The Export

  “Must have been a bad lay,” he chuckled. While the detective and those close by didn’t understand the crack or chose to ignore it, Matt was onto something.

  “We might get lucky. There might be a print, perhaps the killer’s print on the wrapper, and a condom also means DNA – his on the inside and perhaps the killer’s on the outside, so we need to find it. It’s not on him and not in sight though. We’ve looked.”

  Matt watched as Baral looked about the tent and then directed his team to recover the body and load it on the chopper for immediate transfer back to the city.

  “How ’bout we get something to drink inside the mess tent and I go over the rest of what I’ve found?” Matt suggested. Baral agreed and had a few questions of his own on the walk. A few stragglers remained at the crime scene to watch, while most others had long lost interest or were too disturbed by it to stay there any longer.

  “Your manager Claire Dale in Washington spoke very highly of you, Agent Christopher,” he said, “although she did not appreciate my waking her up. When I said your name she asked, ‘what’s he done now?’” Matt laughed and continued walking. Once inside the tent Matt laid out what he had found, starting with a report obtained from Interpol in Lyon.

  The victim was an Andy Bartlett from Liverpool, England. He’d traveled there with his mate Ken Husband, also from Liverpool, to climb the mountain. They’d both been partying in this very mess tent last evening. Husband had related that both he and Andy had been trying to score with some of the females at the party. Husband had also said he vaguely remembered the woman Bartlett had been talking with. He recalled her saying something about being an environmentalist there to do a story about the trash left on the mountain by the climbers. He said everyone was very drunk and the only other thing he remembered about the woman was that she was very attractive and had a sexy French accent. Apparently Husband was more focused on a date of his own and didn’t notice when Bartlett and the woman left. Husband spent the night in his date’s tent and walked up to find Bartlett dead after all the commotion around their tent had started.

  “As for the woman, I’ve interviewed maybe six people who were at the party and nobody recalls much of anything, not even her name,” Matt added. “I have a knack for observational behavior, almost a sixth sense some people say, and despite my slightly diminished faculties this morning I don’t believe I detected a lie in any of them. My instincts tell me the killer’s one cool customer. These two hooked up, she got pissed off about something, slammed the ax into Bartlett’s head, and then went on her way without leaving a trace. I’m intrigued.”

  Matt and Baral discussed the difficulties that such a harsh and transient environment posed to the investigation. The punishing high winds could come and go without warning and snow could start at any time. The population of the camp itself was one of climbers attempting to reach the 27,000- foot summit; some would succeed, some would turn around, and others would never make it back down. Sherpas, the locals who carried the supplies and ropes and assisted the climbers in their quest, as well as the support people that sustained the camp, could all be identified and accounted for. But so many trekkers came and went without any record made of their arrivals and departures that a suspect could be anywhere; up on the mountain, down on the trekking path, or sitting in another mess tent having tea.

  “Taking that into consideration, I would suggest I ride back to Kathmandu with the body and your team tries to find and interview any hot blondes with French accents. I’d like to stick around, this one’s got a hook in me, but I’ve been asked to return to Qatar and stand by for my next assignment.”

  As Matt got up to get rid of the enormous amount of fluid he had taken in recently, Baral stepped outside to make calls to his team.

  *

  “Yes, don’t worry about the men,” Baral directed. “Just stop any women trekking down from Base Camp, any blonde females with a French or Swiss passport. I will send this FBI agent back to HQ on the chopper with the body.” As the two reunited in the tent, one of Baral’s team members ran in. “We may have her!”

  CHAPTER TWO

  At the main terminal of Tribhuvan International Airport, the one without the monkeys he’d encountered at the remote commuter terminal for his flight to Namche, Matt boarded a state-of-the-art Qatar Airways Airbus A330, found his spacious seat in First Class at the front of the plane, and settled in for the six-hour flight west to Doha. The attentive flight attendants delivered a large pillow and heated blanket, offered a variety of newspapers including the Wall Street Journal, London Times, and USA Today, and then took his drink and dinner order. “No booze for me, just coffee, two if you can, both light, and a bottle of water,” he said as he began to page through the Journal in one hand and the menu in the other.

