It is called a hogan.
And it is the primary traditional dwelling of one tribe.
They call themselves the Diné.
But there is a name that we, the white man, have given them . . .
which is . . .
the Navajo.
42
Monument Valley Navajo Tribal Park.
That’s where it is. That enormous red tower sticking out of the ground, looking out across the mesa. That’s in Monument Valley. It’s so distinct, sticking up out of the earth with one, thinner spire on the side, it has a name. West Mitten Butte.
Makes sense.
It does look like a mitten.
This is one of those places you see for the first time and don’t understand why you were dumb enough not to come sooner. The luminous, pink light off the red rocks and mesas, the bright azure sky like it was painted, all of it makes you feel like there has to be a God. There just must be. To make this.
Wherever this place is, this Navajo hogan, this rock in the photo, West Mitten Butte, is somewhere behind it. Probably pretty far judging by the size. The good news is, there aren’t that many roads. The bad news is, there’s no guarantee this hogan is near any roads. It’s kind of like looking for a needle in a haystack. This place is bigger than it looks in the picture.
Not that I mind it, though.
This is the exact opposite of being in an underground supper club in Moscow. It’s vast and stunning and there’s no one around for miles. And that’s not all. There’s something else here, too. Almost like a spirit. You feel like someone is watching over you, but not in a creepy way. You feel like there’s something in the air, a sort of kindness, enveloping you.
I don’t understand it.
I really don’t. But I can see why this is hallowed land. Why it holds a special place to the Navajo, why it’s considered the heart of the earth. Sacred.
This is the place Raynes stashed his trump card. I can feel it.
If I look at this screenshot, there’s only one butte in the background. But when I look at the map there are two nearby, forming a kind of triangle. East Mitten Butte and Merrick’s Butte. Neither of these are in the picture. But judging by where the one spire comes up from the rock, the finger of the mitten, and knowing that the door of the hogan must face east, I can begin to approximate where this fateful place must be. And it’s not near the road.
Glad I brought some water.
If I don’t make it back by sunset, you can just spread my ashes here. Promise?
43
It takes me about four hours, off the trail, to find it.
There, essentially hidden, camouflaged against the mesa, is the abandoned hogan. There’s nothing around it for miles. Not a shed, not another dwelling, not a human being. Just this structure, with a wooden door facing east.
Thank goodness it’s fall, otherwise I’m sure I wouldn’t have made it. As it is, though, it’s the perfect easy, breezy temperature for me to not die after a four-hour hike.
I stand there for a moment, taking it in, a breeze coming over the mesa.
Suddenly, I feel like I’m trespassing. Like I’m violating this sacred place in this sacred land where I have no business.
I look up to the sky.
“I’m sorry.”
I don’t exactly know who I’m talking to—maybe the wind. But whatever the case may be, I feel like there’s a respect I have to have. In this place. This place that’s watching me.
I approach with reverence and caution. After all, this is rattlesnake city. Scorpion central. I push the door open. No bites or stings. Yet.
If you’ve never been inside a hogan, I’ll give you a clue. It’s a little bit like being inside an upside-down wicker basket. The entire inside is a series of interlocking thin rectangular logs, intricately placed to keep the thing standing up. Then the mud part goes outside of that. So . . . on the inside, it’s actually really beautiful. You really wouldn’t think it would look like this. Throw in a couple of rugs and you could Airbnb this place for $300 a night. YOUR OWN NAVAJO HOGAN IN MONUMENT VALLEY!! LET YOUR TROUBLES SLIP AWAY!!!
Yes, all caps.
It takes me only about three hours to cover every millimeter of every inch of every piece of wood, twig, dirt, and a few spiders in here.
Three hours and guess what I come up with.
That’s right.
Nothing.
Goose egg.
Zilch.
God, I’m such a loser. What’s happening now is I am kind of bumping my head over and over on the side of the hogan wall.
“Idiot. I’m an idiot. Why am I such an idiot?”
What was I thinking? I understand Raynes? Raynes cares about the Navajo people? I’ve known him for, like, six weeks. What the hell do I know? Am I insane?
The worst part is Madden.
I’m gonna have to tell Madden just how much I suck.
Hey, remember that total hunch I randomly went on and made you send me on an emergency spiritual journey from Moscow to Monument Valley that must have cost a giant chunk of change? Well, I was kind of wrong about that whole thing. Sorry.
Ugh.
I bump my head against the hogan a little too hard.
Ouch. Jesus. How delusional am I?
I’m exhausted and exasperated and humiliated. I take a moment to lie on the ground and admit defeat.
Failed.
I have failed.
44
Twenty minutes later, my heart jumps.
Just like that.
It jumps, and I am up on my feet and out the door.
I grab the screenshot of the screenshot from my pocket and start walking.
It’s about two hundred feet to where the picture was taken.
I turn around and hold up the picture.
Back up.
Back up more . . .
There.
There. That’s it.
Do you see that? Right here, right here in this spot? If I hold it up, this is it. The exact place where the picture was taken. The POV of the picture, if you will. And you will.
