"Who was Trumbo? "

"Writer. Screenplays, mostly, and one really famous book."

"Which one?"

" Johnny Got His Gun ," he said—and, in a corner of his mind, wondered if Patterson or whoever really was pulling the strings here was sending him a message. If so, someone knew a lot more about him than even the military. A person would really have to dig and go very far back to a time when John wasn't John, but another boy who was nothing more than smoke and mirrors—and then further back still, to yet another kid who'd lived through a nightmare.

Maybe that was one of the reasons he was so obsessed with old movies. They were all only fictions. Just a bunch of stories. A collection of other people's nightmares. Better than dwelling on his own, that was for sure. He bet a shrink would say he had some kind of repetition-compulsion. The shrink wouldn't be wrong.

"Johnny Got His Gun?" Davila echoed then snapped his fingers. "Wait, I know that one. WWI guy, no arms, no legs, can't speak or see. He's deaf, too, right?"

"That's the one. Trumbo was also a member of the communist party and part of the Hollywood Ten, the writers blacklisted for being communist sympathizers. Even though the film came out several years after McCarthy was booted, people remembered. The Red Scare was pretty potent back then."

"Yes," Ustinov said. "If you will forgive the… ehrm …observation, this is one scare from which your country is still running."

The front of the airport was as deserted as the terminal. No baggage guys, no cars dropping off passengers, and only one taxi. Ustinov had a short exchange with Parviz, who nodded and walked off.

"This way." Ustinov beckoned them across the terminal approach road toward a large rectangular garden area behind a low border of black wrought iron. An array of bright-red flowers bloomed. A series of hedges were elaborately manicured and trimmed into pyramids, like something lifted from Versailles. A fountain with a statue rising from the center occupied the middle of the garden. The statue was tall, thin, and very white and seemed to be a man wearing a space helmet and an outfit that reminded John of old pictures of John Glenn and the Mercury astronauts, a comparison bolstered by a halo of stylized stars and satellites around the statue's head.

"Looks like something from Sputnik," John said.

"The same general idea," Ustinov agreed. "It's a tribute to reaching for the stars. "

"Tajikistan has an astronaut program?" Davila asked.

"No, it's a relic from the Russians. They are why our capital's parks and fountains and roads are so good. We have the second tallest flagpole in the world."

"Where's the first?"

"Saudi Arabia." Ustinov shrugged. "Times change."

He led them across the street and down a walkway lined with tall trees. To their left was a largely deserted parking lot. Dead ahead, John heard the whirr of traffic but much more faintly than before as the limbs from the towering trees on either side of the path met above. They were, effectively, in a cool, quiet, green tunnel.

"This area has been swept. It is safe. We must keep walking, however." Reaching inside his overcoat, Ustinov withdrew two packets. "Identity papers and visas. I must say," the Russian said as he handed John a packet, "I think Die Trying is your best novel, Mr. Child. Very instructive."

"Always been one of my favorites," John said.

"And worthy of a careful reread," Ustinov said, "if you do not mind my saying so."

Davila looked offended. "You don't like any of mine?"

"Ah." Ustinov put a finger to his mouth, thought, then said, " Desperation. "

"Okay, that's obscure." From Davila's expression, John could tell he'd never heard of the book. That particular novel was as interesting a choice, in fact, as the book Ustinov had referenced for him .

Why did both mentions feel like... code ?

"Launceston?" Davila was leafing through his new Australian passport. "I don't even know where that is."

"Tasmania," John said. Perhaps Patterson or, more likely, the nebulous they who'd asked for John decided they could both fake having lived on Tasmania, which was mostly farmland and surrounded by the sea. Probably wasn't all that different from, say, Lake Superior, other than Superior didn't smell like salt and there were ducks. He and Davila probably wouldn't even have to try for the accent. "Just say mate and barbie a lot, and we're golden."

Davila pocketed his passport. "You have cash? I heard we'll need that for the border."

"Yes." Ustinov handed over two square black pouches. Both were heavy and zipped, each pull tab snugged into a metal clasp on one end of the zipper. The clasp featured a gray rectangle in the center. "Money for both sides of the border."

