Page 34 of What is Lost

Davila nodded. “You don’t know what these contingencies are, do you, Ustinov? Or the actual sites? In case this blows up.”

Ustinov ducked his head in acknowledgement. “It is important for me to have, as you say in your country, plausible deniability.”

But this Parviz guy must know more.The driver would have to in order to drop them where they needed to be and point them in the right direction. John was about to point that out then thought better of it. They could try and pump Parviz out of Ustinov’s hearing. But wait, according to Ustinov, the guy’s English sucked. How much sense did that make? Giving them a driver who knew only pidgin English?And us, only pidgin...well, what? He didn’t know Tajik and, other thanstick out your tongueanddo you feel sick, no Pashtun either. He wondered how much Russian he could dredge up from the old memory banks.

“Ustinov, you have to knowsomething,” Davila pressed.

“Alas, no. Please.” The big man held up a palm as big around as a pie plate. “I cannot tell you what I do not know. I am sorry. I have not been, as you might say, written into the book.”

“Yeah,” Davila said. “A lot of that going around.”

They emergedfrom the trees and onto a path. This led to a long, low, red-roofed building with a parking lot. The only vehicle in the lot was asplotchy green-and-brown blunt-nosed van with a roof rack that reminded John, vaguely, of those old Volkswagen vans hippies used to sleep in.

“Seriously?” Davila asked. “This rust bucket is our ride?”

“It runs,” Ustinov said.

“So did Fred Flintstone’s car,” John said. He’d pulled a water bottle—wrapped in duct tape because old habits die hard—from a pocket of his cargo pants.

“I’m sorry?”

“Never mind.”Yaba-daba-doo.He took a swig. “This thing really belongs in a scrap heap,” he said, worrying a loose tongue of duct tape.

“The Tajiks are a resourceful people. The Soviets left many vehicles such as thisbukhanka,” Ustinov said.

“Which is?” Davila asked.

Loaf of bread.Which John almost said but bit back at the last second. For some reason he couldn’t quite pinpoint, he decided to keep the fact that he knew a bit of Russian under wraps.

“How do you call it…erhm…a bread loaf?” Ustinov said. “What you buy in market? The official designation for this particular variation is UZ3741. Two gas tanks, four-wheel drive. The model comes in many models?—”

He broke off at a sudden, high metallic drill-bit of a squeal as Parviz muscled open the driver’s sidedoor, hopped out, smiled, and did a quick bow before hooking his hands into the slider.

“You ask me, you should’ve put this thing out of its misery,” John said, as he watched the smaller man strain so hard the cords stood out on the backs of his hands and the muscles on his forearms knotted. “Looks like a refugee from Woodstock. All you need are a bunch of flowers and a peace sign.”

Ustinov’s bushy brows folded. “I do not understand this…erhm…woodchuck? Is this about the animal who sees his shadow?” He had to raise his voice over the slider, which Parviz had finally dragged open with a loud and grudgingsquawwwof metal against metal. “That was a veryfinemovie.”

“Don’t,” Davila warned as John opened his mouth. “Don’t say it.”

“Who, me?” John asked.

Davila ignored him. “I’d like to check out the weapons.”

“Me, too.” John held up a hand as Parviz trotted over to grab their duffels. “We’ll stow our stuff, thanks.” First rule of the military: don’t let anyone mess with your gear or many items might suddenly develop legs.

The cargo space was cluttered: a tool case, a bag of rags, food wrappers, a litter of soda cans, a clutch of zip ties, a spare tire, snow chains, wheel chocks, a lug wrench, a stained tarp, what looked like a prayer rug, and a small cushion. Four large,clear plastic jugs filled with liquid that was probably extra gas were strapped to panels with zip ties.

There were also two hard-shell handgun cases, both black. One was paired with a green long gun shell, while the second nestled next to a battered AK 47.Parviz’s weapon.John studied the nicked wooden buttstock and saw something in Cyrillic, probably the previous owner’s name scratched into the wood.

“I thought you said you couldn’t find a second Glock,” Davila said.

“The second is for Parviz,” Ustinov said. “His request.”

Okay, that’s odd. He waited for Davila to say something, but the other man was already opening the long brown shell to examine a pristine AK nestled in a foam cutout.

John reflected that perhaps what his therapist at Brighter Days said about him not being a very trusting soul was accurate.Hethought it was a little odd that Parviz took the opportunity to grab a new weapon for himself. On the other hand, given the state of this van, Parviz was clearly hard up for cash.

Still, something felt a bit off. He wished he knew what.

---