Death on the Silk Road

by Russell Miller

  While his attention was diverted by the colorful ceremony, he was surprised to feel a slight brush against his hand. He jerked away, instinctively clutching his cash filled envelope more tightly. Turning, he saw a Catholic nun cloaked in a full-length black habit, adorned with a veil and scapular collar. She picked up the paper after whispering the word he was told to expect. He watched in amazement as the nun rose quickly, and glided away on hidden feet; the paper already concealed somewhere within her flowing robes.

  Later the same day, still on the Agency’s dime, he caught a cab directing it to take him to the La Rosa Nautica, as they had told him to do. It was an oceanfront restaurant he was familiar with from his previous trips to Lima. It was early in the evening, but it was already beginning to fill with the important makers and takers of Peruvian society.

  He pushed his way through the crowd, and found a seat at the long bar. He ordered a Pisco Sour, and watched the sun begin to dip below the coastline. Suddenly he felt a touch on his shoulder and turned to see a tall attractive brunette, with flashing dark eyes, who was fashionably dressed.

  There were no words. Nothing!

  She slipped him a note, then quickly turned and made her way toward the restaurant’s door. Many eyes followed her exit, but Charlie concentrated his attention on the note he had just received. It was a signed receipt for the money he had delivered earlier in the day.

  He finished his drink, and afterwards often wondered if the two women he had met were the same one in different clothing; and if so, which was real and which was not.

  That was his introduction to the world of mirrors where nothing is as it seems. If he had been smart, that would have been the end of his association with the Agency and Emmett. Too late now, he decided turning his full attention back to what Roger Pembroke was telling him.

  “They killed his wife?” Charlie asked, forcing his mind to the situation at hand.

  “Kidnapped and shot her,” Roger replied, “while they were up in the mountains working at a mine.”

  “Mr. Valentine says that the Brit is clean,” Roger continued scanning his notes, “although it was impossible to trace him back further than when he originally came to England.

  “That’s OK, I know about that,” Charlie assured him.

  “Well anyway he has a BSC Economics London,” Roger continued undeterred. “He was an auditor for Arthur Young in London. He went from there to Ferro-Mag Electrical, then opened and closed his own accounting business.

  ”The expert from Illinois is also clean—totally clean,” Roger continued. “He got his degree from the Colorado School of Mines. Worked as a Technical Director for the Dravo Corporation, and finished up as Senior Minerals Engineer for the Illinois State Geological Survey specializing in mineral processing.”

  “So there is no problem then?” Charlie asked.”

  “Well not exactly,” Roger told him turning a page of his notes. “The men seem all right but, Mr. Valentine thinks there could be a problem with one of the interpreters. Let’s see,” he added referring to his notes. “You have two…..

  “Which one?”

  “The one you call Nadia Okh….” Roger stumbled over the pronunciation “...lopkev—Nadia Okhlopkev,” he finally decided, attempting a flawed phonetic pronunciation.

  “Nadia----that can’t be. She is invaluable to us. Solid as a rock. You must mean Elaina. If it is one of the two, I would guess Elaina.”

  “No, no, not her, she is clean. There is nothing to suspect there. Mr. Valentine sent along a picture of her. She’s hot. Will I get to meet her,” Rodger grinned.

  “You will tonight at dinner. But why Nadia?”

  “Well she is Russian. Mr. Valentine always suspects the Russians----and he is usually right. On top of that, she comes from a long line of Russian military offices. Her grandfather was a colonel in the Cossacks when he first came to Kazakhstan. Her father was a general who led a Kazakh battalion in the Second World War. At that level, they are always tight with the KGB. They are both dead of course, but….

  “Ok, ok, I get the picture.” Charlie had heard enough. He would think about it, but was highly skeptical. Sometimes he thought that Emmett had fought too many battles, and may be ready to ride-off into the sunset.

  “…..she was working over in the Caspian Basin as an interpreter in the same area, at the same time, as Barry Durand.”

  “Coincidence---just a coincidence.”

  “If it were not for coincidences there would be no conclusions,” Roger replied dogmatically.

  “What in the hell does that mean?” Charlie demanded.

  “Damned if I know,” Roger admitted. “They drummed that into us when I was in training at Camp Peary. I wondered about it myself at the time, I just thought I would throw it into the conversation here, but it sounded funny to me after I said it.”

  Charlie threw up his arms in dismay.

  ”“So now Roger what else…..,” but Roger wasn’t paying any attention to him. His eyes focused on the hallway where Nadia and Elaina were walking arm in arm to their rooms.

  They two women looked into the lounge, and smiled as they passed.

  “Roger---Roger, what else did Emmett want you to tell me?”

  Roger turned toward him and winked. “She is hot.”