Davila took one, turned the pouch over in his hands then frowned. "Where's the pull tab for the zip? "

"Here." Ustinov indicated the gray rectangle. "Press your left thumb against that."

Davila did. A split second later, the pull tab popped from its lock slot. "Fingerprint activated?" When Ustinov nodded, Davila said, "How did you get ahold of my thumbprint?"

Ustinov made an apologetic gesture. "That is, as you say, need-to-know and I do not. Both your thumbprint and Mr. Child's have been programmed into the pouches, which are constructed of cut-resistant material. They are also fireproof. Lastly, should someone be able to somehow pierce the material, there is an...how do you say it...erhm…as a final precaution..."

"A bomb?" John suggested.

Ustinov snapped his fingers. "An incendiary."

"You're serious. The thing is a flash-bang?"

"Of a sort. Only a very small explosion. More like a very bright, very loud firecracker. Just enough to incinerate the contents. There is a way to disable the incendiary, of course."

"Of course." John waited. "Which is?"

"Ah, yes." Turning over a case, Ustinov pointed to a miniscule flap. "This is...erhm...how you say, Velcro? Pull like this." He pulled then showed them a small white nib. "Press and hold five seconds and that incendiary is disabled."

"Wow." He and Davila traded looks, and then Davila said, "Why do I feel like I just tripped into a James Bond movie?"

"He kind of does look a little bit like John Cleese," John said. "If, you know, Cleese was, like, twenty years young and Russian."

"Please." Ustinov looked offended. "I am dead in...erhm... earnest . As you can see, there is no way anyone will be able to deprive you of cash along the way."

"Unless," John observed, "they deprive us of our thumbs and wear a blast shield and fire-retardant gloves."

"There you go again, jumping to worst case scenarios," Davila said.

"Helps me prepare for unpleasant surprises," John said.

Ustinov pushed on. "Parviz also has several bottles of vodka. Those are for the Tajik guards. While they are bribes, you must call them ‘gifts.' You mustn't forget to phrase them as such. That is very important."

"What about the Afghan side?"

"Only cash. Don't offer vodka. If there is a Taliban soldier around, you might be flogged. Or land in jail." Ustinov put a furry finger to his lips. "Actually, they will have you meet with an accident…say, you will get in the path of a bullet or take one step too many off a short pier. They will take the money, of course. Not that it will do them mu ch good unless, as you say, they deprive you of your right thumb."

"And have a fire extinguisher handy," John put in. "Or figure out the flap-and-button thingy."

"What if the only guards are Afghans?" Davila asked.

"Same result," Ustinov said. "Only they will drink the vodka and then try to take your money. Best to avoid either scenario, yes?"

"How likely are we to run into hardcore Taliban?" Davila asked.

"Very," Ustinov said. "They have many reasons to patrol that border area."

"People smuggling?"

Ustinov nodded. "In addition to infiltration by hostiles through a less-traveled route. Once you are across, however, it will be some time before you meet any Pamiris or Kyrgyz." Ustinov pronounced it as Kihr-gess . "They are nomads. Pamiris are usually more settled, though there are several bands who travel the mountains. Here." Tugging a cell from a vest pocket, Ustinov poked the screen with a hairy forefinger then turned the screen to show them both a map.

"There is where we are in Dushanbe," Ustinov said, indicating a red teardrop in the center of the country. "You can see we are north of the mountains. Now, this…" He traced a thin black line south of Dushanbe and in the mountains. "This is the border with Afghanistan, which follows a river."

"The Panj," Davila said.

"Correct." Ustinov wagged his head. "On the Tajik side, the border is at Eshkashim. On the Afghan, it is Ishkashim and about five kilometers' walk to the west. As you can see, the border is not near any settlements, though that is the mouth of the Wakhan into Afghanistan proper."

"But that's where we'll meet our guide on the Afghan side?"

"A guide, yes."

"Name?" John asked. "Animal? Vegetable? Mineral?"

