Rasputin's Bastards (57 page)

Shadak nodded. He thought briefly about taking on Bucci — about slamming his fingers into the soft space underneath his ribcage, pushing up through the muscle and flesh and crushing the breath out of his bare lungs. But he didn’t think he could do that now. So he looked at Bucci and just nodded.

“Now we got a plan,” said Bucci. “We managed to wake up the fuckin’ harbour master, and he’s given us a map.”

“To New Pokrovskoye?”

“Yeah. It’s a chart that he had under his desk. All of a sudden, the fucker broke. He just blinked and started beggin’ — like he’d lost his nerve all at once. So we asked him again and he spilled. Said the maps were there. Map of the eastern fuckin’ seaboard, but the names are all different. They’re written in Russian, so we can’t read them. He showed me where New Pokrovskoye is. It’s in fuckin’ Labrador. Way fuckin’ north. It’s gonna take some time to get there, but we can do it.”

“Good.”

“Now I don’t think he’s lying — but he’s not all there either you know what I mean?”

“I do.”

“So we’re going to take him with us. I’m thinkin’.”

Shadak thought about that. The sea voyage, on a boat filled with guns — in a convoy filled with guns. To New Pokrovskoye. The Black Villa. Where he slept. Where even Babushka could not enter.

“Hey!”

Shadak looked up.

“Fuck, Amar, pay attention.”

Shadak blinked. “The caves,” he said. “The Black Villa.”

“What?”

Shadak shook his head. He didn’t know what. He leaned back against the wall and lowered his hands into his face.

“He’s not the only one we should take,” said Shadak.

“That so? Who else?”

“New friends,” said Shadak. “We should wrap their eyes in bandages and plug up their ears — and if Babushka comes back . . . she can fucking well talk to me.”

“Ah fuck.” Bucci gave Shadak a despairing look. “I’ll go back inside — I’ve got to — ”

Bucci’s voice trailed off. There was the sound of a car engine coming up the road. Shadak looked up.

A Ford minivan with California plates on it, its sides covered in mud, jostled along the road and pulled to a stop. It seemed to shimmer with the heat from its engine. Shapes moved inside, seat-lights flashed on and off, beyond the grime of the tinted windows.

Bucci sniffed. “Fuck,” he said, “What’s that smell?”

Shadak sniffed. It smelled like the Black Villa — inviting, comfortable . . .

And poison.

The side door slid open, and a young man stepped out. He looked like a surfer — all suntan and streaked blond hair. Behind him, Shadak could see others: a young woman who might have been the surfer’s girlfriend; an older guy with swept-back hair and tinted glasses that might have been the surfer’s girlfriend’s father.

“Hey,” said the surfer. “Are we too late to go to New Pokrovskoye? Man, we been driving through the night and then some.”

“We’d hate to miss out,” said the girl.

Shadak smiled his warmest come-hither smile.

“You have been talking with Babushka?”

“Whoa,” said the surfer. “How’d you know that?”

Shadak smiled again.

“I’ve been talking with her too,” he said. “I would like to talk with her again.”

The older man stepped down. “Well good luck,” he said. “We haven’t been in touch for hours.”

“She said we would see her again in New Pokrovskoye.”

“But we think we’ve missed the boat,” said the older man.

“Yeah,” said the surfer. “We’re bummed.”

“Bummed.” Shadak made a sympathetic face. “Well not to worry. It so happens that the last boat to New Pokrovskoye is due to arrive — ” he looked at his watch “ — in an hour or so.”

“And there’s room?” said the girl.

“Plenty,” said Shadak — and he didn’t add that if there wasn’t, well they’d make some room in the harbour. He wasn’t going to leave anybody behind in this place. And if he had his way, he wasn’t going to leave anyone in New Pokrovskoye either.

Alexei spotted the baby carriage wedged between two tall rocks on the steep slope of a valley. The carriage was a geometric marvel of dark blue steel tubes, plastic armatures and soft foam cushions, riding on four big, knobbly tires that looked purpose-built for the tricky off-road conditions of southeastern Afghanistan. The timing was wrong though — this thing had probably been manufactured in the late 1990s. Afghanistan, on the other hand, was vintage 1987. A rich black puff of oil smoke drifted across the blue sky. Small-arms fire chuffed in the distance, softening to pops and fizzes in the echoes of the rocky hills. Russians or Mujahedeen — one or the other or more likely both — were not far off.

