Page 32 of What is Lost

“Okay.” Adul-Ami was, John knew, the equivalent ofMr. 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 amsorry. 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 arethrough the Tavildara Pass and Khorog, you will travel southwest on the Wakhan Valley road toward Ishkashim.”

John heard thebutin 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?”

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