  “Filet, medium well with béarnaise, baked potato extra butter, garlic spinach, sourdough roll, and let’s start with a caprese salad.” Minutes later, the cabin lights were dimmed and the coffee began to flow. He pulled up the window shade to look down at India as he flew over the country at 38,000 feet. He wished the pilot had taken them for a few laps around Everest as he’d requested of the flight attendant, but he was content. The peak wasn’t going anywhere and he was sure he would return there again some day. He thought about Qatar and where he might wind up next.

  Sitting in the First Class lounge at the Doha Airport he felt frustrated. For the first time in a very long time, he had walked away from a crime without sufficient evidence or leads to pursue. Surely there was more there, he just ran out of time. Who could possibly have been that sharp to have gone into a frigid tent at that elevation, have sex with a stranger, shove an ax into his brain, and then be able to slide away into the night without leaving a trace?

  What Baral, back in Nepal, and the woman who had committed the horrendous act didn’t realize was that Matt never gave up. The flight to Doha had given him the chance to clear his mind.

  “Shit!” he shouted as he pulled his cellphone from his jeans pocket.

  Two of the lounge staffers approached to see if he was in distress, or more likely, to admonish him for disturbing others. He quickly apologized and rushed out of the lounge to make his call.

  Baral seemed surprised to hear from Matt so soon, let alone at all. In remote and transient places like Kathmandu, where thousands of tourists passed in and out of the city and to the mountains and temples, ignoring the third-world conditions of so much of his country, people kept moving and seldom looked back.

  “Baral. Did your team check all the tourist visas at the airport?” Matt said excitedly into the phone.

  Upon entry into the country through the Kathmandu airport, regardless of the time of day, casual visitors paid 2,800 rupees, essentially 25 U.S. dollars, for a 15-day tourist visa in Nepal. Passports were checked, and headshots were taken.

  “Of course, Mr. FBI. That was one of the first things the CIB did. If we had found something, we would have pursued it.”

  “Damn it!” Matt shouted again, only this time, he was in the open area of the airport on the departure side of security.

  Two uniformed policemen had heard his outburst and started walking toward him. Matt knew better; he should have remembered, as a foreigner, to respect local customs and behaviors. In countries around the Gulf, like Qatar, Bahrain, the UAE, Saudi Arabia, and Iran, shouting infamous four-letter words was not tolerated. It was regarded as offensive to the children, women, men, and the almighty.

  “Hang up the phone,” the taller of the two policemen directed. Both were in the customary tan uniforms, young, fit, and in no mood for nonsense.

  “Baral, sorry to have bothered you,” Matt said quickly.

  “Hang up the phone, now!” the officer repeated.

  “Call you later, my friend,” Matt said and then hit the end button on his iPhone and slid it into his pocket. He reached inside his black fleece Columbia jacket and handed his passport to the tall policeman and his FBI identification to the shorter of the two.
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br />   “I thought you were George Clooney for a moment,” the shorter officer declared.

  “He’s older,” Matt replied.

  “Where are you flying, Agent Christopher?” the officer asked.

  “Not sure yet,” he replied.

  “Strange that you do not know where you are going, don’t you think?”

  “I’m on standby, waiting for instructions from Washington.”

  “Where is your luggage?”

  “I shipped my large suitcase straight through to D.C. I’ve been up on the mountains. Most of my gear was bulky or meant for cold temperatures. I won’t need it unless they send me back up there. The rest of my stuff – toothbrush, jeans, and such – are in my carry-on, back in the lounge.”

  “Understood. But back to the matter at hand. Cursing in a public airport is something you do in America?”

  Matt looked back toward the sliding glass entry doors to the QA lounge and frowned at the two attendants and customers who had chosen to watch the show.

