Page 71 of Cross Down
The nearest man looks at Deacon and says, “Liz.”
“Bobby,” she replies. “Can we talk outside?”
“Love to,” he says. He gets up, pistol holstered at his side.
The other men ignore us as Deacon and I follow him out.
A few yards away from the tent, Bobby digs into a pocket and pulls out a crumpled pack of Marlboros and a cigarette lighter. He lights one and laughs. “Even on this side of the world, health and safety rules still exist. Can’t smoke inside.” He takes a defiant puff and says, “I didn’t know you were coming until that brand-spanking-new SST was about ten minutes out. What are you up to, Liz?”
“Nothing much, Bobby,” she says. “My friend and I are planning a little cross-border excursion. Shouldn’t take more than two days, tops.”
“You two going alone?”
“A local will be our guide.”
Bobby glances around the small compound. “Looks like your guide hasn’t arrived yet.”
“He’s supposed to show up this afternoon.”
He nods. “Which means at dawn, if you’re lucky. You trust this guy?”
“We’ve used him before.”
“What if he screws with you?”
“Then I don’t pay him,” Deacon says. “And I’ll kill him.”
Bobby smiles. “In that order?”
“Whichever works best,” she says.
He looks me up and down and says, “No offense, but I don’t see how a woman and her tall Black companion are going to fit in with the locals.”
I say, “As her tall Black companion, I’m telling you not to worry your pretty little head about it. We’re just here to do a job, in and out.”
“Yeah,” he says. “You don’t plan to stir things up, do you?”
“Not if we can help it,” I say.
“Do your best not to,” he says. “This tiny outpost of America is on its own. Tajikistan pretends we’re not here, so if you piss off the local Taliban and they decide to come over the border and wipe out this little nest of heretics, there’s not much we can do. We’ve got no military units in theater, and the closest air support is about six hours out. Remember that, okay?”
“Remembered,” Deacon says.
He takes a deep drag on the Marlboro, drops it on the ground, crushes it with his boot, and, with well-trained ease, picks up the butt and strips it.
Bobby says, “Remember this too: You get into trouble over there, we can’t help you. We’re not the cavalry, and we don’t pretend to be. The minute you’re in the ’Stan, Liz, you and your tall friend are on your own. Got that?”
I say, “Thanks for the words of encouragement.”
Bobby turns and walks back to the tent. Over his shoulder, he says, “Glad you took it that way.”
Chapter
81
The sun isstarting to set when a man appears in the south, slowly walking our way. First-time visitors to the ’Stan and other nearby countries always mention how slowly the locals move, not knowing that they are on their own time and that men of sixty, seventy, or eighty years of age can keep up a steady pace that leaves twenty-year-old American soldiers panting for breath.
He gets closer and I recognize him as Bibi Ahmadi, a local guide and fixer we used during our last visit. He’s heavily bearded, and he has bright shiny eyes that hide mistrust behind the promise of lots of laughs.
