David Nickle - Rasputin's Bastards

“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. “

“What of the exchange?” said Shadak irritably. “We’re expected.”

Ahmed nodded. “Maybe by more than just my brothers,” he said. “There is evidence of a large battalion ahead of us. A large engagement. We think that firefight might be one with our brothers. We go to the caves. When the battle finishes, they will meet us there maybe.”

Alexei mumbled something inaudible as Shadak threw up his hands and swore.

“Why can’t I hear what I’m saying?” Alexei asked Vladimir as they watched the drama unfold from the back of the truck. “For that matter — why can’t I tell what I’m thinking? This is my memory, is it not?”

Vladimir was perched in Alexei’s lap. He pulled his foot out of his mouth and looked up. “Good question, Kilodovich. It’s true, isn’t it? Every other memory you’ve seen, you’ve been able to watch from inside your own head. But here — we’re stuck on the outside, yes? Like ghosts.” He waggled his little fingers. “How terrifying .”

It wasn’t terrifying, precisely. But it was unsettling — like listening to a tape made of one’s self made twenty years ago, too late on a night after consuming far too much liquor. From the inside, even the worst of memories are seen through the reassuring filter of self-delusion. From the outside, this day in Afghanistan, there was no such filter. Alexei took an instant dislike to himself.

“Hey,” he said, leaning forward. “What am I doing now?”

Amar Shadak’s head was down. He was staring at his hands. Alexei raised his own hand then, extended his forefinger — and held it, less than an inch from the nape of Shadak’s neck. His lips moved as though he were mumbling something. The finger hovered there for a few seconds, until Shadak started, looked up, and turned around. Alexei snatched his hand back.