"What?" Before he could answer, Ustinov waved a hand. "Never mind. You will have a guide. Ask for Abdul-Ami. He will also wait forty-eight hours for you, if you are delayed."

"Why would that happen?"

"Rockslides, bad weather. We want to allow for contingencies."

"Okay." Adul-Ami was, John knew, the equivalent of Mr. Smith. "And then this guy will take us to…?"

"To your contact in the town who also has instructions to wait. I do not know who. I am sorry. That is, how do you say it? Higher than my money?"

"Above your pay grade," Davila said.

"Yes. Your idioms…" Shaking his head, Ustinov pointed to another area on his cell's map. "From here, you will follow the M41 the entire way. This is a relatively nice highway, a big draw for tourists who like to take motorcycles or pedal their bicycles from Osh in Kyrgyzstan to Dushanbe or vice versa."

"Seriously? Tourists?"

Ustinov made a dismissive gesture. "They are looking for adventure. I have always found it so curious how these people like to…erhm…how do you say?"

"Rough it?"

"Yes, yes, that's it. As if being dirty and smelly and tired and hungry and cold is somehow very romantic, possibly because they know it is not permanent. They have hot showers and comfortable beds in their homes and good internet. It is, I suppose, a different paintbrush for different people?"

"Different strokes for different folks," John put in.

"Ah, yes. In any event, the Pamir Highway is a present left from the Russians and well-maintained around Dushanbe and its environs. You will also not use this road the entire way. Once you are through the Tavildara Pass and Khorog, you will travel southwest on the Wakhan Valley road toward Ishkashim."

John heard the but in Ustinov's voice. "Let me guess. It isn't very nice the farther from the Dushanbe we go." When Ustinov nodded, he said, "They don't repave?"

Ustinov tipped his head the way a curious dog might at a question it doesn't quite get. "There is, ah…how do you say it? No such thing in the countryside. Once you leave the valley and begin to climb—and you will be climbing quite high because these are, after all, some of the highest mountains and mountain valleys in the region—the road can be quite challenging. Rocks, landslides, potholes. No trees, little vegetation, no settlements to speak of. In many places, the highway simply evaporates, and the road is a dirt cut wide enough for a vehicle. This is especially true at higher elevations." Ustinov gave another of his all-purpose shrugs. "On the other hand, that may be to your benefit. That the road is so poor, I mean. It will take you some time to reach Khorog and then the border."

"How long?" Davila asked.

"Two days. Your guide understands that there may be delays and so will wait for another forty-eight. After that, you are..." Another shrug.

"Toast."

Ustinov got that one. "More likely than not. "

"Wow." John scrubbed the back of his head with his knuckles. "I guess the upside is we'll have time to adjust to the altitude. That's not a bad thing."

"How high are we going?" Davila asked.

"The entire Wakhan corridor is more than two miles high, like Denver only doubled. The mountains top out at eleven thousand. Mountains around Brighter Days?" John made a piffling sound. "Like pimples. But I got us covered."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." During college, he'd decided that a ski trip to Taos with friends might be fun. It wasn't. While his friends skied, he spent the majority of the trip in a dark room with a pounding migraine. He only wished he'd known then what, after pharmacology elective in med school, he now did. "I asked Patterson for acetazolamide."

"What is it?" Davila asked.

"Diuretic. You'll pee your brains out, but your brains aren't gonna dribble out of your ears either." At Davila's look, he added, "Hey, man, doughnut."

"What," Ustinov asked, mystified, "is this obsession you have with a pastry?"

They kept walking. "What about weapons?" Davila asked .

"Parviz has them," Ustinov said. "He, too, will be armed."

Davila's eyebrows arched. "Oh?"

"Bandits," Ustinov said. "Most are young men and very poor. There are no jobs, and so they must leave for Russia. Everyone hates them there. Worse, the Russians are also letting in many young Afghan men, who must also feed their families. You cannot be too careful."

"That wasn't in any of the travel brochures." At Davila's look, John shrugged. "Well, it wasn't."

Confused, Ustinov looked from John to Davila and back again. "I am sorry...what?"