Alexei wiped sweat off his brow as Vladimir glared up at him.

“Alexei Kilodovich! You are an idiot!” Vladimir was wearing a little blue terrycloth jumper, which offset the girlish bonnet tied over his head to keep the sun off. He clenched two tiny fists and kicked his blue-clothed feet in little circles. Alexei struggled with the carriage, and finally pulled it loose. Vladimir, faced scrunched in rage, continued talking as he went.

“I show you your history — give you a door to make it — to discover yourself. And what do you do? You walk through the fence — just as you were about to discover yourself.”

“It’s all bullshit,” said Alexei glumly. He righted the carriage, and walking backwards, pulled it jostling down to the little creek-bed at the valley’s base.

“Why do you use that term?” said Vladimir. He was in full sunlight, and tried vainly to turn away from it. “
Bull-shit
. Cattle feces. Fertilizer. It means nothing.”

“That,” said Alexei, “is a good read on
my
meaning. This metaphor you put me in. Where’s the meaning? You can create anything with your mind — so can I — make it as convincing as flesh — and before you know it the memory and the truth and the shit start to mix.”

“How
deep
,” sneered Vladimir. “Are you a philosopher, Kilodovich? Pah. I think you just have no stomach for this.”

The carriage wobbled over the jagged edge of a rock.

“It’s mental masturbation.”

“The way
you
approach it maybe.”

“Tell me how I should approach it then?”

“Oh, I don’t know . . . How about like the mystery that our lives are? A tapestry of a lie, that by unravelling you can discern the truth about yourself?”

“What a good idea,” said Alexei. As the ground grew more level, he turned the carriage around so he was pushing it. All Alexei could see was Vladimir’s tiny gesticulating hands over the carriage’s sun-shade. The diabolical baby was prattling on now about taking responsibility for life and facing up to one’s past with courage — and something about a present threat that would undo them all unless Alexei got to it, but Alexei paid him scant attention.

He found himself looking beyond the carriage, at the terrible splendour of Soviet Afghanistan. The valley they moved through was wide, and like the surface of the moon. Bomb craters had drawn radial pictures on the earth, marking trajectories of ash and sand and bone. On the far side, high cliffs thrust up in great spires like dribbling mud-crusted candles that blotted the sun. In the distance, there was a woofing sound that Alexei knew to be the noise of mortar fire. More craters on the way. He found himself smiling slightly, an unfamiliar feeling moving like feather through his middle.

He knew this valley.

He had been here before.

There had been, he started to recall, some good times here.

“You’re feeling nostalgic,” said Vladimir. “That’s what that is. It feels like you’re going to be sick. Like you’ve eaten too much ice cream. Like you’ve forgotten to bathe.”

“It’s pretty here,” said Alexei.

“It is
not
pretty here,” said Vladimir. “This is a great shame — a great evil.”

“You weren’t even alive,” said Alexei.

“It was a great evil.”

Alexei shrugged. He wasn’t going to get into a debate about Brezhnev-era Soviet foreign policy with a five-month-old in a baby carriage. “What are we doing here?” he asked.

“We are here for a look,” said Vladimir.

“At?”

Vladimir raised a tiny hand and pointed. “You.”

Alexei squinted and looked. “Ah. I see.”

The valley was near the Khojak Pass, just across the border in southern Afghanistan — on a route to Kandahar that was only nominally roundabout. The convoy that crossed it was a mix of trucks and camels. It moved under the shadow of the cliffs like a nervous snake.

The convoy was carrying a large load of weapons: old Soviet weapons, brought in by way of Egypt. There were a lot of them — RPGs and rifles; rockets and grenades and landmines. Some of them — the ones that Amar Shadak had arranged, through a Chinese contact of his — were serviceable. The bulk of the shipment was no more than dangerous junk.

There were four trucks all told and maybe thirty men accompanying them. They wore cowls and carried rifles. Alexei leaned forward and squinted. “I remember those guys,” he said.

“Really?”

“Yes.” One of the guys riding a camel alongside the lead truck held his rifle up, made chuffing noises as he pretended to shoot it in the air. From inside the cabin, girlish laughter echoed through the valley. The guy rested his rifle on his lap. “There is Wali Beg. What a clown.”