  “Is this room clean?” he asked, changing the subject, and looking around the small lounge with its antiquated overstuffed furniture.

  Charlie knew enough to recognize the young man was not asking about the sanitary condition of the dusty room. “We haven’t swept it for bugs , if that is what you mean. We don’t have the equipment to debug it, and it is highly unlikely that anyone would have wanted to install listening devices in an old hotel in an out of the way town.”

  It doesn’t take long for them to become paranoid he thought—it must come with the job.

  “You’re probably right,” Roger agreed. “I know that you can put the damn things anywhere –in a thermostat, a telephone, a TV speaker—anywhere. You could never find one without the right equipment. Anyway, why would they do it here? As you say, why would they do that here?”

  “Have you ever heard of a one-time pad?” Roger continued, seemingly satisfied that their conversation was not being recorded.

  “Not recently. What is it?”

  “It is a secure method of communicating with Langley,” Roger told him, going into the hallway and looking up and down to see if anyone was within earshot. Returning to his seat, he pulled out a Kindle looking type of device.

  “The Agency used to use these lot, but gave it up with computer encoded internet messages. Now with WikiLeaks they are going back to them for use in the field. The Station Chief in Almaty gave me this one for you. Said you might need it, if you get in trouble.”

  Roger moved from his chair so he was sitting beside Charlie on the sofa.

  “They operate on the mathematical principal of matching sets of random numbers once between the sender and the receiver in small groups in a coded message. The matching set then become your source code.“

  “Sounds awfully complicated,” Charlie interrupted, his eyes already beginning to glaze.

  “Not really, you will get the hang of it.”

  Roger seemed pleased with himself. He had learned about these when he was in training at The Farm, and was glad he could describe the complicated process.

  “Once the groups are in the message they can be translated into words by referring to a non-reusable key. But, they can only be used once. That’s the secret of them, and of course that is the reason they are called one-time pads,” he concluded looking to Charlie for a sign of understanding and appreciation.

  Charlie had begun his career in the computer industry and had some understanding of random number generators so he was not completely lost. “I will think about it,” he assured Roger slipping the device into his coat pocket.

  Charlie looked more closely at the young agent sitting across from him, and decided that aside from his interest in
women, he could be more serious than he had first thought.

  His closely cropped hair, struggling to grow-out, and an apparent stubble on his chin provided a profile in progress of a young man with a choirboy face. However, Roger had deep-set blue eyes that seemed to penetrate and record everything in view. He had an athlete’s shoulders tapering to a slender waist atop powerful legs.

  He may be all right, Charlie decided—when he has been around a while longer.

  “Good,” Roger exclaimed. “Now what was it with the funeral?”

  Charlie told him as briefly as he could how they had found the dead miners the day before, and then led the mine managers to their bodies.

  “Good God, That’s significant. Have you told Mr. Valentine about the dead miners?”

  “Yes, Emmett and Trevor Gunn. But I am not confident there is a direct connection between them and what we are doing here.”

  “Don’t bet your life on it Charlie. It is obvious someone doesn’t want your mine mined--for whatever reason they may have. Your project, as I understand it, is to see what the prospects are of operating Tekeli in a way that would attract new investment.”

  “Well, you are right about that,” Charlie conceded, “either for new investors or the government of Kazakhstan. I suppose that any number of people could be opposed to that.”

  Andre came into the lounge carrying his evening’s supply of wine. He was followed almost immediately by Henry, and Dave Dieter.

  Charlie made the introductions telling the men that Roger was with the American Embassy and was there to become familiar with the area. He avoided mentioning that he was the new Cultural Attaché.

  Before leaving for the dining room, Charlie showed Roger where he would spend the night. Madam Manager had put the unexpected visitor in a small room at the foot of the stairs she occasionally used in an emergency.

  While Charlie helped Roger get settled, the young man confided he had met a Kazakh woman at the Embassy in Almaty whom he found extremely appealing. He was going to try and get to know her better when he returned. Roger seemed confident that all good things come to those who try.

  At dinner, Roger managed to position himself next to Elaina. Charlie watched with amusement as the young man struck up a conversation with the interpreter. He couldn’t blame him, Elaina was a very attractive young woman.

  While Madam Manager and her assistants were serving dessert, Charlie was surprised to see the dombra player reappear. She began to play what Nadia described as a Kazakh love song about a young woman abandoned by her lover.

  The woman had positioned herself directly in front of Sammie, and seemed to be directing her song toward him.

  The strange but appealing music filled the room. Charlie watched Roger and Elaina exchange glances, as the other men focused their attention on the musician. All Elaina knew about the young visitor was that he was from the American Embassy, and was greatly interested in Central Asian culture.

  Charlie could not keep from wondering if Roger was destined to become a latter-day Lieutenant Pinkerton; finding his love on his first visit to a foreign port, only to abandon poor Madam Butterfly when he returned home.

