The Old Boys (41 page)

“We crossed the mountains into Xinjiang and hid in different caves on the other side,” he said. “The Han and the Muscovites never told each other anything.”

Askar knew everyone in the village, of course. He was given a celebrity’s welcome. We were included in it—or at least David and I were. Zarah, her pedigree having been explained by Askar, was swept away by the women like a long-lost sister. In the headman’s house, we men were offered fermented mare’s milk. I was happy
to have it. It made my body feel less sore, and while I can’t say I preferred it to scotch whiskey, it did have a nice malty taste. The headman assured us that although a lot of vodka was still drunk in free Kyrgyzstan, fermented mare’s milk was the true national drink. This was proved by the fact that the nation’s capital, Bishkek, was named for the churn in which mare’s milk is fermented.

It was late afternoon before the tide of hospitality had subsided enough for business to be done. Zarah had not disappeared. She was simply hanging out with the rest of the females in the kitchen. Judging by the laughter in that room and the shiny smiling faces of the women who brought our food and drink, the ladies were enjoying her company.

When at last we were taken to the Saker falcon it became evident that Zarah’s position as Lori’s granddaughter was an asset. Lori—or Kerzira, as the Kyrgyz called her—had dealt with men on her own terms. Everyone seemed to expect Zarah to do the same. The Saker falcon was kept in a cave farther up the mountainside—actually in a sort of alcove deep inside the cave itself. Zarah insisted on going in alone with a candle. She remained inside for maybe fifteen minutes. It seemed longer to me, doubled up as I was beneath the low rock ceiling, and even longer than that to the falcon’s keepers. Cousin or not, foreigner or not, Kerzira’s granddaughter or not, Zarah was a woman. Women and falcons did not mix. Glances were exchanged, words muttered. Resentment simmered. Apprehension mounted. Who knew what harm this foreign female might be doing to a creature that was worth more in cash money than the combined life’s income of everyone in the village? And who could be sure that she wasn’t a spy for crazy foreigners who might show up with the police to rescue the bird, thus making the head policeman’s fortune and getting everyone in this cave sent to jail?

At last Zarah emerged from the darkness into the smoky lantern light of the outer cave. The village headman, a fellow named Turdahun, lifted her hand and sniffed it. This was a strange liberty, I thought, but Zarah permitted it without complaint. Turdahun
was just checking to see if she had touched the bird. Apparently she had not, because Turdahun made no complaint, either. I don’t know whether this was Kyrgyz etiquette or the language barrier or some sort of tongue-tied reaction to this strange woman who had come out of nowhere like her grandmother, but in any case, mum was the word.

Fortunately, Askar was on the scene. Speaking pidgin Arabic to Zarah and rain-on-the-roof Kyrgyz to the other parties, he took over the negotiations. From his point of view and that of the villagers, this was the natural order of things. He was Zarah’s male relative. Naturally he would speak for her, protect her, get her what she wanted at the fairest possible price. While most of the men in the village watched from the sidelines, Askar and Turdahun sat on a rug and drank tea and bargained, whispering to each other’s ears when they came into important points. This went on for several hours. At some point the fermented mare’s milk and the warmth of the dung fire put me to sleep. When I woke, the bargain had been struck. Askar had obtained the Saker falcon for three thousand grams of gold, or about $35,000, one-fourth the original asking price.

The gold was ceremoniously weighed in the presence of witnesses. To my surprise, Zarah had brought it with her in small ingots; like an indulgent father, I had assumed that I was going to pay for it. The bargain struck, the gold paid, we ate again (more mutton) and drank the excellent Russian vodka that David had brought. By now it was too late to leave, so we spent the night.

There was no question of oversleeping. Turdahun’s entire household was up at dawn. Women rattled pans, men shouted, sheep bleated. I wandered outside and came upon two boys milking ewes. One of the lads offered me a saucer of milk straight from the udder. I was about as much interested in drinking it on top of fermented mare’s milk and vodka as I would have been in eating the sheep’s eyes. I drank it down anyway to be polite and said the Kyrgyz word for
thank-you
.

I wandered up to the hot spring and washed my face. The sulfurous water smelled faintly of rotten eggs, but it was truly hot, about the temperature of a Japanese bath. From the look and smell of the villagers, they did not often take advantage of the bubbling waters. After my ride in Askar’s pickup and a night twisted into a pretzel on a very short sleeping pallet, I would have been glad to sink into the steaming spring and soak my weary bones, but at this moment my telephone vibrated. The instrument quivered three or four more times before I identified the source of the annoyance and dug beneath my parka and sweater to find it.

Playing the man who had nothing to hide, I barked, “Horace here!”

I
was expecting to hear an Old Boy on the line—Charley with a bulletin from outer space or Jack or Ben or Harley with another kind of helpful hint. Instead I heard a voice I did not know. In my befuddled state I thought for a moment that someone had gotten a wrong number. But then I realized that the caller, who was speaking a kind of denatured English—grammatical but lacking any kind of emphasis—must be Chinese. His voice was reedy, faint, apprehensive, as if its owner had been hoping that he would get my voice mail instead of me. The sound of my name, spoken aloud into the ears of whoever was monitoring this call, had spooked him. I could understand why.

His silence was so complete that I thought for a moment that the line had gone dead. Then he said, “Ah! I have reached you.”

In the background I could hear Chinese musical instruments, drums and reeds. Also the noise of a crowd. He must be having trouble hearing me. And why was he making a clandestine phone call from the middle of what sounded like a Chinese funeral?