“This is like a holiday,” said Vladimir. “You even brought a girl.”

“It
is
like a holiday.” That morning, Alexei remembered meeting the trucks at the border rendezvous. It was still dark and would be for hours. His pal Amar Shadak had pulled himself out of bed just an hour before and he was bleary-eyed. Shadak’s pretty girlfriend Ming had handled the odd hour better. She’d put on a pair of loose coveralls that didn’t quite disguise her sex but appeared to quiet any last-minute objections Shadak might have had. Alexei had brought some thin pastries for breakfast and given the best to Ming.

“You even brought a girl,” repeated Vladimir. “Into Afghanistan.”

“Yes,” said Alexei. “I would be sitting beside her in the back of the truck right about now. Ming Lei. Ha. I have not thought about her in years.”

“Good for you,” said Vladimir. “What happens next?”

Alexei thought about that. “Next, I — ” and he thought about spy school “ — we — ” and he thought about Czernochov and trigonometry “ — soon — ” and he looked down at Vladimir, who had twisted around in his seat to peer back up at Alexei.

“You can’t remember, can you?”

“It was a good time,” said Alexei — even as he began to suspect this was not the case.

Vladimir sighed. “Pay attention,” he said. “You’re not in yourself anymore; you’re watching yourself. Maybe this way you will learn something.”

The convoy proceeded through the valley. In the rear cab of the truck, Ming Lei was sitting quietly — peering out the small, dust-crusted windows with only a little worry in her eye. Shadak sat up front with the driver. Young Alexei sat back with Ming Lei. The flirtatious Wali Beg had ridden ahead for a moment. Shadak was talking to the driver. Alexei was staring at Ming’s right hand, which had begun twitching in her lap. She had not apparently noticed this — nor had anyone else. Alexei was smiling.

“Hey. What you got to be happy about?” Shadak turned around to look at Alexei. Ming’s hand stilled, and Alexei looked at Shadak.

“Things are going well,” said Alexei.

“Are they? That’s mortar fire in the distance.” Shadak appeared pissed off. “I thought you knew this pass.”

“I have never been here before in my life,” said Alexei.

“Funny.”

Alexei looked back at Ming. He smiled. She smiled.

“Just relax,” said Alexei.

Ming repeated it on his heels: “Just relax.”

Shadak sighed and faced forward. He would be thinking about the rendezvous — fifteen kilometres or so north from here, a squad of Mujahedeen and their captain should be waiting. If everything went according to plan, they would escort the convoy to a hidden camp somewhere east of Kandahar. But Shadak would be uneasy with the whomping of artillery so close. He would be uneasy about the small-arms fire chatter that echoed through the hills. He would not admit it, but he would be very uneasy about Alexei Kilodovich, sitting in the back of the truck next to Ming.

Alexei appeared uneasy too. He looked at the back of Shadak’s head as they jostled along, frowning slightly. He looked at Ming. Her hand came up to her face, and she drew a finger across her chin. He nodded to himself and looked at the back of Shadak’s head. Shadak sat still.

A hillside not far ahead of them exploded in a shower of dirt and stone.

Shadak jolted upright in his seat. So did Alexei. Ming remained calm. Outside the cab, the camels’ eyes showed white and their masters struggled to keep control of them.

The convoy stopped.

“What is this? What is this?”

Shadak appeared panicked. Alexei said nothing — just stared at him.

The driver did a better job of calming Shadak. He put his hand on the young man’s shoulder and spoke calmly: “That would not be for us,” he said. “It is stray fire.” But he did not appear to believe his own words.

The convoy sat still in a settling cloud of dust. Finally, Ahmed Jamal — one of Shadak’s original Mujahedeen contacts — rode up to the truck. He leaned into the cab.

“I will send scouts ahead,” he said. “To see what is going on.”

“Fine.” Shadak was pissed. They sat still in the cab, as Ahmed rode over to a clutch of his fellows. Two of them took off on foot, up the slope of the valley — with binoculars and rifles.

The caravan sat still. Shadak fidgeted. Alexei tapped his thighs with his fingertips. The shadows lengthened. And finally, Ahmed came back.

“We don’t go farther today,” he said. “We don’t go back, either. We’re trapped. There are caves to the east of here. We go there for now. “