Death on the Silk Road

by Russell Miller

  It had been the men’s practice to gather there after work to discuss the day's progress, and pool any libation, as Andre referred to it, they might have available.

  Charlie picked up the bottle of Stolichnaya he had bought at the hotel in Almaty. It wasn’t a Bombay martini, but then you had to make do with what you have. An old traveler’s adage he thought, and he was certainly an old traveler.

  Dave Dieter relaxed behind his liquid companion from America, Jim Beam. Henry Butts sipped a cup of tea. Charlie found some ice in the kitchen before offering his bottle of vodka to Henry, who looked quizzically at the bottle, made his decision, and pushed aside his cup and saucer.

  Once the three of them settled in, Charlie began to relate the events leading up the excursion to the mine, and ended with what they found.

  In telling his story, he attempted to assume a tone of false detachment. The last thing he needed was to spook the two of them, and as a result have them so frightened they would be distracted from their jobs.

  His fears were unfounded. After the usual questions, followed by his inadequate answers, the two consultants seemed satisfied. They apparently saw little immediate impact on their own situation. The mine did seem far removed, in both distance and in culture, from the relative safety of the old hotel.

  Charlie was not as complacent. He too often had seen relative innocent beginnings cascade into events that threatened anyone in the vicinity. Regardless, if they were innocent or not, and involved or not. There is no such thing as the innocent bystander in this type of work, he knew. They are the ones that lightning invariably strikes—sometimes twice.

  Dave, the consummate technician, quickly put aside the day’s distractions to focus on his own activities and challenges. “I took the sample Andre gave me yesterday, and after I finished setting up my…..”

  Charlie jerked, reminded of the samples in his pocket Andre handed him before leaving the brewery.

  “……equipment,” Dave continued, “I began assessing its mineral composition. The tests are very basic, you understand. I brought this equipment more for portability than quality, so the tests are only rudimentary.” He cleared his throat, more for effect than necessity. “But, I am reasonably certain that the samples contain a relatively high level of minerals--some lead-- some zinc—that would allow a reasonably productive mining operation here.”

  “So you conclude then that this can be a profitable operation, after all?” Charlie inquired hopefully.

  “Can’t be certain. I will need more samples, but the evidence is leading in the right direction.”

  “Before Andre went back to the mine with the Russians, he asked that I give you this,” Charlie told him quickly unfolding the handkerchief on the table in front of Dave. “He got it from the shaft where we found the missing miners. He thought that it was different from the other stuff—that’s a technical mining term,” he added with a smile, “and he wanted you to take a look at it tonight. Can you do that?”

  “Not without another blast of my old friend Mr. Beam,” Dave laughed, finishing his drink and refilling his glass.

  As they were about to return to their rooms and clean up for dinner, the men heard Andre’s heavy footsteps trudging down the hallway.

  “Well I am back,” he reported with an obvious sense of relief. “I showed the miners where their missing friends are. They seemed as shocked as we were. I couldn’t understand what they were saying among themselves, but I gather they were just as baffled as we are.”

  “What are they doing now?” Charlie asked.

  “They had begun to carry the remains—it was a gruesome business—from the area where we found them. Some of the others were moving several of the tubs as close as they could get them. It looked like they were going to load them into to the tubs, and roll them along the tracks back to where they can be lifted to the top.

  “Once they got the process started, I bowed out. There was nothing more I could do,” Andre concluded. The jaife—the boss did shake my hand before I left. I think they were grateful that we found the men, and led them to where they were.”

  “Hand me that bottle of Stolie--please.” Andre asked, spotting the bottle on the table.

  “God, I needed that,” he roared. “It has been one hell of a day.”

  “What do you think they will do with the bodies?” Henry asked, pouring himself another drink.

  “Beats me,” Andre replied. “I thought I heard one of them say something about the ice house, but I couldn’t be sure. It could make sense.”

  Henry swirled the ice floating in his glass, and shuddered.

  16

  After a breakfast of bland cabbage and spicy wieners, André returned to the “hole,” and Dave headed out to look in at the vacant concentrator plant.

  As they were leaving, Charlie asked Dave “what is it that a concentrator actually does?”

  Dave explained as briefly and patiently as he could as they walked down the stairs. “The concentrator operation includes four industrial units at the plant site: basic production which consists of crushing and filter-drying, reagent and grinding at the flotation site, maintenance services, and tailing facilities.

  “Its major activity is the processing and concentration of lead-zinc,” he droned on “and lead barite ores, resulting in the production of lead, zinc, and lead-barite concentrates.”

  Charlie began to regret he asked but, like the infomercials that seemingly never end only to continue with wait there is more, Dave felt obligated to provide further information.

