Page 30 of What is Lost

“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 knewalotmore 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 yetanotherkid 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,Iknow 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, peopleremembered. The Red Scare was pretty potent back then.”

“Yes,” Ustinov said. “If you will forgive the…ehrm…observation, this is onescarefrom which your country is still running.”

The frontof 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 thesecondtallest 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 thinkDie Tryingis 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 forhim.

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 nebuloustheywho’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 saymateandbarbiea 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.

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