Page 33 of Over the Edge

It was a stark reminder that she wasn’t in America any more.

Trevor hired a cab and directed the driver to take them close to her grandmother’s house.

Karaken was exactly as she remembered it from her one visit when she turned eighteen. It had been an act of teenage rebellion to come here, and she’d tired of the place in about two days.

Her main impression was of elegant decay. It was an ancient city, and the buildings were old-fashioned, some leaning to the ornate Indo-Persian style, while others were more modern and austere.

The streets were crowded with a cacophony of cars, trucks, bicycles, pedestrians, and the occasional donkey pulling a cart. Traffic rules were clearly optional, and hand gestures out a car window or a horn ruled supreme. The smells of dust, diesel fuel, and exotic spices wafted in the open window of the cab.

Trevor commented from the front seat of the taxi. “This place looks like a mix of about six cultures and at least that many centuries’ worth of history.”

“You would not be wrong,” she replied from the back seat. She was trying to watch behind their car for tails without pivoting her whole body to face the rear.

In English, she muttered, “Contact at six,” meaning, she’d spotted someone directly behind them.

“Roger,” Trevor muttered. Louder, he asked, “What’s that tall building in front of us?” he asked. “The fancy one. How far away is it?”

She replied, “A quarter-mile, maybe.” She was, of course, referring to their tail and not the building before them.

She glanced at the building he’d referenced, then while she turned back to watch a white SUV behind them with blacked out windows, said, “That’s a Hindu temple. Very old.”

“But lots of people here are Muslim, too, yes?” he asked, actually referring to the identity of their tails. “Do they follow aspects of Muslim law, too?”

“Hard to say for sure,” she answered, meaning she didn’t have an I.D. on the tail. “The government uses an ancient legal system that’s a polyglot from the many conquerors who have passed through here. Zagistan is one of those places you have to go through to get to anyplace else. It has lower altitude passes through the Himalayas than the surrounding countries do. The funny bit is everyone only passes through. Nobody stays.”

Trevor spoke in bad Zagari, saying to the driver, “Your country is beautiful. It’s full of energy. I’m impressed.”

The driver took off in a lecture that Trevor undoubtedly didn’t follow about how everyone in the West underestimated Zagistan and missed how modern and progressive a country it was becoming.

The cab stopped at the end of a narrow alley crowded with people. Trevor paid the driver and joined her behind the cab to help unload their luggage. He positioned himself so he could surreptitiously look over her shoulder at anyone behind them.

“Two dark-haired men, dark Western suits. Beards. Age: late twenties,” she murmured.

“That describes everyone on the bloody street,” Trevor muttered back.

“When we move into the old city, they’ll stand out. Most men will wear traditional garb there,” she commented.

“Do we catch another cab, now?” he asked, looking around.

“The streets where we’re going are too narrow for cars. We’ll have to walk from here,” she told Trevor. “But our tails will have to hoof it, too.”

They each grabbed a rolling suitcase and stacked their hand-held bag on top. She led the way into the warren of cobbled walkways so narrow she could touch both sides in places.

Despite it being midday, the narrow alleys twisted and turned in near darkness between the high walls of ancient buildings. Laundry hung thick overhead among electric wires and telephone lines, blocking what little sunlight reached down into the narrow crevasses.

“Where are we?” Trevor murmured.

“The old city of Karaken. It’s organized into tight little neighborhoods calledmohallahs, each clustered around its own mosque and bazaar. They’re known for short, unnamed streets, cul de sacs, and labyrinths of pedestrian-only alleys.”

“Looks like a maze,” he observed.

“An accurate comparison. If you’re not a local, it’s nearly impossible to navigate this part of town.”

“How are you managing it?”

“I spent a summer here before I went to college. And it’s not as if anything has changed in the last several hundred years.”

“Good point.”

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