Strike Force

They collected their bags at the inspection station. No one said a word outside. They tried to flag down a taxi, but a private citizen stopped first and offered them a ride. After a few moments of haggling, they settled on a price and piled into the broken-down, dilapidated Russian sedan.

The driver took them to the Tolkuchka Bazaar at the outskirts of Ashkhabad, which looked like the gaudiest Hollywood B-movie set of a bazaar they had ever seen — thousands of shoppers circulating around hundreds of merchants, some in multicolored tents but most just sitting on colorful carpets with their wares spread out before them. The sights and sounds were rich and varied, and Azar found her eyes wandering to the beautiful silks, silver, jewelry, and rugs on display.

But they had a job to do. Job one: make sure they were not being followed. They dared not look behind them in the car or speak except in conversational Turkish, fearing the driver to be a Turkmenistan National Committee for Security agent, so they didn’t know if they were being tailed and so assumed they were. They did several switchbacks, quick dodges, and reversals to try to spot any shadows, but didn’t spot any tails. Still not satisfied they were safe, they bought some lamb kebabs and tea and sat outside a camel corral with other visitors taking a break from the crush of people in the bazaar, safe from everyone except an occasional herder or vendor peddling something.

“Thank you for helping me at the airport, Shahdokht,” Najar said in a low voice.

“I’m sorry if it embarrassed you, but we did not want to be confronted by a superior officer — the more eyes around, the lesser chances we’d have of bribing our way into the country,” Azar said. “Thankfully you showed him your money — he was just looking for the right opportunity to be able to take it from you. What is our situation, Major?”

“We have just two hours before we’ll be reported for not surrendering our passports,” Najar said. “Hopefully that customs officer won’t be so efficient…”

“We have to assume he’ll be more efficient,” Azar said.

“Agreed, Shahdokht. Our network contact is supposed to meet us here at the bazaar, but I don’t know what he or she looks like or who it is, so they’ll have to make contact with us.”

“We’ll wait here and finish our wonderful meal, then lose ourselves in the crowd again until nightfall,” Azar said. She was serious about the food — she was afraid that the spicy, chewy meat would be too much for her stomach, but she enjoyed every bite. She looked toward the south. “Those must be the Kopetdag Mountains. I’ve read about them and seen pictures. They are beautiful.”

“That’s Mount Shahshah there,” Saidi said, pointing a bit to the west. “The Turkmenis claim it’s on their side of the border — based on Soviet surveyors’ claims, naturally — but it’s really in Iran. But wait until you see the Alborz Mountains north of Tehran and the volcano Mount Damavand. It’s almost twice as high as Shahshah, and it’s the largest volcano in Eurasia west of the Hindu Kush.”

“I can’t wait to see it, Lieutenant,” Azar said. “I can’t wait to see the Caspian Sea — I only caught a glimpse of it from the air — and the Persian Gulf, and even the Great Salt Desert. Minnesota is nothing like my Iran.”

Another vendor wearing colorful robes and sashes, a red turban, and white skull cap wandered over, carrying a cart full of bags of hot pistachios, and Azar’s mouth watered again. The vendor saw this immediately and smiled a crooked, yellow-toothed smile. “Peace and happiness to you, my child,” he said in Turkmeni, bowing to Najar as a way of asking permission to address the girl. “Would you like some warm, satisfying pistachios? Just six thousand manat, freshly picked this morning and roasted right here just minutes ago, the best bargain in the whole bazaar!”

“Thank you, sir, and peace to you and your family as well,” Azar said in her best Turkmeni. She looked at Najar, and he nodded, keeping a careful eye on the vendor’s hands and the men behind him. A few other hawkers had started to cluster around nearby, waiting to see how much money these pilgrims would pull out. “All I have is Turkish new lira, sir.”

“Turkish lira! Even better, my child! But because that is not official currency here in Turkmenistan, I must ask for eight thousand manat, still a very great bargain for you, a pittance really if you consider the exchange rate between our currencies. I will be sure to give you more than enough of my succulent pistachios for all three of you.”

“That is generous of you, sir, but my father says I have spent enough and can only give you one thousand manat — fifty kurus.”

“Your father is wise and must be respected, child, but I have children of my own to feed,” the vendor said. “But in respect for your father and mother, I will sell an extra large bag to you for the original price — six thousand.”

“I’m afraid my blessed father will disapprove of any more than two thousand manat.”