Without knowing what I’m doing or even why, I just start digging. Right at my feet, not stopping, no dwelling, just going for it.
It’s getting harder, so I use a stick and a kind of pointy rock and whatever else I can find to keep it up. I don’t ask why, I’m just propelled into this, possessed.
It’s about twenty minutes in when I hit something.
I stop.
Put the rock down, look inside the dirt, squint.
I brush the dirt off whatever it is.
Could be a rock.
Maybe even a bone.
Who knows.
But as I dust it off I realize.
It’s neither.
No, no.
Ladies and gentlemen, it is . . .
A very ancient, Native American . . . flash drive.
45
Have you ever seen a girl dancing by herself in the middle of Monument Valley next to a hogan? I haven’t either. But that’s what I’m doing. Shaking. And jumping. Lots of jumping.
“I did it! I did it! YAAAAAAASSSSS! Hell yeah! Yes yes yes yes yes!”
And now I fall to my knees.
“Thank you. Thank you thank you thank you. Whoever or whatever just did that. Thank you.”
I am so happy, giddy, elated, and all those other words that describe something no one ever is. I am beside myself. Or on top of myself or something.
I feel like my feet are about three feet off the ground.
And I get to feel that way for about two minutes.
Two minutes of pure ecstasy until I am knocked to the earth.
Literally.
46
You know those old-timey cartoons, from back in the Looney Tunes days, when someone would get hit and they’d hear Tweety Birds and see stars circling around them? I never really got that. Until now.
Because I’m hearing Tweety Birds and seeing stars circling all around the outskirts of
my skull.
Something, or someone, hit me really hard.
I never even saw it coming.
I really didn’t.
When I finally catch my bearings and focus, I realize I am staring up at the bright blue cloudless sky. For an instant I think, am I in heaven? Then I remember, no, I am not in heaven. I am in Monument Valley.
Close. But no cigar.
Around me I can hear nothing.
The Tweety Birds have finally quieted down.
I sit up, dust myself off, and try to acclimate myself.
Okay.
I had something.
There was a thing that I had.
I’d been looking for it.
What was it?
It was right here.
Oh yes.
The flash drive!
Oh God.
I lost the flash drive!
Wait, no. I didn’t lose the flash drive. That’s not what happened. Someone took the flash drive. Someone smashed me in the head and took the flash drive.
Out here.
In the middle of nowhere.
I look around me. Nothing for miles and miles across the mesa. And now to the east. Nothing for miles and miles. West?
Nothing.
Except.
Wait.
What is that?
There. Do you see it?
Halfway down the horizon. I see it. A figure. A person. A person walking. Not running or anything. But walking pretty fast. I can see the red dust coming up behind them.
And I can’t tell who it is.
They’re too far.
Halfway across the mesa to the road.
Halfway between East Mitten Butte and Merrick’s Butte.
Well, I guess I better do something about that.
I sigh.
I guess I did my victory dance prematurely.
I’m a third of the way to the road, with the sun coming up across the mesa, hyperventilating because I’ve never run so fast in my entire life, when I realize that the figure walking away from me, the figure who followed me from Timbuktu to the middle of nowhere, the figure who clocked me and took the flash drive and is planning on taking it to God knows where is . . .
Katerina.
47
I know you think because I am an international superspy I am going to now take out my supersonic, double-secret laser blaster and evaporate Katerina into smithereens.
And I would like to tell you that’s what I do.
But it’s not.
By the time Katerina notices I’m running after her at quadruple my normal speed, she’s almost to the main road. And, of course, she takes off.
I don’t know how fast she is, but if her karate moves are any indication, she’s faster than me.
So, I do what any self-respecting outrun, outchopped person would do.
I throw a rock at her head.
I know, I know.
High-tech.
But it works.
I guess all that archery practice at supersecret spy school actually worked. I never would have thought I could hit a moving target from this far away. I make up my mind not to tell Madden he had a positive effect on my life.
But desperation might have helped here.
And adrenaline—that might have helped, too.
Katerina hits the ground, and I bet now she’s the one hearing Tweety Birds.
I take off toward her, hoping she doesn’t recover, because if she gets up I am screwed AF. Remember, she’s got that Death Star belt. They probably had her doing karate kicks in day care.
When I get to her, she’s still on the ground. She’s not dead, though, praise the gods. She’s sort of just lolling around. I guess that rock hit her pretty hard.
“Sorry. I’m so sorry. Sorry.”
I grab the flash drive out of her pocket.
She rolls her head over to me. Squinting into the sun, behind my back.
“American Paige. You cannot leave me here.”
“It’s okay. I’ll call nine-one-one. And, by the way, how the hell did you find me?”
“I track headphones.”
“Aw, Jesus. Are you serious? You knew about the headphones? Okay, stay here. Don’t make me throw any more rocks at you.”
“I can’t see out of eye.”
“That’s okay. That’s okay, they’re going to be able to fix it. We have the best hospitals in the world. By the way, do you have health insurance?”
