The damn Chinese were everywhere, thought Mark as he drove. He knew that they were building this road, which would run from Bishkek to the border with China, at no cost to Kyrgyzstan, in an effort to help pry open the Kyrgyz market. He didn’t blame them; the Americans were also trying, with limited success, to get good transit routes running from Central Asia to Afghanistan. But he found it unsettling to see just how much faster the Chinese were getting the job done.
A minute later, he came to a bumpy transition between the old asphalt road and a patch of dirt road, which caused the Mercedes to bottom out.
No Chinese workers were in sight, so he parked behind a huge pile of gravel and grabbed the Russian-made sport version of a Dragunov rifle — he’d bribed the appropriate bureaucrats to qualify for a rare hunter’s license — from where he’d hidden it underneath the trunk of the Mercedes. He took ten cartridges from a box of ammo that he’d wedged in next to the rifle, loaded them into the magazine, then jogged over to a half-built stone retaining wall. Standing on a little rockslide that had accumulated behind the wall, he practiced aiming his rifle at the point where the road switched from old asphalt to dirt.
As he was waiting, he thought of the narde game he’d been forced to forfeit. That would cost him with the guys. Thanks to his abrupt exit, his moral position was now even worse than the Uzbek’s. What really bugged him, though, was that he’d been beating the Russian when Daria’s call had come through.
A cold breeze started to blow and he shivered. He’d been too rushed to think about grabbing a coat, but he wished he had one now. It was only November, but out here in the country, way above sea level, winter had already long since arrived. Though the mountains were too dry, treeless, and windswept to hold much snow, their tops were covered with a light dusting of white. All the roadside yurts that had been stocked with fresh apricots, blackthorn berries, and smoked trout during the summer had been taken down for the season. The tourists from Russia and Kazakhstan, crammed into cars overstuffed with beach umbrellas, towels, and inflatable rafts, had stopped coming through months ago. No fishermen stood on the banks of the Chu River.
Now the Chinese were the only ones in the area. And crazy people, like his do-gooder girlfriend. And himself.
What the hell are you doing out here, Daria? What the hell am I doing out here?
Kyrgyzstan wasn’t his home. Baku was. His buzz had worn off, leaving him just tired.
In truth, though, he knew perfectly well why he was here — because of Daria. Things had actually been going pretty well between them, mostly thanks to her. She put up with his narde games; she was rarely in a bad mood; she’d hooked him up with a LASIK doctor in Almaty so he could finally see without glasses; she’d made him get a physical so he was now taking Lipitor to control his cholesterol; and despite working as hard as she did, she often came home with a healthy libido. She did all that and more — Mark sometimes wondered where she got the energy — without expecting much in return.
But that didn’t mean she didn’t expect anything in return.
They’d never talked about it, but he knew that she needed for him not to cheat on her. Which he didn’t. She needed for him to love her. Which he did, even if he didn’t always express that love particularly well. And when the shit hit the fan, like it had this afternoon, she needed for him to be there for her.
Which, Mark noted, he was. But he still wished he’d brought a jacket.
A tan Camry appeared. One man was driving. Another sat in the back, next to what appeared to be a small boy.
Mark sighed, brought his cheek down to the worn leather riser that was clipped to the stock, and stared down the iron sights. He wasn’t a fantastic shot without a scope, but at this range — less than a hundred feet — he figured he didn’t need to be. As the Camry hit a big bump where the road transitioned, bottoming out with a loud smack, he fired two quick shots.
The rear tire didn’t immediately deflate, but by the time the car was almost out of sight, it was riding on its metal rim. The driver would almost certainly believe that he had suffered a flat as a result of lousy road conditions.
Mark jogged back to his Mercedes, reloaded the Dragunov, laid the rifle across the passenger seat, and threw the car into drive. A minute later, he was pulling up behind the Camry.
Two men stood outside the car, looking wary and frustrated as they stared at their flat rear tire. The older of the two — Mark guessed he was in his fifties — was bearded and wore a dark blue suit, shiny black dress shoes, and a bright red tie; the younger twentysomething had just a hint of a mustache and wore dark gray slacks and a white dress shirt. Both men glared at Mark as he pulled up behind them. The one in the suit gestured to the road, indicating that Mark should continue on his way.
Mark rolled down the window of his Mercedes, leaned out, smiled, and with great enthusiasm, yelled out to them in Kyrgyz, “You have a flat tire! I will help you!”
The man in the suit said something that Mark recognized as Arabic but couldn’t understand.
The younger man replied in Turkish, “We are not in need of assistance.”
Mark understood Turkish perfectly well. Indeed, most Central Asian languages were Turkic-based, including Azeri, a language he’d learned to speak fluently years before. But there were big differences between all the regional dialects, just as there were big differences between Latin-based languages like Spanish and French and Italian. So he knew he was on safe ground pretending not to understand Turkish.
Mark repeated in Kyrgyz, “I will help you!”
He saw the tousled black hair of a child poking up above the rear seat of the Camry.
In Turkish, the younger man said, “Leave us, sir. I tell you, we are not in need of assistance.”
Mark climbed out of his car. “Do you have a spare tire?” He eyed both men, looking for odd bulges that might indicate one of them was carrying a concealed firearm. He saw none, but something about the way the older man in the suit carried himself — a hint of arrogance that Mark had found to be common in people who were confident in their ability to defend themselves — raised his hackles.
“Sir,” said the older man in Turkish. “I must insist that you leave us.”
Mark glanced up and down the road. No cars were visible in either direction. He stuck his hand through the open driver’s side window of his Mercedes, grabbed his rifle, and pointed it at the older man.
“Both of you on the ground, hands clasped behind your necks.” He spoke in Turkish now too. His tone and expression had changed from that of village idiot to one of bored, steely competence.
“We are guests in your country, sir. This is no way to treat guests.”
Muslims were known for showing deference to guests. Given that Kyrgyzstan was a Muslim country, it wasn’t a bad angle to work, Mark thought. In theory, that is. If a random act of highway robbery was what you were trying to avoid.
Mark pointed to the shoulder of the road. “This isn’t my country, neither of you are my guests, and I’m not here to rob you. Both of you, on the ground. You can use your hands to lower yourselves but keep them in sight at all times and once you’re down I want them clasped behind your necks.”
The two men glanced at each other, then at Mark. Inside the car, the child was quiet.
“What is it you want?” said the younger man. “If it is money—”
“I just told you what I want,” said Mark.
“There is a child in the car.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“I cannot leave him alone in the car while you—”
Mark was getting tired of this conversation. “You’re not in a position to make demands.”