  Suddenly someone shouted his name. “Matt Christopher, you old son of a… gun! I was just talking to Claire about you!”

  The short, stocky man with a British accent and better control of his expletives approached.

  “Sir,” the tall officer said, “do not say gun in this airport, ever!”

  “Oh, Christ!” the man responded and then quickly drew it back. “My apologies to you both,” the stranger exclaimed, looking about to the people who had stopped to watch or continued their journeys but were looking back at the growing scene.

  Matt couldn’t help but laugh. Laurel and Hardy couldn’t have scripted this better.

  “Well, this is awkward,” the man offered as he reached inside his travel-weary sport coat and produced his own identification. It was a U.K. passport, an MI5 identification wallet, and an airplane ticket on British Airways to London’s Heathrow Airport, expected to board in two hours.

  The tall officer took control of Matt’s docs while the shorter one stood eye to eye with the Brit and reviewed what he had presented them. A third and fourth officer were now closing in. Matt knew if he and his old buddy from Britain, Charlie Chaste, didn’t finish this up fast, they’d both get sucked into a bureaucratic mess that would take hours to straighten out.

  “My apologies again, officers,” Charlie said in his most sincere tone. “Jet lag and forgetting where I am is to blame for my bad behavior.” He placed his hand against his chest in a sign of respect. “My sincere apologies to you both and to your citizenry.”

  *

  These officers hadn’t just fallen off the back of a turnip truck, though. They were seasoned veterans and had seen and heard just about everything possible working for the Doha Police Department’s various districts, from dealing with the typical behaviors and related crimes of any large international city to the occasional forays by armed forces members working at or passing through Al Udeid Air Base. The U.S. Central Command’s Forward HQ and the Combined Air Operations Center were located just 20 miles from downtown Doha. And while it was an offense to drink alcoholic beverages or be drunk in public, military men and women were able to find alcohol in licensed restaurants and bars. If there was an excuse for bad behavior, intentional or otherwise, the policemen had heard it all before.

  “Did he tell you he had Tourette’s syndrome?” Charlie asked.

  “Won’t work this time, Charlie,” Matt murmured under his breath.

  One of the officers stepped closer. “If you think this is all a joke, we can escort you both to holding cells until, as you say in England, we get this sorted. Do you want that, or do you want to get on a plane and leave Doha as soon as possible?”

  Charlie and Matt, old acquaintances from many interagency investigations around the world, knew better than to screw with the police in one of these countries. Yes, they would eventually be able to have their diplomatic contacts get them released and sent on their way, but the ass-chewing they’d have to endure from their managers in London and Washington would not be worth the fun and games they were contemplating with the Doha police.

  “Something tells me, officers, that I’m going to grab a seat on my friend’s flight to London,” Matt volunteered. “I’ll be out of here in less than two hours. And I promise to sit quietly in the lounge until it’s time to board.”

  The backup team had stood at a distance, but when the tall officer nodded to indicate all was in order, they resumed their patrol of the massive complex, leaving the first two on the scene to finish up.

  “Here are your credentials, gentlemen,” the shorter officer said as he handed the two travelers their passports and law enforcement identification.

  “Stay out of trouble and don’t miss that flight!” the tall officer added.

  In no time, Charlie and Matt were walking arm in arm and, to the dismay of the lounge attendants, headed back inside for drinks and crudité. The front desk concierge booked Matt a $6,000 seat in First Class on the Boeing 787 for the seven-and-a-half-hour flight north/northwest to Heathrow and now he just had to wait.

  The two sat down in a quiet corner of the lounge to catch up and have a laugh at the recent episode. Charlie always sat with his back to the corner or against a wall, perhaps something they taught at MI5 or something he picked up from old movies. Matt always teased him he must really be with MI6, the U.K. spy agency.

  “You have to tell me, old boy,” Charlie demanded, “what’s with the bloody beard and the ball cap?” Matt clawed at his chin and laughed.