"Nothing. Bad habit." Stop. You're not auditioning to be Ryan Reynolds' stunt double . "Were you able to get ahold of what I asked for?"

"The Glock 19 and that rifle? Yes." Ustinov nodded. "With plenty of ammunition, though not enough to…how do you say it? Swamp you?"

John was getting used to the way Ustinov mangled idioms. "Bog me down."

"That, yes. You will likely have to travel on foot once you are within the Wakhan."

"What about me?" Davila asked.

"Ah, yes." Clasping his hands together, Ustinov looked like a ma?tre-de apologizing for not having someone's favorite table. "I am afraid you were...an add-on? Is that correct? I only had time to procure a Kalashnikov for you, Mr. King. "

"No sidearm?"

"I'm afraid not, no."

"Hey, look on the bright side," John said. "You won't have trouble finding extra ammo."

Davila's scowl only deepened. "How about it'd be nice if we didn't have to go the trouble of finding any extra ammo?"

"And who said you weren't a doughnut kind of guy?"

"Your rifle," Ustinov put in quickly, "this M20?"

"Mk22," John said.

"Yes, that. I've never heard of it."

"Me, either," Davila said.

John wasn't surprised, given that the rifle was only adopted by the Marines a few months ago. "It's new."

"How do you even know about it?" Davila asked. "You were at...ah...away."

Yeah, thanks for not spilling that I was in a kinder, softer loony bin. Brighter Days was nothing of the kind, but sometimes—in those moments when he wondered why he just couldn't hack it and man up already—he made jokes. Bad ones. "I just know."

"But why not a Kalashnikov?" Ustinov said. "You can find ammunition more easily."

"I like the feel."

"We'll be fine." Davila changed the subject. "Where do we meet our contact? "

"Parviz will let you off ten kilometers shy of Ishkashim."

"Let us off." He and Davila traded looks, and then Davila said, "And then Parviz just drives away?" When Ustinov nodded, he continued, "With or without our contact actually being there? We got any way of letting him know where we are?"

"I'm afraid not, no." Ustinov offered a mournful shake. I'm sure you understand."

"Actually, no," John said. The traffic noise was louder. Ahead, the thick canopy made by the trees was thinning and the light on the path below brighter. "What if we're late? Or really early?"

"All this has been factored into the timing of your rendezvous. Parviz will see to it that you are delivered to the proper location at the proper time."

"With no one knowing where we are? What happens if the contact is hurt, killed, not able to get there? Or if we get a flat tire, run out of gas…"

Ustinov cut him off. "Again, contingencies have been made."

This was all very vague. John tossed a look at Davila, who was studying Ustinov—and saw Davila's face clear. "I get it," Davila said.

"You do?" John asked.

Davila nodded. "You don't know what these contingencies are, do you, Ustinov? Or the actual sites? In case this blows up. "

Ustinov ducked his head in acknowledgement. "It is important for me to have, as you say in your country, plausible deniability."

But this Parviz guy must know more. The driver would have to in order to drop them where they needed to be and point them in the right direction. John was about to point that out then thought better of it. They could try and pump Parviz out of Ustinov's hearing. But wait, according to Ustinov, the guy's English sucked. How much sense did that make? Giving them a driver who knew only pidgin English? And us, only pidgin... well, what? He didn't know Tajik and, other than stick out your tongue and do you feel sick , no Pashtun either. He wondered how much Russian he could dredge up from the old memory banks.

"Ustinov, you have to know something ," Davila pressed.

"Alas, no. Please." The big man held up a palm as big around as a pie plate. "I cannot tell you what I do not know. I am sorry. I have not been, as you might say, written into the book."

"Yeah," Davila said. "A lot of that going around."

They emerged from the trees and onto a path. This led to a long, low, red-roofed building with a parking lot. The only vehicle in the lot was a splotchy green-and-brown blunt-nosed van with a roof rack that reminded John, vaguely, of those old Volkswagen vans hippies used to sleep in.

"Seriously?" Davila asked. "This rust bucket is our ride?"

"It runs," Ustinov said.