  “These concentrates are then shipped to mineral processing plants and smelters in Kazakhstan. One of them is in Chimkent, over in the west, and Oskermen up north of here.”

  Like most technical people, Dave liked to be asked what he did; and like all non-technical people, Charlie ended up as bewildered as he began, drowned in a verbal deluge of incomprehensible terms.

  The two men separated to go their individual ways, and Charlie hurried to catch up with the two interpreters and Henry who were straggling over to the Administration Building.

  Inside, a few clerks sat idly behind large desks, staring at each other, or gazing off into a world of their own making. They had given up the pretext of artificial activity months ago, and now lived in a dark realm populated primarily by despair and desperation.

  The sound of the interpreters’ leather heels on the marble stairs echoed through the deserted hallway. The uncommon noise caused several of the office workers to divert their attention from staring at the tops of their desks to peer quizzically at the strangers who were disrupting their solitude.

  Elaina and Henry had established a temporary office next to the conference room, while the others were exploring the mysteries of the mine. Charlie found an empty desk and began to draw a grid that restructuring consultants use that is often referred to as a SWOT analysis. Using a blue-lined pad, he wrote column headings across the top:

  STRENGTHS

  WEAKNESSES

  OPPORTUNITIES

  THREATS

  Product demand

  Over staffed

  Outside capital

  Complete closure

  Quality of ore

  Single customer

  Foreign owner

  Impact on town

  Low labor rates

  Cost of funds

  Increased production

  Exhaust ore

  Charlie spent the next two hours thinking about, and then scribbling appropriate diagnostic components in the vertical columns under the major headings relating to the future viability of the Tekeli mine. The grid would provide a method of analyzing the comparable merits and disadvantages of various elements that governed the potential of the mining operation.

  When the grids were completed, the girls would convert his rough graph to a presentable form containing both Russian and English headings. This would later serve as a simplified tool for presenting his findings to a group of Kazakhstan government officials.

&
nbsp; Charlie was absorbed in his work when he felt a gentle touch on his shoulder. Startled, he turned to see Nadia standing beside him. She really is quite attractive he thought.

  “Mr. Connelly, there is a man waiting outside to see you. He just arrived from Almaty along with Sammie. “

  “Thank you Nadia. I was expecting him,” he told her as he rose to leave.

  Outside, Charlie saw a young man standing expectantly beside his overnight bag, and Sammie heading into the hotel.

  “Roger Pembroke,” he grinned, extending his hand.

  “And I am Charlie Connelly. Trevor Gunn told me you would be coming up here, but I guess I didn’t expect you this soon.”

  “Actually Mr. Connelly....”

  “Charlie will do.”

  “Actually Charlie, I am the new Assistant Cultural Attaché at the embassy in Almati, but it was really Mr. Valentine that wanted me to see you. I work for him—as well as for the embassy. The job there is only for cover.”

  Charlie attempted to conceal his surprise. “Really, why did Emmett want you to see me?”

  “He has a good deal of respect for you. He seems to have known you for some time.”

  Charlie nodded. “Yeah, that’s right. Too long I often think.”

  Roger smiled, understanding what he meant. He sometimes felt that way himself, and he had only known Mr. Valentine for a short time---not nearly as long as Mr. Connelly.

  “What is going on down there?” Roger asked, as both men turned their attention to a procession leaving the icehouse. The sound they heard was a Gregorian funeral chant led by a long bearded Orthodox priest in a flowerpot hat, who was holding a large ornate golden icon high over his head, as he led a long procession down the dusty street.

  Trailing behind the priest was a line of pallbearers carrying five roughly hewn wooden caskets. In the group, Charlie recognized the mine manager and his ever present assistant. Directly behind the caskets were five women in black widow weeds. Their high-pitched wails mingled with the deep-throated lament of the similarly black clad priest.

  A chilly wind picked-up, creating dust devils that twirled unnoticed around the mourners, causing the priest’s robe to flap treacherously around his long legs as he strode through town.

  The widow’s grief punctuated his chants and amplified their wails.

  Soon the grieving procession evaporated like bleak specters into the birch forest surrounding the cemetery. The chants and the wails trailed-off in the wind.

  Returning his attention to the visitor, Charlie replied to his question more brusquely than he intended. “I will explain later,” he said, steering him toward the hotel.

  “You were telling me about Emmett Valentine,” Charlie reminded him.

  “Yes that’s right. You sent him an email with a list of people with whom you are working here. He called me at the embassy on their secure line to let me know what he found, and he wanted me to fill you in.”

  “Why didn’t he call me himself?” Charlie asked, as the two of them walked toward the hotel. Emmett had never been hesitant about calling him before--regardless where he was at the time--or whatever time it was where he was.