“You are joking.”
“Okay, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. I gotta go.”
I’m five steps away before I turn and walk back over to her.
“Here. Here’s my water. It’s important to stay hydrated.”
She nods a delirious nod, and I take off to the car.
I’m just past Merrick’s Butte when I call 911 and throw my red Beats out the window.
48
My exhilarated sense of freedom after cutting the cord and throwing out my red Beats is extremely short-lived.
Like humiliatingly so.
This place, the Dover Motel, looks not unlike the motel in Psycho but with a little more flair and panache. The neon sign above the awning has one letter that blinks on and off. Dover Motel. Over Motel. Dover Motel. Over Motel. And so on and so on, into the dusty, transcendent desert eternity.
No electronic key cards here. Here it’s just an old-fashioned silver key on a green plastic ring. Old-school.
Except that I guess it makes it pretty easy to break in.
Why, you ask?
Oh, because Madden is sitting right there on the blue-and-red flowered bedspread when I open the door.
Behind him, there’s a painting on the wall of a coyote howling at the moon.
49
“Nice digs.”
“I thought it was cool in an ironic kind of way.”
“I think it’s cool in a bedbugs kind of way.”
“I’m actually thinking of asking them if I can buy that painting behind you. The one of the coyote.”
“Really? Would you like to put it next to your prized piece of dogs playing poker?”
“I don’t have dogs playing poker. That’s just too on the nose.”
“Of course.”
“I bet you’re wondering if I have saved the world or failed completely in my primary mission as an international superspy.”
“I am, indeed, wondering that.”
“I almost feel like making you wait because you’re clearly so excited.”
“I’m on tenterhooks.”
“You’re on Tinder hooks?”
“Very amusing. Now, Paige, I know this is all very thrilling, sitting in the catbird seat and all that . . . but time is of the essence, and that is the only reason I am sitting here in the middle of this rat-infested lice camp—”
“Is it to confess your love for me?”
“Paige. C’mon.”
“Okay, okay. Close your eyes. Are they closed? Now . . . put out your hand . . . Don’t peek. Ready. There. Now open.”
Madden opens his eyes and sees the dusty flash drive in his palm.
The entirety of his face lights up in disbelief.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“It can’t be.”
“Yes, it is. It is. I found it! I effing figured it out! Because I . . . used my spider sense.”
“Okay, Paige. What’s on here?”
“I don’t know! We have to plug it in.”
I reach out to grab my laptop, but Madden stops me.
“No! We can’t do that here. Are you crazy?”
“Crazy?”
“Yes! It is not a good idea to open up a flash drive from a known superhacker, computer genius, public enemy number one, in a motel, on an open server.”
“Oh. Right.”
“Just give it to me. I’ll take care of it.”
“Okay, but it behooves you to tell me what’s on it, considering that I found it through what can only be considered an extraordinar
y perception, possibly extraterrestrial in its proportions.”
“So now you’re an alien? Honestly, Paige. I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“Also, someone, probably an FSB spy, followed me here, followed me out into the middle of the desert, knocked me out, and tried to take off with the flash drive.”
Madden looks actually surprised.
No, I don’t tell him it was Katerina. And I don’t know why I don’t tell him. I’ll figure out that part of my unbalanced personality later.
“How did they find you?”
“Who knows?! Probably those stupid red Beats you gave me. I mean, maybe they tracked them? You’re lucky I’m so wily as to catch up with said FSB spy, defeat said FSB spy, and get back the flash drive.”
“And how, exactly, did you defeat said FSB spy, Paige?”
“It’s too complicated for you even to understand.”
I don’t tell him that I lobbed a rock at her. I simply shrug. The embodiment of humility.
“Well, regardless. Well done, Paige. But you should change hotels. Not just because this place is teeming with vermin but, also, because whoever they are, they probably know you’re here. In fact, they’re probably coming here right now. Which is why I’m leaving.”
“That’s good. I was getting a little uncomfortable with you sitting on the bed this whole time. Have you ever seen what’s on those bedspreads in that special spooky CSI light? Terrifying.”
Madden gets up. “Well, as usual, it’s been weird.”
He heads out the door.
“Don’t forget, switch motels. Actually, try a hotel. Honestly, you’ve earned it. We’ll take care of the bill.”
“Really? Can I add in, like, a spa treatment?”
“Don’t press your luck.”
“Just asking.”
Then he throws something on the bed. “By the way, you’re famous.”
He walks out, leaving me with the Moscow Times. There. At the bottom of the page. Is a picture of Raynes and me strolling along the river, making goo-goo eyes at each other. Looking very much in love. It appears Oleg was cut out of the picture. The headline reads “An American Affair.” Not bad, but I think they could’ve done something more dramatic. I would have chosen “An American in Moscow” or “Love on Red Square” or maybe “Kremlin Nights: Love Fast, Die Young.” Below said tepid headline is a story about Paige Nolan, American foreign exchange student and sweetheart of world-renowned CIA buster Sean Raynes.
Liberty Page 16
