How did a Bombay manage to get this to me out here? And why now? I’d done two jobs in the last nine months. That was more than enough for a year. In fact, we usually had only one job a year. That was why I’d planned this trip. I figured my particular services weren’t required.

The envelope was plain, the standard eight and a half by eleven inches. The only thing that identified it as a Bombay job was the bloodred wax seal stamped with the family crest. I set the envelope on my lap. Then I picked it back up. My curiosity was too great. And since I had no early morning cartoons or Pee Wee Herman cable reruns out here, I had to get my entertainment somewhere.

The only sounds coming from the camp were those of nature. No human was awake yet. I still had time. Very slowly, I broke the seal and slid open the envelope. The face of a European stared up at me. This was no Mongolian. How far would I have to go to get this done?

After reading the file, I put everything back in the envelope and shoved it to the bottom of my duffel to burn later. It was pretty cut-and-dried. My Vic was a Dutch mercenary named Arje Dekker. Usually I didn’t mind mercenaries. In fact, sometimes they maintained the balance of civility in foreign countries rife with infighting and a weak military. This bastard, however, was different.

Selling out to the highest bidder, Dekker had no problem with who was paying him to do what. Interpol was investigating several accusations of extreme torture perpetrated by Dekker, mostly on women and children in a troubled African nation. This was one of the times I was grateful the Bombay Council didn’t give me too much information.

Apparently Dekker was hiding out in none other than Mongolia. There were reports he was going to be at the national naadam in July in the capital. I was to use any means necessary to make him “disappear.” And suddenly, I had no problem with mixing business with pleasure.

“You are supposed to throw him to the ground,” Chudruk managed somehow amidst hysterical laughter. “He is an old man and you are young.” He doubled over, trying to catch his breath.

I stood up and dusted off my shorts and T-shirt. It had taken twenty minutes, but I’d convinced Yalta to let me train in my own clothes. The zodag and shuudag were just too much, and I suspected I was wearing them merely to entertain my hosts. I kept the gutals on. Since this game was played on foot, I knew I had to break them in.

Yalta grinned and slapped his thighs, indicating that he was ready. I slapped mine in reply and we got to it. This time, I managed to keep him in a lock until he kicked my legs out from under me. In my mind, that was a victory.

We went through the same scenario no less than twelve more times, dammit. Still, I didn’t complain and kept working. By late afternoon, I was covered in sweat, dust and bruises, while Yalta’s deel sported nary a wrinkle. But that was good, right? I wanted a coach. A real zazul to help me. Not so I would win. There was no way I could go up against men who had been doing this since they were toddlers. I just wanted to experience it. And not embarrassing myself in the process was also good.

Why did I want to put myself through this? Well, why not? To me it was more of a question of what I didn’t want out of life than what I did. I could have had a normal life as a college professor in some little town in New England. I’d spend my days lecturing countless kids on why the words of a guy who died three hundred years ago were important and relevant. Then I’d head home to grade papers, eat supper and watch TV or read until I fell asleep. If I were lucky, I might have a wife and kids to break the tedium. Eventually the college would force me to retire, and just maybe I would travel a little, or maybe I’d read books on my front porch until I died.

The truth was, after spending all those years studying philosophy, I realized that nothing written by Hobbes, Aquinas or Kant told me anything about life. Granted, I understood the idea that philosophy was the study of why we are here…the meaning of life and such. And yet it somehow wasn’t. To me, these old dead guys felt that the only way to live your life was to sit and think of what it all meant. Then they died not even knowing if they were right. What the hell?

And then there was the part of me that was Bombay. I was born into a career I did not ask for. I was a hired killer. Try wrestling with the ideas of Mahatma Gandhi while learning how to fieldstrip a Remington sniper rifle. It just doesn’t work. Well, there was that time I was stringing garrotes while listening to Niccolò Machiavelli’s classic on tape, but that was an isolated incident.

Somewhere along the line, I became fascinated with the idea that while mankind aspired to apply thought and reason to life, they actually used violence to live it. Isn’t that interesting? Not terribly deep, but it struck me as interesting. So, I took some serious martial-arts training on campus. This was about the time I was in love with a young woman named Frannie Smith, so I had other interests, like sex.

When Frannie dumped me right after graduation, I knew I would have to be a nomad. I rejected the very idea of having a normal life. That was how I ended up a carney. And that was when I started these little sabbaticals. Neat, huh? I’ll bet you were expecting something else. Trust me, aside from being a knitting assassin/carney with a black belt in aikido and a proud guinea pig parent (I have the bumper sticker on my trailer), I’m not that complicated.

“You really gave us a show today,” Sansar-Huu said as he and Chudruk sat down next to me on a rock beside the stream. They had hit it off immediately, so now I had two of them giving me a hard time.

“I aim to entertain.” I pulled off my boots and stepped barefoot into the icy water. It felt wonderful. I felt alive. Battered but alive.

“Oh, you do, my friend,” Sansar-Huu answered. “My wife wants to know if you will actually eat dinner tonight or if you are planning to insult us by going straight to bed again.”

I wiggled my toes in the cold water, enjoying the shock. “I am sorry I offended you, my most gracious host.” I wasn’t being facetious. I really was sensitive to the fact that my nonappearance at dinner as a guest was noticed. You couldn’t go to a country like this, where hospitality was an important part of life, and act like an arrogant American.

“I will be there and bring my appetite.”

“Good,” Chudruk said. “And be thirsty. I’m bringing airag.”

“I can handle it.” At least, I hoped I could. Airag, or koumiss, as it is sometimes called, is a potent alcoholic drink made of fermented mare’s milk. I know, it doesn’t sound tough, but the first time I drank it I lost my voice-and the lining of my esophagus-for a day and a half. And these men were serious drinkers. I would have to walk a fine line of drinking enough to make my hosts happy and not too much that I’d be in a coma in the morning.

“Just be ready,” Chudruk said. “Yalta is going to start with the mekhs.”

There was a word I didn’t know. “Mekhs?” I asked.

“It means…” He scratched his chin thoughtfully for a moment. There was no dictionary or Internet out here on the steppes. I hoped he could figure it out. The light came into his eyes and he smiled. “Techniques. My father is going to show you how to wrestle the way his father and grandfather taught him.”

Stepping out of the stream onto the grass felt good. I toyed with washing up but decided against it. The sun was low in the sky and I wanted to make sure I changed before dinner in Sansar-Huu’s ger.

The two men rose and started to walk away as I put my boots back on.

“By the way,” I shouted. My stomach rumbled, and I realized I was very, very hungry. No PowerBars tonight. Tonight I was going fully native. “What are we eating?”

Sansar-Huu waved and shouted back, “Testicle soup!” As he turned away, I had the distinct feeling that he was smiling.