The voice of the pilot-a pleasant Aussie accent-issued from the PA.
“Please prepare for landing.”
Ismet and Dagmar shifted to seats with belts. The Gulfstream went into a steep dive, pulled out, touched the end of the runway, bounced, landed again.
Dagmar concluded that the pilot wanted to get out of the way of any other aircraft that might be trying to land, and quickly.
She approved. The faster this was dealt with, the better.
Deranged Scot Sum Amounts to Local Habits
The Gulfstream pulled into an area reserved for foreign aircraft. A polished Honda sedan drew up as the attendants were opening the door, and a man in a uniform got out.
He came aboard the plane and took care of the customs details, stamped Dagmar’s and Ismet’s passports, and welcomed them to Uzbekistan. Dagmar considered how many long lines she’d stood in at passport control throughout the world, and she turned to Ismet.
“The rich are different from you and me,” she said.
“So I understand.”
As the customs officer returned to his Honda, a bright yellow vehicle drew up. It resembled a smallish Jeep and was accessorized with running boards, bullbars, and spotlights. A teardrop-shaped luggage compartment was attached to the roof. It looked rather sporty.
“What is that?” Dagmar asked.
“That’s a Lada Niva four-wheel drive,” Ismet said. “You haven’t seen one before?”
“If I have, I probably figured it was a Kawasaki or something.”
“I think it’s ours.”
A man in a suit and tie got out of the Niva. He spoke a sort of English, and he showed Ismet and Dagmar the vehicle. The vehicle seemed rugged enough and ran well for all that the odometer showed 165,000 kilometers. Red plastic jerricans of gasoline had been loaded into the rear compartment for crossing the Kyzyl Kum. Ismet and Dagmar signed papers, and Martin presented a credit card. The gentleman, who had introduced himself as Babur, copied down the number carefully.
“Do you have Internet?” Dagmar asked.
“No,” the man said. “No Internet today.” He didn’t sound as if it was that unusual an occurrence.
Jet noise sounded in the air. Dagmar looked up, held up a hand against the sun that squatted near the western horizon, and saw a jet come into view, a smaller craft than the Gulfsteam. It cruised slowly over the airfield, much as the Gulfstream had done.
Turkish air force markings were clear on the fuselage. Dagmar’s heart leaped into her throat.
“Look!” She pointed wildly. Ismet looked up.
“Orospu cocug u!” he snarled. It must have been impolite, because Babur looked a little shocked-Uzbek was a Turkic language, and obscenity probably carried across language barriers easier than anything else.
Dagmar looked across the pavement at the customs officer in his Honda. He probably knew the other plane was coming, that’s why he was still waiting here.
Dagmar stepped closer to Babur and lightly touched his arm, then pointed toward the Turkish jet.
“Are you renting them a car?” she said.
“Yes. If you can drive me back to my office, I can bring it.”
“I wonder,” Dagmar said, “if you can offer me some help?”
Babur smiled pleasantly. “Of course, miss.”
“That plane is bringing some people we don’t want to meet. Could you possibly delay bringing their car?”
Babur spread his hands. “Miss, I can’t possibly-”
Dagmar reached into her pocket and withdrew a bundle of English currency. Babur’s eyes locked onto the monarch’s portrait, and his words came to a halt.
Dagmar peeled off five hundred-pound notes and handed them to Babur. He looked both pleased and confused.
“Share this with the people you work with,” Dagmar said. “Tell them to go to dinner. Tell them to have dinner for a long time.”
The notes vanished into a pocket of Babur’s neat suit.
“Yes, miss,” he said.
“If they find you and ask why you can’t help them, tell them you can’t do anything without the Internet.”
Over Babur’s shoulder, Dagmar saw a smile flash across Ismet’s face.
“And if their car has a mechanical problem,” Dagmar said, “I would also be very grateful.” She leaned a little closer and spoke over the sound of the jet. “If this works out to my satisfaction,” she said, “I will give you another bonus payment when I return the Niva.”
Babur’s head bobbed.
“Yes, miss,” he said. “Very good.”
Baggage was loaded into the Niva. Dagmar was nervous about loading guns into the car right in front of the customs inspector, but he never looked up from whatever document he was reading.
They also took everything from the jet’s refrigerator that didn’t require cooking: bread, crackers, cans of beluga caviar, cold cuts, hard-boiled eggs, cheese, some beautiful Italian heritage pears, soft drinks, Rock Star, and bottles of water.
They figured they wouldn’t have time to stop at a restaurant for a leisurely meal.
The cabin attendants, wearing identical bemused expressions, loaded the spoil into plastic sacks and handed it over. Dagmar said good-bye to Martin on the runway apron.
“You might want to hire a guard on the plane till we leave,” she said. She had to shout over the sound of the Turkish jet cruising low over the airfield, one wing tipped down so the crew could view the runways.
“Sorry?” Martin said.
“That plane.” She pointed. “They’re going to want to kill us. Don’t let them sabotage the jet.”
Comprehension stitched its way across Martin’s features, as if different parts of his face got the message at different times. Dagmar managed to restrain her laughter; then she shook his hand and ran for the Niva.
They drove Babur to his office near the field and left him counting his pound notes.
“You did that very well,” Ismet said. “I couldn’t have improved on it.”
“He’s not the first guy I’ve bribed. You should have seen me handing hundred-dollar bills to New York’s finest when we did the Harry’s Crew live event in Washington Square Park.”
“I expect you just gave Babur a month’s salary or more.”
Dagmar touched the evil eye amulet that dangled from the rearview mirror. “Let’s hope that the men in that plane don’t have much cash on them.”
Zarafshan had an antique feel. The roads weren’t in good condition. The town was filled with enormous squat Soviet-era apartment blocs, not all in good repair. They seemed a similar vintage and shared some of the impersonality of the buildings at Akrotiri. One of the buildings seemed to have burned in the country’s latest flurry of post-Karimov adjustment.
On the road, a host of vintage Toyotas, Renaults, and Protons testified to a thriving gray market in automobiles. Some of the buildings had metal-and-plastic signs that reminded Dagmar of old Californian road signs from the 1950s, with stylish rockets, satellites, and planets. Decor from the Atomic Cafe.
“The Zap has bombed this place back to the Space Age,” she said.
Ismet smiled. “Good line,” he said.
“I stole the sentiment from a Richard Buttner story.”
Dagmar craned her head to see if she could find the Turkish airplane. It was on approach to the runway, dropping toward the ground with wheels extended.
She hoped Babur and his fellow employees were having a wonderful time, somewhere else.
Then Zarafshan simply ended, and they were in the Kyzyl Kum, on a two-lane blacktop, old and patched but absolutely arrow straight. Massive, soaring alloy towers carried power lines alongside the road, marching off to the vanishing point on the horizon, the setting sun turning the insulators to red jewels.
On the edge of the desert was a Soviet-era tank, abandoned and with dust drifting over the treads. The huge gun pointed at empty desert. The crew seemed to have just parked it there one day, left, and never returned.
The Niva’s engine screamed. The four-by-four rattled, bumped, jounced. The tires thundered on the patched road.