Maybe Nepal. Decent army, retired Gurkhas. Find some place like this and settle down until the terrorists either got reduced or found somebody else to target. If they ever forgot the guy called “Ghost.”

The woman came back out bearing a platter covered with mugs and plates. She served the guy at the rear first, handing him and his three cronies mugs, picking up their empties and answering a question directed at her from the man. She answered it loudly enough that most of the people in the tavern could hear it and Mike caught the word “American” among the words.

After that she came over to Mike’s table and set down a mug of beer followed by a bowl of stew and a platter with slices of dark brown bread and yellowish cheese.

“What your name?” the woman asked in English, sitting down and picking up a slice of cheese.

“Mike. What’s yours?”

“Irina,” she answered, considering him curiously. “How you come here?”

“Got lost,” Mike said, shrugging and spooning up some of the stew. It was oddly seasoned but delicious. “Very good stew. Was headed for Bakuriana. Must have taken a wrong turn in the snow. Almost out of petrol.”

“You lucky,” Irina said, shaking her head. “Snow very bad.”

“Very bad,” Mike admitted, nodding. “Good car. Lucky.”

“You stay?” the woman asked.

“Until snow clears,” Mike said. “Roads clear.”

“Hah!” Irina spat, laughing. “Spring.”

“No plows?” Mike asked, surprised.

“Some,” the woman said, shrugging. “Maybe couple weeks. Bad snow. More come.”

“Crap,” Mike said. “I guess I stay.”