A Fork in the Road

A FORK IN THE ROAD

NOVEMBER 2023: KHOROG

The going had been slow, with Parviz taking many detours to avoid a ruined patch of road or yet another slide, but they finally reached Khorog at two in the afternoon the day after the test with the pencil. As the van rumbled down Lenin Street, John thought that except for the snow-capped Pamir Mountains and a few free-roaming cows hunkered down in the park, they might be in small-town Wisconsin.

"We eat here," Parviz said, hanging a quick left and cutting off another driver who leaned on his horn. "Best food."

"You're kidding," Davila said. Facing the street, a red sign with white letters hung from a third-floor railing: MAC Doland's . In case a customer couldn't read the English, those unmistakable golden arches were a good a sign as any. "You want a Big Mac? Now ? We've got only about two hours of daylight left, and we're behind schedule. We need to keep going."

"I get you to border tomorrow morning." Parviz traced a big X with a forefinger over his left breast. "Promise heart."

"How many hours to the border rendezvous?"

"From here, maybe five, maybe six. We no get to border before dark anyway and, if we go, we miss MAC Doland's !" Parviz gave the sign a rapturous look. " Only cow from here to Dushanbe or Osh. Everywhere goat." Popping his driver's side door, he hopped out, stretched, and threw his arms out wide. "Wi-Fi, too! Civilized! We be fast, yes?" Without waiting for an answer, Parviz headed for the stairs.

"I think we're stopping," John said.

The restaurant's entrance was at the end of three flights of stairs. The place smelled of fried potatoes, fried onions, and greasy fried meat, but that was where the similarities with the American version ended. The walls were decorated with red, yellow, white, and green stripes which seemed to be intended to match the eye-watering neon colors of the cushioned benches (red, lime-green, burnt orange) and Formica tabletops (red, lime-green, yellow, orange, and—weirdly—light lavender). Most customers were white-haired grandparents drinking cups of coffee and scrolling on their cells while young children, presumably their grandkids, used ketchup to brush up on their finger-painting skills. Judging from what passed for art on the walls—crude, bloody sketches of things which might be either spaceships trailing exhaust or tadpoles with exceptionally long tails—John thought the kids couldn't do any worse.

MAC Doland's served only the basics. No Happy Meals, for example. No combos. No chicken, either. They all ordered Big Macs, fries, and large coffees: milk and sugar for Parviz, black for John and Davila. "Come, come," Parviz said, turning from the counter and heading for the back. "They bring."

"Table service?" Davila asked.

"Cool." John was about to observe that this was a hopeful sign but didn't when Parviz passed several open tables before sliding into a back corner table. Which was interesting.

Davila must've been thinking the same thing because he said, "Keeping an eye on the place?"

"Maybe? We are the only Westerners in the joint," he said, as Parviz pulled out a cell and started scrolling. The majority of the patrons had given them only a cursory once-over before going back to their conversations or phones. "Not like anyone's eye-checking us, though."

Still, an interesting spot. His gaze drifted to a poster on the wall immediately over Parviz's left shoulder. "Tell me what that poster reminds you of."

Davila frowned. "Not sure, but…why do I keep thinking of a sewer?"

"It's in the movie." The Tajik equivalent of Ronald could have climbed out of a Stephen King-fueled nightmare. "I liked the original It , but the clown in the remake is totally awesome. But that's kind of not my point, see what I'm saying? Parviz has a phone. So how come he's only been using those old maps of his?" The maps were vintage, creased and stained with use, with marginal notes inked in what was probably Tajik next to place names spelled in Cyrillic.

"I don't understand."

"Davila, he's got a cell. Why isn't he using sat-nav to figure alternative routes?"

"Maybe nothing's changed. You heard Ustinov. Only the roads around the capital are any good."

"Okay, I'll grant you that. But are you really saying that in more than thirty years, nothing has changed? No new roads or villages?"

"Tajikistan's economy isn't exactly booming."

