Anasazi Exile. Eric G. Swedin

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СКАЧАТЬ sagged under books in five languages, an eclectic mix of history, novels, almanacs, and dictionaries. A hotplate shared her small table with stacks of newspapers, next to a small refrigerator that ran on either electricity or natural gas, whichever seemed to be flowing more reliably that day.

      Even though she had lived in this room for five years, she had never bothered to buy a chest of drawers. Instead she lived out of two suitcases, which made packing very easy. She picked through her clothes, leaving most behind so that she would have room to pack the quilt and a couple of books. She looked forward to plane rides as an opportunity to read. Reaching under the table, she slid aside a board to reveal a concealed compartment. Three stacks of ten thousand American dollars each, all in twenties.

      Amanda retrieved her laptop and stored it in the large purse that she favored. The laptop contained everything and was the heart of her operation. She looked over the apartment and office one last time, making sure that she hadn’t left anything, and then locked the door behind her. The hall smelled of urine and decay. She knocked on the door of the apartment across from hers.

      Suraiya opened the door. A tall Uzbek with weathered skin from a youth spent living in a yurt, she had the kind of eyes of someone who chose to roll with the vicissitudes of life and not let the cruelty of her fellow humans scar her. A lawyer by training, she diligently filed suits and requests with the Uzbek courts, requesting trials when none were offered, or asking exasperated bureaucrats for information about disappeared people. Most of the legal maneuvers came to naught, but she knew that the first step to a functioning judicial system was to act like it might someday exist.

      “Anika, what’s wrong?”

      “I’ve received word that a relative in America is ill and I must go visit.”

      “How long will you be gone?”

      “I don’t know—perhaps a long time, but I will bring back some gifts.” Amanda handed two bundles of the money to Suraiya. “Be safe while I am gone.”

      Their words were carefully selected, revealing nothing, because they knew that Uzbek internal security forces had bugged the apartment. The state-controlled bullies mostly just harassed them, stopping their car in the street to check for proper papers, demanding excessive bribes for bureaucratic services, and a rock through Amanda’s bedroom window last month. Petty stuff, but petty minds dreamed up petty things. The reports that Amanda wrote to send to Amnesty International, Human Rights Watch, the European Community, and the United States State Department kept her work visible to the rest of the world, and that was what kept her safe.

      Yurgi came over, his crutches scraping along the wood floor. A landmine in Afghanistan had changed his life; only his thick upper torso allowed him mobility on his stick-like legs. Suraiya and he had no children, though they were both fond of little ones, and Amanda suspected that he could not father children. He may not even have been able to function as a husband. Amanda had never pried and didn’t want to know. The wife and husband were the only employees of Amanda’s foundation, but she knew that they only took the money in order to live; they were true crusaders at heart, just as she was.

      “I need you to drive me to the airport, but first I want to take you both to dinner.”

      As Suraiya drove to a restaurant that served the best Lebanese food in the city, Amanda looked out the window, wondering if she would be able to return. There were nicer neighborhoods, with nice homes and tree-lined streets, but the human rights workers chose to live as the masses lived. She had grown to love the Uzbeks and their city, even though too much of the city was dreary Soviet architecture, all crumbling concrete and barren lots. Very little was left to show that this sprawling city of two million was truly ancient, and had once been an important caravan center on the Silk Road from China to Europe.

      She would miss Tashkent.

      CHAPTER TEN

      Simon Ashbridge couldn’t get the stink of the dead men out of his nostrils. He rubbed at his nose, trying to be discreet, conscious that he had four other rangers with him. He knew that his obsession with looking competent in front of them was a bit silly, but being chief ranger meant a lot to him.

      The second dead man had been taken away, like garbage in a bag, but the smell still lingered. Simon stood back away from the girl’s tent as Harry rummaged through it, putting clothes, a brush, a cell phone, and other stuff into a backpack. It was a crime scene, but all the pictures had been taken, and Simon could think of no good reason to keep Harry from taking some of the girl’s possessions to her.

      Nothing in the archaeologist’s story smelled suspicious, though the whole affair stank in more ways than he could name. National parks occasionally had problems with gun-toting idiots growing marijuana, but there was not enough water in Chaco Canyon to make that possible. Who were these men? His call to the FBI had not inspired him that los federales would come quickly.

      “Uh, Harry, you might want to take some of your own clothes,” Simon suggested. “Or even change clothes. Look at all that blood.”

      Simon followed the archaeologist to another tent and turned away as the man stripped and dressed himself. Despite an insistent urge, Simon did not sneak a peek. He had always dreamed of being a soldier; he loved reading books and watching movies about soldiers, the look of men in uniforms, and the idea being with other men in danger. The idea of war did not attract him so much as did the idea of living in barracks and the shared life of such a masculine world. After high school, Simon had joined the Army, and spent four years driving a tank. He enjoyed tearing up the countryside of Kentucky, feeling the power of sixty-three tons under his control, but was disappointed that barracks no longer existed except in boot camp. Dormitory rooms were the normal quarters now.

      Being a private sucked, with long hours on guard duty, obeying the orders of petty tyrants, and feeling that his life was not his own, so he decided to use his G.I. Bill and get a college education, then rejoin as an officer. In college he came out of the closet and acknowledged that he was gay. He felt so relieved, but he couldn’t put that part of him back into some secret place; he realized that rejoining the Army was a foolish dream. Don’t ask, don’t tell meant don’t join.

      He joined the National Park Service and dedicated himself to climbing the ranks. He didn’t have a boyfriend. Three times a year he flew to San Francisco or New York or some other place with a vigorous gay scene. A bit of action and he was good until the next time.

      Simon met Harry Deacon the first time that he drove out to check on the new archaeological permit for Casa Ángeles. He found Harry to be a real soldier, the kind of soft-spoken special operator that Simon idealized, with the subtle texture of muscles under his brown Puerto Rican skin and the confident way that he moved. Simon asked Harry about some of his experiences, not pumping for stories, just being friendly. Harry was a paragon of masculinity, and when Simon put out a few subtle signals, he found that Harry was also completely straight. Too bad.

      * * * *

      Just outside the entrance to Chaco Canyon, on Bureau of Land Management land, a poorly maintained gravel road stretched towards the south. Harry turned onto it and drove for three miles, keeping an eye out for anyone else, especially someone who might be watching him.

      He recognized the paranoia gripping him and the hyper-alertness that kept his eyes constantly flitting about and his nerves quivering. He had slipped back into combat mode, where everything was a possible threat until proven safe. Long experience had shown him how exhausting such a state on perpetual awareness would be. He was not a young pup anymore, and the energy required daunted him, but he could not imagine any other proper response to the situation. The facts added up into a threat that he could not wrap his understanding around: strange men attacking СКАЧАТЬ