  “Have you heard about that bastard Assange and WikiLeaks up here?” Roger replied bitterly.

  Charlie was surprised at the rancor in the young man’s voice. “Yeah even up here. I listen to the BBC and the VOA on my shortwave. They have been covering it pretty thoroughly.”

  “Well, as you can guess, it really has Washington in turmoil. Everyone is suspicious of each other. The CIA will no longer trust the FBI with information for fear it will be leaked. Not that there was a great deal of trust between them before.

  “Mr. Valentine told me once that there has been a long antipathy in the Agency toward the Bureau. Our cousins in the FBI, as he refers to them. It dates back to the days of ”Wild Bill” Donavan and J. Edgar. Anyway, people thought that after 9/11 the animosity would fade. Everyone spent a lot of time trying to iron out the wrinkles. Now it is back as bad as it was before.”

  Roger seemed pleased that he could provide the older man with inside information.

  The two of them reached the door of the hotel. A flock of doves feeding by the walkway burst into flight. Roger jumped, and then laughed at his own nervousness.

  Walking up the stairs, Charlie explained, there was a small lounge where they could talk without being disturbed.

  “Outstanding,” Roger replied.

  My God Charlie thought, was I ever that young. It was a common reaction people had when they first encountered Roger Pembroke.

  Finding a seat in the empty lounge the young man continued. “To make things worse, the Department of Defense learned that a foreign spy agency breached the Pentagon’s computer network by inserting a flash drive into a U.S. military laptop in the Middle East.

  A “malicious code” on the flash drive spread undetected on both classified and unclassified Pentagon systems, establishing what amounted to a digital beachhead that enabled the foreign agency to transfer any information they wanted to servers under their own control. So now, both the CIA and the FBI are afraid to transfer information to each other; and to the Pentagon as well. It is one hell of a mess,” Roger concluded with considerable conviction.

  Charlie had to agree, but remained curious. “So what does this all have to do with me?”

  “Several things. First, Mr. Valentine wanted me to tell you what he found-out about your associates rather than sending you an email that might get intercepted. The other thing is to show you a more secure way of corresponding with the Agency.”

  “Before we begin Roger, I should have asked you how was your trip?”

  “Oh my God,” Roger laughed. “Riding with Sammie was like having your own tour guide through wonderland. By the way, who are the Uighurs? They must be the world’s most oppressed people, and I have never heard of them.”

  “We got the same lecture. Old Sammie really has a bug about them.”

  “So what did Emmett find out about my associates here?” Charlie prompted him.

  “Well, not a great deal really. Andre has an interesting past. Did you know that his wife was murdered by The Shining Path terrorists in Chile?”

  “The Sendero Luminosa? He never mentioned it.”

  “Yes that’s it. How did you know about them?

  “I ran into them when I was doing business in Peru. “They were referred to as the Shining Path because they would drop in on a mountain village with lightning-like speed, wiping out any government troops, or anyone else for that matter, that had the misfortune of getting in their way.

  They started out in the Andean town of Ayacucho, before morphing into a more militaristic style gorilla army. They later branched out into all of Peru and Chile.

  “A radical by the name of Abie Guzman led them. He was a follower of Chairman Mao. Ironically it was at a time when the Chinese communists were moving toward capitalism,” Charlie laughed, “and the terrorists were moving in the opposite direction.”

  As he was explaining the radical movement in South America to Roger, Charlie recalled that it was because of the Shining Path that he first became actively involved with the CIA. Before, his participation was limited to only answering their economic questions about the locations he visited. One day he was sitting in his office when he got a call from this contact who asked if he would deliver an envelope for him when he traveled to Lima. It seemed innocent enough at the time, although he wondered how they knew he would be going there.

  It turned out the envelope was stuffed with thousand dollar bills that he was supposed to covertly pass to someone he was to meet in a park in the center of the City. The money was to be wrapped in a copy of the Wall Street Journal. The cash would then be used to fund the Peruvian Government forces opposing the Sendero Luminosa.

  He recognized later that he was the designated cut-out. Someone with no discernable ties back to the U. S. Government.

  He was to sit on a bench in the center Pla
za de Armas with the Wall Street Journal at his side. On his way to the park, he practiced what little tradecraft he knew. It entailed finding a busy street—not a difficult task in overcrowded downtown Lima—but one with stores and restaurants with large angled windows which can provide an adequate mirror that would allow a reasonable glimpse of a possible tail. He did this, and eventually decided he was clear, and alone.

  The park was directly across from the Palcio de Gobierno the official home of El Presidente. As he watched, red and black uniformed guards with gleaming gold Roman style helmets began their daily slow goose-stepping ritual marking the changing of the palace guards.