"So did Fred Flintstone's car," John said. He'd pulled a water bottle—wrapped in duct tape because old habits die hard—from a pocket of his cargo pants.

"I'm sorry?"

"Never mind." Yaba-daba-doo. He took a swig. "This thing really belongs in a scrap heap," he said, worrying a loose tongue of duct tape.

"The Tajiks are a resourceful people. The Soviets left many vehicles such as this bukhanka ," Ustinov said.

"Which is?" Davila asked.

Loaf of bread. Which John almost said but bit back at the last second. For some reason he couldn't quite pinpoint, he decided to keep the fact that he knew a bit of Russian under wraps.

"How do you call it…erhm…a bread loaf?" Ustinov said. "What you buy in market? The official designation for this particular variation is UZ3741. Two gas tanks, four-wheel drive. The model comes in many models?—"

He broke off at a sudden, high metallic drill-bit of a squeal as Parviz muscled open the driver's side door, hopped out, smiled, and did a quick bow before hooking his hands into the slider.

"You ask me, you should've put this thing out of its misery," John said, as he watched the smaller man strain so hard the cords stood out on the backs of his hands and the muscles on his forearms knotted. "Looks like a refugee from Woodstock. All you need are a bunch of flowers and a peace sign."

Ustinov's bushy brows folded. "I do not understand this… erhm …woodchuck? Is this about the animal who sees his shadow?" He had to raise his voice over the slider, which Parviz had finally dragged open with a loud and grudging squawww of metal against metal. "That was a very fine movie."

"Don't," Davila warned as John opened his mouth. "Don't say it."

"Who, me?" John asked.

Davila ignored him. "I'd like to check out the weapons."

"Me, too." John held up a hand as Parviz trotted over to grab their duffels. "We'll stow our stuff, thanks." First rule of the military: don't let anyone mess with your gear or many items might suddenly develop legs.

The cargo space was cluttered: a tool case, a bag of rags, food wrappers, a litter of soda cans, a clutch of zip ties, a spare tire, snow chains, wheel chocks, a lug wrench, a stained tarp, what looked like a prayer rug, and a small cushion. Four large, clear plastic jugs filled with liquid that was probably extra gas were strapped to panels with zip ties.

There were also two hard-shell handgun cases, both black. One was paired with a green long gun shell, while the second nestled next to a battered AK 47. Parviz's weapon. John studied the nicked wooden buttstock and saw something in Cyrillic, probably the previous owner's name scratched into the wood.

"I thought you said you couldn't find a second Glock," Davila said.

"The second is for Parviz," Ustinov said. "His request."

Okay, that's odd . He waited for Davila to say something, but the other man was already opening the long brown shell to examine a pristine AK nestled in a foam cutout.

John reflected that perhaps what his therapist at Brighter Days said about him not being a very trusting soul was accurate. He thought it was a little odd that Parviz took the opportunity to grab a new weapon for himself. On the other hand, given the state of this van, Parviz was clearly hard up for cash.

Still, something felt a bit off. He wished he knew what.

He opened the green long gun case first. Nestled in foam cutouts were the various pieces of a pale-brown rifle. A black scope and a suppressor were snugged alongside. There were also three boxes of ammunition for the rifle. Opening one, he tweezed out and inspected a shiny, pointed brass bullet before slotting the Winchester cartridge back into its box. He would need to put the rifle together and sight it in, but this was not the time or place.

"Nice piece," Davila said. After safetying the weapon and opening the chamber, he squinted down the bore to check out the barrel. "Clean as a whistle. Looks like it's never seen a bullet."

Ducking his head a touch, Ustinov spread his hands. "We were quite careful about procurement."

"Uh-huh." Popping his Glock's magazine, John press checked the weapon, made sure it was empty, then did a basic field strip: fiddling with the locking bar, wiggling the trigger bar, playing with the trigger to make sure it returned and didn't stick.

"Is there a problem?" Ustinov asked.

"Nope." There was no lube where the barrel seated, no hint of grease. After inspecting the recoil spring, John studied the barrel and, as with Davila's AK, saw no dings or cracks. A faint odor of gun oil tickled his nose. Interesting. As he put the gun back together, he said, "But what makes Parviz think he'll need a handgun on the road? He's got a rifle."