"Booming enough for a McDonald's lookalike. Booming enough for there to be new buildings on the road to Khorog. Davila, I don't care how well the guy says he knows the mountains. He can't possibly have every alternative in his head. I'll bet there are new routes that don't show up on his maps."

Davila studied him a moment then said, "Where is this coming from? Because what you're really saying is that this might be a setup. What gives?"

He knew exactly why he was pressing this point. A small part of his conscience niggled: You should tell him.

Shut up, you. He straight-aimed that Jiminy Cricket piece of his brain out of the way. Mind your own business.

"Let's just say that I wonder if Parviz is going slow on purpose or taking roads that are more likely to be impassable than others. That he's put us behind schedule on purpose."

"And that this is a setup? Like he says We'll be next to the clown. These are the guys ?"

"Possible. Maybe that poster is the Tajik equivalent of the Waterloo Clock."

"The what ?"

"From an old movie," John said. " Brief Encounter. This woman and this guy bump into each other under this big old clock which hangs at Waterloo Station in London. She's married; he's not. They're doomed."

" This is what you're trying to tell me?" Davila started for the table. "That we're doomed?"

"Well..."

As they waited, Davila and Parviz texted. When John asked, Parviz said he was talking to his son: He watch home when I go drive. Many childrens. The driver held up six fingers. Many mouths.

Plausible. Of course, since neither he nor Davila could read Tajiki, this was something he had to take on faith. On the other hand, that was one thing he'd noticed in Kabul: people might've been dirt-poor, but many had cells. Kabul's cell towers were visible from the airport.

As for Davila, he was probably messaging Hannah. Or maybe giving Patterson a status report: A-OK. Food sucks. John not cracked up yet but, boy, talk about paranoid.

Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Stabbing his phone to life, he pulled up the book he was reading. A decent Child novel, and he remembered correctly that it was all about the Army guy teaming up with a female FBI agent after they're both kidnapped and taken into a mountain stronghold. While his cell still had bars in Dushanbe, he'd decided to download the two titles Ustinov had referenced. Why? Because Ustinov had mentioned them, and John didn't think the guy did throwaway lines.

He got only a couple sentences further on but couldn't make heads or tails of the paragraph. His mind kept jumping to the weapons. What had happened with the Glock. The mystery of why and how Roni's remains ended up in the Wakhan, of all places. Although...

Ustinov said there were lithium mines in the mountains.

Which meant there were people. Villagers, more than likely. Parviz said people were hard up for work.

But mines are dangerous. Living in Wisconsin, he'd been to the Upper Peninsula's Rust Belt. Lots of old mines up there and in Minnesota: iron and copper, mainly. What he also remembered was that many of these old mines had medical stations set up underground. Which made sense. If someone's hurt, time matters, all the way around. You don't want to lose time, because time is money. But you don't want to lose a worker either for the same ? —

Oh. The light bulb of a new idea went off in his brain. Oh, my God.

"You okay?"

"What?" His thoughts derailed. He looked up from his phone to find both Davila and Parviz staring back. "Yeah. Fine. Why?"

"You don't look so fine," Davila said. "At the risk of sounding cliché, you look like you just saw a ghost."

"He hungry. Food come soon." Pocketing his phone, Parviz pushed to a stand. "I go pee."

"Hope it comes out okay," John said as the driver disappeared around a corner trailing a big guy wearing a brightly embroidered taqiyya .

"You hope it comes out okay ?" Davila asked. "What are you, ten?"

He shrugged. "Trying to lighten the mood."

"If you're in the fifth grade." Davila's eyes narrowed. "Seriously, man, you look spooked. What is it?"

"I was..." He chewed over what he ought to say and how that might sound. "Do you wonder how Roni ended up in the Wakhan? I mean, why there , of all places?"

"To be honest? Not really. I just figured someone snatched her..." Davila looked uncomfortable. "Her remains. Maybe thought they could use them for barter. You know, how they do POW swaps and all that. Why?"

"Because of what Ustinov said."

"About?" Then Davila's forehead smoothed as his frown bled away. "The mines?"