Raising my voice, I said, “Yes, and I’m very glad, too. I’m interested in a backpacking trip into the mountains and I hope that your travel agency can help me with this.”

It took the caller a long moment to understand this doubletalk. Then he caught on. His voice became a little stronger.

“Perhaps we can be of service,” he said. “Though of course you must obtain the necessary permissions from the authorities.”

“I understand. Let me ask you this. Can you offer references?”

My disused Outfit mind was beginning to work again, albeit sluggishly. It is no simple matter to beat around the bush in this way and still get your message across to someone who learned English from Chinese instructors in an academy in remotest Manchuria.

Ze said, “References?”

I said, “That’s right, references. I’d like to speak to someone who has used your services. I have in mind one man in particular.”

Another long silence as he processed this information. When at
last he spoke, his volume went up another click. Maybe he was beginning to enjoy this game.

“Some time ago I had many conversations with an interesting man,” he said. “Perhaps he would do.”

“I see. And did you find him a good conversationalist?”

“I found him to be perfectly truthful.”

The caller could be none other than Ze Keli, Paul’s old interrogator. I was sure of it.

I said, “Have you kept in touch with this client?”

“I have seen him quite recently.”

“Did you find him well?”

“He was happy to be with his mother and his brother.”

“Can they come to the phone now?”

“Sorry. They are nearby but that is not possible at the moment.”

“Then perhaps you and I can meet. I, too, am quite nearby.”

There was a burst of noise on the line. It sounded like the burp of a submachine gun.

“What was that?” I asked.

“Firecrackers,” the man said. “A wedding is taking place. Don’t be apprehensive, please. How close are you, exactly?”

Ze had hidden himself in a wedding procession to make this phone call. Clever fellow—just another Chinese walking down the street in a merry procession with his cell phone pressed to his ear.

I said, “At the moment I am touring the Silk Road. I’m in the mountains, not far from Karakol.”

“Ah,” he said again. Another pause, more music and firecrackers. Then he said, “Listen carefully. The ots-hay pringsay near the edelbay asspay.”

The
what?
I said, “Say that again, please.”

He repeated the words, if that’s what they were. I dug out a pen and scribbled them on the back of my hand.

“Got it.”

Ze said, “At oon-nay in wotay aysday imetay. “

He
broke the connection. I sat down on a rock and stared at the blue ballpoint squiggles the back of my hand.

I heard a commotion and stood up. Below me in the village several men appeared. The first two carried a box that was about the size and shape of an army footlocker turned on end. A dozen more surrounded them. They presented the box to Askar, who stood near his pickup truck, salt-and-pepper beard swept leftward by the breeze, a magnificent vista of mountain and fallow pasture behind him. Zarah stood just behind him, womanly and shy, hands clasped modestly at her waist.

One of the falcon handlers gave Askar something. They were several hundred meters away and I couldn’t quite make out what it was with the naked eye. Askar turned and handed the thing to Zarah. He seemed to be helping her on with it somehow, buckling it to her arm, but his broad body was in the way so I could not make this out, either.

Suddenly Turdahun, the headman, stepped into the frame. He carried the Saker falcon on his right forearm. It really was white. He approached Zarah and transferred the bird to her arm. I understood, rather than saw, that what Askar had given to her was a gauntlet to protect her arm from the falcon’s talons. Asker stepped back. So did all the rest. And there was Zarah, all alone, with the great feathered weapon she had purchased standing hooded and tethered on her arm. This bird was much larger than the peregrine falcons I had seen. I remembered Kalash’s houbara bustard and its telltale shadow.

The “language” Ze had been speaking over the telephone was pig latin. “
The ots-hay pringsay earnay the edelbay asspay in wotay aysday imetay
translated to “the hot spring near the Bedel Pass in two days’ time.”

Who knows how he knew about this nursery patois? Maybe Paul had taught it to him in a light moment between hard questions. Everything else in this operation had begun with Paul, even my hangover, because if I had not set out to find him I certainly would not be standing by a hot spring where the
Mongol Horde might have soaked its feet, looking out over a lost world in which white falcons were worth a hundred times their weight in gold.

The Bedel Pass, lying at fourteen thousand feet, is the ancient gateway between northern Kyrgyzstan and Xianjing. From the Kyrgyz village it was a day’s journey by car to the end of the road, then another two days by forced march to the pass. The trail followed a narrow river along the base of the Kak˘saal Range, then went straight up the mountain to the pass. The river, running too fast to freeze, cascaded down a steep rocky bed, exuding frigid spray that coated everything along its banks with all but invisible black ice—the path we trod, rocks, trees, drifted snow. From time to time we saw an explosion of snow above us on the mountainside and seconds later heard the boom of an avalanche. Dead pack animals—a small wide-eyed shaggy pony with all four feet in the air, a two-humped Bactrian camel frozen into the scowling resentment that is the trademark of its breed—lay beside the trail. We saw no human corpses, but it was possible to wonder if Ze Keli was not luring us to our death by freezing.

Certainly Askar was reluctant to guide us. He was a wanted man in China, with a price on his head. We were going to be met, at least in theory, by a Han whom none of us knew and whose only recommendation was that he had been one of Paul Christopher’s jailers. How many soldiers or People’s Armed Police would this party man, this agent of the Guoanbu, have with him?
Askar had brought along four younger men, unsmiling Kyrgyz fighters swathed in felt and sheepskin. Ponies, slipping and sliding on the treacherous footing, carried our gear. The animals were at least as resentful as Askar’s men. We weren’t told the names of the men or what was in the packsaddles, but in the superclean upland air, the sharp smell of gun oil was almost as strong as the odor of lanolin.