"There has been…unpleasantness along parts of the road. Not that I expect you to have trouble at th is time of year, but one cannot be too careful. There are times when a rifle is too cumbersome."

"Oh?" Davila asked as John reached for the case containing the second Glock. "What kind of trouble?"

"Bandits. You are not going into the most prosperous of regions. With the Americans gone, the Taliban can spread, but so can bandits who cross into Tajikistan and then back."

"I thought there are Russian soldiers at the border."

"Some, but the Taliban stay mostly on the Afghan side. The bandits cross back and forth. Many are from militias, some of whom fought against the Taliban and some who did not. Their leaders are gone, and they are…how do you say it? Dangling threads."

"At loose ends," John said.

"Yes, yes." Ustinov gave an enthusiastic nod. "These men have to eat, but there are no homes or villages to which they can return without being reported to the Taliban."

"That's harsh."

"It's a harsh land, Mr. Child. Their neighbors are just as hungry as everyone else."

"What will the Taliban do for them?" Davila asked. "In exchange for turning someone in?"

"It is more what they will not do. The Taliban will not burn down your house, not take your women, kill your parents, or kidnap your children. They even might offer to buy your children. Girls are particularly…" Ustinov thought about the next word. "Coveted."

John didn't even want to think about that. He thumbed open the second gun case and took out the Glock that had been next to Parviz's rifle. "And the boys?"

"It depends on the boy's age. Some are forced to become soldiers. Many others are…" Ustinov's forthright gaze skittered away from John to study the trees. "Put to different uses in various households."

"Meaning?" Davila asked.

"I'll tell you later." A stone had formed in John's gut. The more things change… Wasn't this the part of the movie where he had come in more than two years ago? He changed the subject. "If the warlords are mostly gone, then you're really only talking Taliban and wealthy guys doing business. What kind of business could there be in the mountains?"

Ustinov opened his mouth to answer but, at that moment, Parviz scuttled around, took a look at the open gun cases, and said something in a language filled with harsh gutturals. Sounded like Russian to John; he caught what sounded like vverkh, the word he knew meant up. Nodding, Ustinov said, "Parviz has reminded me that the day will not grow any longer. "

"Okay," John said as the driver moved in and gestured for him and Davila to step away. Replacing the second Glock case to the right of his Mk22, he repeated his question. "What kind of business?"

"Something every country covets and can't find in quantity," Ustinov said as Parviz busied himself with shuffling items back and forth. "The first deposits were discovered by the Chinese in the Kunar District, at the mouth of Korangal to our south. Chinese mineralogists also found large deposits in the Wakhan and very close to their border."

"So, what is it?" Davila asked.

"The locals know it as tahktapat . Waste kunzite in English."

"Which is?"

"Spodumene." Ustinov favored them both with that flawless grin. "Lithium."

Davila was already settled in the cargo bay when John said to Ustinov, "Wait, before we get started, you got a pencil? I like to doodle. Helps me think, but I lost mine."

"Of course." Ustinov patted pockets before pulling a pencil from his vest. "My pleasure."

"Thanks." The eraser was only slightly worn. Excellent. Unbuttoning a side flap of his cargo pants where he kept his water bottle, he fiddled with the bottle before slotting in the pencil and buttoning up. Once done, he tugged the balky slider shut then climbed aboard just as Parviz cranked the engine which coughed, chugged then grumbled to life in a gray exhaust cloud.

As he settled into the front passenger seat, he noticed Parviz fumbling through a box of cassettes. "No radio?"

Ustinov, still at the open door: "Nothing you would like, and not once you leave this valley. I hope you like rock."

"In English?"

"Russian. Some Tajik." Ustinov considered. "It is very bad rock. Do buckle up, please."

"Just don't crash," Davila put in. "I got no seat belt back here."

"Yes, but look on the bright side, Mr. King," Ustinov said. "With such a vehicle, no one will be tempted to steal it."