Reamde

Olivia edged around into view, standing behind Sokolov, and said, “Speaking of which, what do we hear from Marlon?”

“We’re going to Skype him later,” Csongor said. “It is early in the morning, yet, in Beijing.”

“He doesn’t work all night anymore?” Olivia said wonderingly.

“Nolan has him on banker’s hours,” Richard said. “Oh, he was up as recently as a few hours ago, playing T’Rain, but we’re going to let him catch a little shut-eye before we confront him with this.” And he made a gesture down the length of the couch.

“I think it’s a very nice lineup to be confronted with,” Olivia said, “and I’m sorry H. M. government doesn’t observe Thanksgiving, or I’d be there.” She glanced down. “We’d be there.”

“Immigration,” Sokolov said darkly.

“We’ll get that sorted,” Olivia assured him.

Gunshots were heard from outside. It was difficult to know how the sounds came through the Skype link, but the expression on Sokolov’s face changed markedly.

“It’s nothing!” Zula exclaimed. “Here, I’ll show you!” She got up, picked up the laptop, carried it as close to the window as its cables would allow, and aimed it out in the direction of the crick.

To Richard, in truth, it was quite a bit more than nothing. He’d been dreading it for half a year. It was impossible for him to hear the sound of guns being fired without thinking of things he didn’t want to remember. In Seattle, he and Zula had been seeing the same doctor for treatment of posttraumatic stress.

But lurking in the house all day wasn’t going to make that better, and going out to participate was unlikely to make it worse. And so after they wrapped up the Skype call with fond words and promises of future transatlantic visits, all of them except for Grandpa put on warm clothes and ear protection and shuffled out toward the crick. Jake was there, and Elizabeth, and the three boys. They had taken a week off from the cabin-rebuilding project to drive out from Idaho and check in with the extended family and lay flowers on John’s grave. The boys, homeschooled in the wilderness, had been an awkward fit with the crowd of mostly affluent suburban midwesterners who made up the re-u, but here they were in their element, moving up and down the line assisting their cousins with jams, giving them pointers in marksmanship. It was a relatively still day, which was a blessing for outdoorsmen, even though it meant that the wind turbines were not doing much.

Richard was examining one of those—he’d learned a lot more about them, now that he was handling some of John’s residual business affairs—when he saw an SUV turning off the highway into the gravel drive that led to the farmhouse. About a hundred feet in, it stopped at the checkpoint that the state patrol had set up, nominally to stop terrorists from coming here to wreak revenge on the Forthrasts, but also to keep media from coming in and making nuisances of themselves. Richard could not see through the windshield at this distance, but he could tell from the body language of the state trooper that the driver was one deserving of respect. The gate was opened and the SUV waved through. It came down the driveway with a searing noise, a plume of dust rising in its wake.

“They’re here,” Zula told him, her voice muddy through the earplugs. For she had apparently seen the same thing.

“I have to warn you,” Richard mentioned, “that he’s the most outspoken and cheerful colostomy patient who ever lived.”

“That’s good, right?”

“Cheerful is good. Outspoken can be a bit of a problem. Especially if he can’t keep his mouth shut about it during Thanksgiving dinner.” He looked at his niece. “His mouth, and his other orifices. See, now I’m doing it too.”

“Maybe he’ll be better behaved when he’s sitting next to Yuxia,” Zula suggested. “It’s just temporary, right?”

“What? Him and Yuxia? Who knows?”

“I was actually thinking of the colostomy.”

“That’s temporary,” Richard agreed. “The jokes about it, however, are eternal.”

They were strolling, side by side, toward the road. “How about you and Csongor?” Richard asked, glancing over his shoulder at the Hungarian, who was squeezing off rounds from a pistol while Jake critiqued his form.

“It might be permanent,” Zula said. “Who knows? If he can make it through today, and he still wants to have anything to do with me and my family, then maybe we can talk.”

“He’s made it through harder things than today.”

“This is differently hard.”

The SUV pulled off the road a few yards away, and the driver’s-side window rolled down. “That’s a relief,” Seamus called. “I was afraid my bag had overflowed, until Yuxia pointed out that we were driving past a hog confinement facility.”

Yuxia had jumped out of the passenger side before the SUV even came to a full stop, and now engaged in a full body-slam greeting with Zula and an exchange of squeals so loud that it actually caused the noise-canceling electronics in Richard’s ear protectors to engage. Richard exchanged a look with Seamus and pantomimed reaching up with both hands to turn the knobs on the device all the way down.

“Glad your clan in Boston was willing to lend you to us for the holiday,” Richard remarked, shaking Seamus’s hand. Seamus had climbed out of the vehicle and unlimbered himself to his full height.

“They’re afraid of barnyard humor,” Seamus said, “so they sent me to one. We’re going to see them around Christmas. Yuxia wants to perform serious reconnaissance on my culture before getting in any deeper.”

“Have you kissed her yet?”

“She’s elusive,” Seamus admitted. “If I were to presume anything—to act like I was entitled, you know—she would tear me a new—”

“Don’t say it.”

“To answer your question, Dodge, I think she wants my alimentary tract back in one piece before she comes into contact with any part of it. But there has been a bit of progress on that front. Not what you’d look for in an American girl. But you have to proceed with caution when dealing with a Big-Footed Woman.”

Zula and Yuxia had just discovered that they were wearing the exact same style of winter boots, which made their feet look very big indeed. They were milking that for more hilarity than Richard would have thought possible.

“Ready to go in and give thanks?”

“You know it,” Seamus said.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Several persons deserve thanks and credit for having helped me when my progress was impeded by my ignorance. None of them, however, deserves any blame for cases where I got something wrong. Chief among these is Josh D’Aluisio-Guerrieri (), the consummate modern China hand; his skills at translation and cultural navigation made this book far better than it would have been had I been left to my own devices (I am also indebted to Charles Mann for allowing me to tag along with him and Josh on a trip that was originally intended as a research expedition for Charles’s book 1493 but that I was allowed to, in a small way, hijack). Deric Ruhl saved me from one embarrassing blunder having to do with the workings of the Makarov, then went on to read the entire manuscript and offer extensive and very useful comments about firearms. I daresay he may have invented a new literary niche: ballistics copy editor.

George Dyson helped with fishing boat lore, Keith Rosema with flight plans, and George Jewsbury did a bit of Russian translation. John Eaton and Hugh Matheson helped fill out the picture of British Columbia by cheerfully supplying background information about cat-skiing resorts and mining operations, respectively.

Having put the reputations of the above people in play, I must reiterate that there are places in the book where I may have misinterpreted their advice, or simply chosen to ignore it for storytelling reasons, and so none of them should be blamed for any defects.

Somewhat in the same vein, a word about geography: the advent of Google Earth makes it easy to call up high-resolution maps of any place on the planet and compare them against the descriptions in a work of fiction.