“These men belonged to me,” the Russian said, kicking the hand of one of corpses. Most of the dead men in the shed were, in fact, Russians. None of them had any identification on their bodies, and Zokirov had been wondering who had sent them here to die. He did not nod or express satisfaction at learning this new fact. “I am Senior Lieutenant Pavel Kalin, of Counter Intelligence,” the Russian said. “I will take over here now.”
It took a moment for Zokirov to realize that Kalin was speaking not in Uzbek but in Russian. Of course Zokirov knew the language — it was a second unofficial tongue of his country, legacy of an age of tyranny. He was a bit ashamed that when he answered, he spoke in Russian, too.
“This one,” Zokirov said, pointing to Mirza, “is ours. It’s clear that he killed some of your men. Most likely because they had no jurisdiction here, and no permits for their weapons.”
Kalin glanced around the shed. There was not much for him to see, Zokirov knew. The bodies, of course, but beyond that only a little stain of oil on the floor. It was still wet, which meant there had been a vehicle there recently, but now it was gone.
“There were three others. A Russian woman, an American, and a Romanian,” Kalin said. He did not seem to have taken the hint about jurisdiction.
“Yes, Svetlana Shulkina, Jeff—”
Kalin clucked his tongue. “Those names mean nothing. They had a vehicle — a large truck, I think.” He bent down and touched the oil stain with two fingers. “I do not know who killed whom here, and I do not care in the least. The ones I want are the ones who fled.” He looked over at one of the corpses, the one that wore spectacles. “Next time I will not send policemen to do the work of soldiers. I will take the bodies of my men. You will not put their deaths in your report. You may do with your dead man as you please, but you will not make any mention that there were Russians here. Am I understood?”
Zokirov was an agent of the SNB. He was accustomed to a certain level of respect from his peers, and from a great measure of fear and obedience from common folk. He straightened his spine and tried to think of what Mirza might have said. “This is an internal matter of the Republic of Uzbekistan. Interfering with a police investigation is an offense, and—”
Kalin stood up very suddenly and slapped Zokirov across the face.
A cold fear washed through Zokirov, a certainty that if Kalin were to kill him in the next moment, there would be no consequences, no repercussions. Zokirov had worked in state security long enough to know that some men were above the law, even international law. Such men did not need papers or clearances to get their way.
He closed his mouth.
Then he opened it again. “Forgive me,” he said. “I am happy to cooperate with your investigation. Let me tell you our theory. Our man, Mirza, confronted your agents here and killed them. The three you are looking for then killed Mirza. They departed in a large desert-going truck, and we believe they are headed for—”
“I know exactly where they are going,” Kalin said.
Zokirov did not ask him to share this information.
It was cold out there. Even in the middle of the desert, even after a long day of the sun baking the sands without relief. It was cold — nearly freezing.
It was empty, empty in an enormous way. The desert was not lifeless, not by any means. Through the windshield Chapel could see a landscape painted silver by the moon and dotted sparsely with scrub grass and tiny bushes all the way to the horizon. Once or twice the truck startled a lizard or a small mammal out of its burrow and sent it scampering for cover in the cold sand. But these exceptions only served to highlight just how little there was out there, just how much of nothing the truck rumbled through. No roads. No sign of human life at all. No trees, anywhere. No clouds overhead. No mountains, no hills, and definitely no water.
Only the dunes. The endless barchan dunes, rises where the wind had sculpted the sand into gentle soft shapes that could run for miles in either direction. Dunes furrowed by moving air, with a constant spray feathering from their tops. Dunes that looked like moving waves in the dark, like swells in an endless sea.
Chapel found himself glancing over at Nadia time and again, at her sleeping face lit a quiet green by the dashboard lights. Just to see something human, something on a scale he felt comfortable with. He was glad she was there.
In the backseat, behind Chapel, Bogdan snored and whimpered in his sleep, like a beaten dog. After a while Chapel was even glad for that noise, that human noise.
Chapel braked to a gentle stop in the dark lee between two dunes. He let the truck settle, let it slide around a little on the loose sand. Listened to its engine idling away. He rubbed at his face with his hands. Drank a little water.
He touched Nadia’s shoulder and she opened one eye. In the dark cab of the truck, she stared at him as if she didn’t recognize him, as if she had no idea where she was.
“Your turn,” he whispered.
She sat up, one side of her face obscured by the shadow of her hair. “Chto?” she asked. Then she shook her head and sat up much straighter, looking forward through the windshield. She took a deep breath and nodded. “Sorry. My turn.” She tried to stifle a yawn, but failed. She squeezed her eyes shut, hard, then opened them again.
“Never mind,” he said. “Go back to sleep. I can keep driving for a while.”
She turned to face him. “No. It is my duty. I don’t shirk.”
He started to protest but he could see in her face she fully intended to take her shift. They switched places, which involved a certain amount of awkward crawling over each other. She said nothing and didn’t act embarrassed or uncomfortable. Chapel kept his own feelings to himself.
She put the truck in gear and got them moving again. Chapel knew he ought to try to get some sleep, but he was still too dazed, too hypnotized by the desert outside the windows to close his eyes. He drank some more water and watched the dunes go by.
Traveling during the day was just too dangerous. Besides, they were all exhausted and desperately needed some sleep. Nadia parked the truck in the lee of a tall dune that would give them shade for most of the day. Chapel jumped out with a shovel and spread some sand across the dark roof of the truck. It wouldn’t pass a close inspection, but any satellites or helicopters overhead would be less likely to see them. Working with Nadia, he hung tarps across the windows of the cab and then they crawled back inside. The interior of the cab was dim, lit up only by some orange light, those few sunbeams already strong enough to pierce the thick canvas. The night’s chill lingered in the air, in the metal surfaces all around Chapel. He sank down onto the seat that had been tormenting him all night and suddenly it felt very, very comfortable.
“There’s a tent, back in the supplies,” Nadia told him. “I think I am too tired to put it up, though.”
“I’m too tired to keep talking about this,” he replied.
She made a noise that was something like a laugh, but required less energy.
Bogdan was already asleep in the back, curled up in one of the seats. “He might at least have helped with the tarps,” Nadia said.
Chapel shook his head. “He’s the talent, right? The mission specialist. We’re the grunts. When he wakes up, he’ll probably expect breakfast to be ready.”
“There is dried fruit and some canned meat back there,” Nadia said.
He waved a hand at her to make her stop talking.
Whether she did or didn’t made no difference. He was out like a light.
He dreamed of standing on the deck of a seagoing boat that rose and fell and rocked with the waves as a storm lashed its sails. A long night of going up and down and over sand dunes had left his brain still swaying, perhaps.