"Yes, because mines are dangerous. So, if you're operating a mine?—"

"Food!" Parviz was there, loaded tray in hand, a grin on his face. "Bottom up!"

Neither of them bothered to correct him.

"You finish?" Parviz unwrapped a stick of mint gum that had been tucked into a napkin. "We need go soon."

"Almost there." Davila crammed a last bite into his mouth. "Might want to grab another, though," he said around burger and bun. "Better than those MREs, and I might get another cup of battery acid...er... coffee , to go."

Parviz's jaws worked ferociously. "You no like?"

"Naw," Davila said. "Although that coffee would've tasted better when it was first brewed."

"Last April," John said then added, "two years ago."

"Bingo." Davila shot him an imaginary bullet. "That's what I was thinking."

"I think taste fine." Parviz looked offended. "Best we got."

That touched his conscience. People might have cells here, but they were poor. For Parviz, he bet this was something special. "It was fine." John piled empty food wrappers back onto their tray. "And maybe a burger to go isn't a bad idea. I could use some more caffeine, too. Parviz, you want another cup? Maybe another burger?"

"Yes, that good." Parviz cracked his gum. "You get. I go pee."

The man had a bladder the size of a walnut. "Sure." As Parviz headed for the men's room. John picked up their tray of rubbish, turned toward the counter?—

And then, boom .

Déjà vu all over again.

The boy was tucked into a corner booth. When their gazes met, the boy's didn't waver. Which was…different in all sorts of disturbing ways that made him think of Kabul, the airport, Daniel Driver's insane plan.

And Roni. Dodging his gaze from the boy's, John motored for the counter. Roni, Roni, Roni.

"Whoa, wait up. You having some kind of Big Mac attack?" And then, when he didn't respond, Davila said, "What is it?"

John dragged his voice from wherever it had fallen. "Nothing," he said, keeping his gaze screwed firmly on the menu board.

"Tell me another."

He thought about it another second then said, "Kid, about twelve years old. To our left, table at the window next to the door."

Yawning, Davila made a show of stretching and twisting first right and then left. "Yeah, okay, it's a kid," he said, shaking himself like a dog. "What about him? "

"I think..." But then the counter-guy rapped something halfway between a growl and a bark. "This, this and this," John said, pointing then held up three fingers. "And three coffees, all to go." Holding out bills, he finger-walked over the counter. "To go."

Pocketing the change, he motioned with a tilt of his head for Davila to follow. As they slid over to make room for the next customer, Davila remarked, "Big guy the kid was with just got up…okay, he's heading for the toilet. What's the deal? Why's the kid got you bothered all of a sudden?"

"I'm almost positive," he began then stopped. What was he doing? This was déjà vu all over again: listening to Driver explain why they were all there. "Nothing."

"That, my friend," Davila said, "is a lie. We can't do this if you're not straight?—"

He broke off as the counter-guy brought their food on a tray. "No, we asked for a to-go bag?" Davila did the finger-walk again then hooked a thumb over a shoulder. "We're leaving?"

In reply, the counter-guy pulled both a paper bag and four-cup carry tray from beneath the counter then held out a hand.

"Ah," John said, relieved the conversation had shifted. "The universal language."

"Nickel and dimed," Davila said .

"Thank goodness for walking-around money." Dipping into his pocket again, John pulled out a fistful of coins, which he held out to the counter-guy, who used a stubby finger to start picking through change. The guy had two fairly large coins in hand when a voice, boyish and young, said something in Russian. He got two of the words: no and bad. Or was that wrong ?

"Well, well, looky here," Davila said. "We got company."

Yes, they did. The boy he'd spotted across the restaurant had sidled up without either of them being aware of him until that moment. How long had the kid been standing there? He was, John judged, about eleven or twelve and dark-skinned, with a flop of black hair spilling over his forehead. His clothing was almost extravagant: billowing dark-green trousers and an oatmeal-colored tunic with an embroidered vest of bright cobalt and iridescent emerald, a bit like a peacock's feathers

"Ears burning, kid?" Davila said. "My friend here was just going to tell me all about you."