  “Got lazy while I was working here and let it go up on the mountain,” he told him. “Plus, the damn sun really beats on you up there, so I picked this up somewhere along the way.” Within minutes of sitting down, Matt saw Charlie’s eye contact break off to focus on something over Matt’s shoulder. Charlie’s expression went from jovial to curious.

  A soft voice with a distinct accent immediately got their attention. “Excuse me, gentlemen.” The last time these two had been together and a woman had said that, one of them wound up in a rat-infested jail.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The massive airline lounge had high ceilings and wide spaces filled with maroon or tan leather chairs and sofas and brown end and coffee tables to maintain the color scheme of the fleet. The woman, fully clothed in a flowing black hajib, her face covered with a veil that allowed only her beautiful brown eyes to remain visible, stepped alongside the table and addressed the two travelers.

  “I would like to eat my meal,” she said softly, “but in order to do so, I must remove my veil, and I can not allow you to see my face.”

  Matt and Charlie were familiar with the custom among Islamic women and understood what she needed immediately. Without her having to say another word, the two men stood up, placed their right hand over their chest as a sign of respect, nodded, picked up their drinks, little plates, and carryon bags and moved 10 or so feet away and planted themselves at another table. This new location would actually accommodate them better, as the large flat-screen television was now fully within view, and a replay of the All Blacks rugby game from New Zealand was just starting.

  “Ah, just in time for the Haka,” Charlie said with joy.

  At the table next to them, a man had been quietly nursing his drink. He grumbled to himself from time to time, his breath smelling of pungent Scotch. Matt sensed trouble brewing. He pointed out the drunk to Charlie.

  “Do you see what I see?” Matt asked his friend.

  “Yes. It’s unfortunate she didn’t though.” He tipped his chin in the direction of the Islamic woman.

  Sections of vertical mirrors were mounted in areas of the airline lounge. What the woman in the hijab had missed was that certain people sitting behind her had been able to watch her lower her veil and begin eating her meal. The drunk, unaware or uncaring for the tradition and her privacy, was loudly chomping on ice and gawking at her in a simmering rage. Noticing the pre-game dance of the All Blacks on the television, he voiced his opinion in no uncertain terms.<
br />
  “Bunch of fake jungle warriors pounding their feet and sticking their tongues out at everyone, what the hell’s the world coming to?”

  “You work on Wall Street?” Matt asked as he spun in his leather recliner and stopped face to face with the big drinker.

  “How can you tell?” the Scotch and water replied.

  “The company name on your polo shirt and the asshole behavior.” Matt smiled, lifted his glass of beer as if to offer a toast, and then spun his chair back to face Charlie.

  Too drunk to get up, the man uttered every four-letter word he could muster and glared at Matt and Charlie with disdain. Luckily, perhaps for the stockbroker, a lounge employee approached the three men.

  “Hate to disturb your little party gentlemen, but British Airways to London Heathrow is ready for pre-board,” she said. “If you will gather your belongings, I can escort you directly to your seats.”

  Matt and Charlie grabbed their carryon bags and rose to follow the attendant to the plane. As Matt passed him, the drunk attempted to get up and go after him.

  “I wouldn’t,” Charlie admonished him. Leaning in, he whispered, “He’s a lethal weapon from your homeland. He could kill you before you’d even realize you were dead. Cheers.”

  The man’s expression changed from anger to confusion and then fear. He sat back in his seat as other patrons in the lounge watched the drama.

  As Matt followed the escort through the sliding glass doors that let the noise of the bustling airport terminal into what had been the peace and quiet of the lounge, the two Doha policemen he had encountered earlier were headed his way.

  “You again?” the taller officer asked angrily. The lounge attendants waved for the police to keep coming.

  “There’s a drunk in a blue polo shirt in there making fun of an Islamic woman’s customs,” Matt told them in passing. With Charlie playing catch up, he too had a few words for the police, only these were delivered through a smile.