  Charlie poured another glass of Andre’s wine. Drinking sometimes made him reflective. Tonight he wondered if any woman could become accustomed to living with a man who told lies as part of his job description.

  Emmett had once told him that not everyone could be an effective spy. According to the old man, in order to be a good agent, a CIA officer must spend much of his life pretending he is someone he is not. Persuading others to turn against their own country and then convince them to become a traitor by committing espionage. The agent has to always be certain how he feels on the moral issues…and so do their wives, Charlie concluded.

  How could a woman knowingly accept that kind of husband? He knew Beth could not. Even his tenuous association with the Agency was an anathema to her. She was continually trying to get him to promise that he would sever his relations with Emmett. He had promised her that he would do that--several times.

  After the others left the table, Charlie told Andre and Henry about the funeral that took place earlier in the day. He was the last to leave the dining room. Entering the darkened hallway, he caught a glimpse of Elaina’s shadow trailing down the stairs to the first floor. A slender sliver of light beckoned from Roger’s open doorway.

  17

  In the morning, a few flakes were beginning to fall, and already a slight coating of white covered the ground. Charlie remembered to give Roger the samples Andre had scrapped from the side of the tunnel where they found the dead miners.

  Roger assured him that once he reached Almaty he would take them to the Embassy and they would rush them to Mr. Valentine in a diplomatic pouch. There were people at the Agency who would be able to perform an analysis of them very quickly.

  Charlie watched Roger and Elaina exchange scraps of paper during breakfast. They now gave each other a perfunctory peck on the cheek before Roger jauntily climbed into the Land Rover for the drive back to Almaty. Before he could start the engine, the dombra player came running from the hotel, her instrument wrapped in a cloth cover, and slung over her shoulder.

  As she approached the car, Roger looked puzzled and rolled down the window. The two exchanged a few gestures before the young woman climbed in beside him. There was a grinding of gears as the car leapt forward, and Roger left Tekeli in a cloud of dirt that was kicked-up by the oversize tires.

  The SUV bounced over the old road, as it sped along the ancient route. Roger was surprised, but pleased to have a passenger. It was a long trip, and he was unsure of the road. The young woman spoke no English, and could only gesture to point out places she thought he might find interesting. In spite of the inability to communicate, she provided a pleasant diversion from the bleak landscape. He was even more surprised when she began to point to the old roadside park with its dilapidated building. He first thought that she wanted to visit the facilities, and was astonished to notice an old pickup truck parked under a tree. She ran toward it, and jumped in beside the driver. She gave him a wave of her hand as the truck headed for a path over the mountains.

  Wow! That is strange, Roger thought pulling back on the road. How did they know I was coming this way this morning?

  It was a boring drive. Not much chance of getting lost, there was only one road between Tekeli and Almaty. The landscape was desolate. He had previously expected something more exotic. Tekeli wasn’t a hell of a lot better.

  That Charlie was interesting. A little long in the tooth perhaps. All those guys up there were—but they seemed to know what they were doing. He was curious how a corporate guy had ever got involved in intelligence work.

  Actually, he had asked Charlie just that when they were alone in the lounge. He had replied that that there were certain similarities with both activities. They were both working in an arena where things were constantly changing. Kind of like an ocean with currents running one way then the other, he said. Sometimes they run together, and other times they diverge. You establish your goals or objectives, then you work like hell to achieve them, regardless which way the current takes you.

  At the time, Roger recalled, Mr. Valentine telling him that one of the things that made Connelly a good agent was his unrelenting drive to successfully finish the job—whatever the job might be—or whatever might happen to distract him.

  “Problem is,” Charlie had continued warming to his subject, “you never have enough facts to make a decision, and you have to learn to operate with insufficient information—that’s where you gut comes into play. Both the Agency and the corporation require intense competitors. Academics find competition abhorrent. They could never survive in such a constantly changing environment.”

  Maybe he was right Roger thought. That Connelly is an interesting dude...He would have to think about what he had to say… later.

  To kill the time as he drove, Roger began singing to himself an old college glee club song he l
iked.

  To the tables down at Mory’s

  To the place where Louiie dwells,

  To the dear old Temple Bar

  We love so well

  Sit the Whiffenpoofs assembled

  with their glasses raised on high.

  Roger, whether he was aware of it or not, was a walking talking tribute to the Agency’s Ivy League mystique that had dominated the CIA since its inception. At one time almost 50% of the personnel had attended Yale. More recently, as the Agency found it necessary to expand and become more diverse, the Ivies had diminished in numbers, but not in influence. It was no wonder then that Charlie and Dave, with their Midwestern backgrounds, seemed to be somewhat foreign to Roger in their approach to problems.