"Not here." John smiled down at the kid. "Hello."

The boy replied in Russian, but John couldn't make heads or tails of what the kid was saying. "Slow." John made a slow-down motion. "What? Chto ?"

The boy tried again, and this time, John caught the word for money . "Yes, we do. Privet ," he said to the boy.

"What'd he say?" Davila asked.

"I think he's telling us we're being cheated." To the boy: "Plokhoy?" Hooking a thumb at the counter-guy, he said, "Is he cheating me?"

"Plokhoy ." The boy nodded then opened his arms wide. "Slishkom. Plokhoy."

"What's that mean?" Davila asked.

"Bad and, I think, too much. But don't quote me on that." He watched as the boy snarled something at the counter-guy, who looked offended, but then slapped both coins on the counter and spat out something that sounded as if the man was chewing rocks. "What did he say?" John said to the boy and held up one of the coins. What was how much in Russian? He settled for many. " Mnogo ?"

Gesturing for John to hold out his palm, the boy picked through John's coins then selected one which he put on the counter. The counter guy's upper lip curled, but he covered the coin with a hand then jerked his head to the door.

"That's our cue to leave," Davila said.

"Yeah." As Davila slotted coffees into the tray and squared their sack of food, John looked down at the boy. The Jiminy Cricket piece of his conscience nagged that he ought to help this kid somehow. But what could he do? Kidnap the boy? " John." Patting his chest, he said his name again then hooked a thumb at Davila. "Taz."

"Hey, kid." Davila showed a rictus of a smile then said through gritted teeth, "Can we go now? We don't need a mascot."

John ignored him. Instead, he pointed at the boy. " Imya? "

The boy opened his mouth, but then another voice, much deeper and rougher, interrupted. The words weren't Russian, but the tone was unmistakable: back off.

"Easy." Turning, John held up both hands in a you-win nothing-to-look-at-here gesture. "Easy, easy. We're good," he said, backing away from the same big man with the flashy, embroidered taqiyya he'd noticed before. Where had he come from? The men's room? "It's okay. We were only talking." Glancing over the guy's left shoulder, he spotted Parviz scurrying around the corner. "Hey, Parviz, can you tell this guy to calm down?"

"Yeah," Davila added. "Kid came up to us. We haven't touched him."

"No you worry." Elbowing his way between John and the big guy, Parviz spat something rapid-fire. In response, the big guy's expression turned thunderous, and he shouted something back.

Uh-oh. All that guy had to do was hammer Parviz on top of the head with a fist. A glance around the restaurant also confirmed that everyone was watching this little side-show. A few patrons had their cellphones up, recording. So much for a low profile. "Parviz, tell him we're leaving," John said. "Nothing happened. The boy was only making sure we weren't cheated."

Parviz said something else to the big guy, whose eyes narrowed as his glower deepened. After a breathless moment, the man gave a curt jerk of his head then backed away, fingers clamped on the boy's shoulder and hustled the kid out of the restaurant.

"Okay," Parviz said as the door clapped shut. "We wait minute, two minute, let them get far from here. Then there no more trouble."

"I wasn't looking to make it," John said. "What did the guy say?"

"Say he is boy's uncle."

"His uncle." Now that he'd gotten a good look at the child, he knew this wasn't the whole story and probably wasn't true. "Anything else? Why was he so pissed? Not as if we were harassing the boy."

"Yeah," Davila said, "he came up to us."

"He say boy steal from strangers." The driver mimed pulling something from his vest. "Picking pocket."

"Seriously? That kid's the Artful Dodger?" At Parviz's puzzled expression, John added, "Character from a book…never mind. That guy said the kid's a thief? "

"I sure didn't that vibe, Davila said.

"That what he say." Parviz started for the door. "Okay, come. Enough time pass. Now, we go. No need more trouble now."

"What?" Davila snagged the driver's elbow. "What do you mean more trouble?"

"I mean," Parviz said, "change of plan."