Bones of the Lost(41)

Last, I copied an article I was preparing for the Journal of Forensic Sciences. Unlikely I’d do any writing on this trip, but what the hell.

The taxi rolled up at four. I was at Charlotte-Douglas in thirty minutes, through security in thirty more.

Aviation miracle, the flight was on time. Three hours after leaving the annex, I was walking up a Jetway at Dulles.

After locating the Turkish Airlines gate, I found the Virgin Atlantic lounge and burrowed in for my three-hour wait.

Again, the gods were smiling. At 10:20 a voice announced my flight was boarding for an on-time departure.

Thinking international travel wasn’t so bad, I queued up with my fellow business-class passengers, found my seat, stowed my belongings, and buckled my belt.

I do not sleep well in flight.

For the next ten hours I read, ate a reasonably good meal, tried a movie or two. Donned earplugs and eyeshades, reclined my seat, and tucked under the blanket. Sought positions in which all of my limbs enjoyed blood flow. Reoriented again and again. Raised the seat and turned on the light to read. Lowered the seat. Dialed up white noise on my phone. Tried another movie.

Again and again I thought about Jane Doe. Assured myself I hadn’t abandoned her.

Deplaning in Istanbul, I felt like I’d rowed the entire fifty-five hundred miles.

The Turkish Airlines lounge was all gold and white, with circular arches separating bars, seating clusters, and food stations. The chairs and sofas would have looked stylish in any posh L.A. hotel. Wi-Fi. A pianist. Even a masseur. I could’ve lived in the place.

I snagged a few hors d’oeuvres, then checked my e-mail.

Katy and Ryan remained incommunicado.

Not so Harry. Now panicked.

Twenty-four hours had passed since my departure from Charlotte, almost none of that time spent sleeping. No way I was up to dealing with baby sister. I sent a follow-up message as vague as my first. Traveling. Catch up soon.

My next flight was aboard a 737 whose interior had never experienced a facelift. I got the bulkhead row, which meant a wall in my face in exchange for an extra inch of legroom.

The ride was bumpy. The coffee was Turkish and tasted like tar.

Five hours after taking off, the pilot put down at Manas International Airport in Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan, the transit center for U.S. and coalition forces moving to and from Afghanistan.

As we taxied through blackness, I attempted some math. My watch said it was 9 P.M. EST. Monday. I estimated it was Tuesday morning in Kyrgyzstan. That’s all the precision my sleep-deprived neurons could muster.

A master sergeant named Grace Mensforth met me at the terminal. Medium build, brown hair, unremarkable features. The type witnesses rarely remember.

Mensforth introduced herself as my Air Force liaison. At my blank look, she explained that, though Kyrgyzstan operates the airport, the USAF runs the Transit Center. Thus her presence.

“How was your flight?”

“Uneventful.”

“Best we can hope for, eh?” She swept an arm left. “Baggage is this way.”

Mensforth led me across a cement-floored terminal that looked like the basement of a Stalinist factory. Boy-men in nine-foot peaked caps and long wool coats stood with automatic weapons slung across their chests.

My duffel was on the floor, a spot of tan in a sea of multicolored leather and speckled camouflage. I waded in and hoisted it free.

“Give me your passport.” Mensforth held out a hand. “I’ll handle the visa.”

“Thanks.”

“The red tape is unreal.”

Slowly, the baggage area emptied. I stood, cold seeping through my Nikes, jacket, and jeans, fatigue weighing on my body like a truckload of sludge.

Finally, Mensforth returned.

“This your first trip to the Islamic Republic of Afghanistan?” Handing back my passport.

“And Kyrgyzstan.”

“The Kyrgyz Republic. On to customs.”

Again Mensforth arm-motioned “this way.” I wondered if she’d been a maître d’ in another life.

Fortunately, the line was short. As we progressed, body length by body length, Mensforth took a stab at conversation.

“Kyrgyz comes from forty. Forty tribes.”

“Really.”

We lurched forward.

Mensforth interpreted my listless reply as either aloofness or lack of interest. From then on we waited in silence.

Fifteen minutes after queuing up, I was following my liaison across a pitch-black tarmac. The air was frosty, the wind damp and penetrating.

Head lowered, Mensforth angled to a white Air Force van and opened a side rear door. I climbed in. A kid in uniform loaded my bag, then slid behind the wheel.

As we drove, tiny lights shaped up in the distance. I spotted no other vehicles.

My head throbbed. My stomach churned. Sleep would definitely take precedence over food.