The express elevator sped past the intervening floors and deposited him at the Agency’s marble-lined lobby. Striding across the reception area, he waved to the guard and glanced, as he always did, at the memorial to fallen CIA officers with its row of stars without names, He wondered if Barry Durand’s star was included yet, but decided he would check on that tomorrow---or possibly the next day.
He nodded briefly to the statue of William J. Donovan on his right as he approached the entranceway. His glance veered from the statute to the inscription on the wall above it. The words had been taken from John 8.23. The biblical reference was transferred from the original Agency headquarters to where they were now in the lobby of the new building.
Ye shall know the truth and the truth shall make you free.
It’s just that sometimes it takes longer than others, Emmet decided, and it often needs a lot of help.
By the time he reached the revolving door, his car was already parked at the curb, its super charged fuel injected engine idling noiselessly. It was a large black nondescript Buick Park Avenue, heavily armored, with deeply tinted windows. Emmett climbed into the backseat, and immediately disappeared as the car pulled from the curb, headed toward the gate.
Several years before, a radical had assassinated a member of the Agency’s staff while he was waiting to clear security. This resulted in even tighter measures at the entrance. However, the procedures were slightly less onerous to leave the premises than to enter. The marine on duty quickly waved them through. Once clear of the gate, the driver accelerated on to Dolly Madison Drive.
At first, Emmett had resisted using the special limo service, but he finally decided that the convenience it offered made up for whatever reasons he harbored about using it. He was particularly grateful for it this night.
The weather had turned cold. Not as cold as Kazakhstan he guessed, still thinking about the project, but damn cold never the less. To make it more miserable it was raining steadily. It was the kind of downpour that challenges the wiper blades and finds them wanting. This kind of rain could easily turn to snow. Soon it did.
The driver did not speak to Emmett during the ride, or Emmett to him. Both driver and rider were schooled in the demands of a secret life, and conversation was unnecessary—and undesirable. The driver knew the destination without asking. It was a small apartment hotel in the center of McLean, Virginia, only a few minutes from the headquarters building at Langley.
For several years, when his wife was still alive, they had lived together in Georgetown. After the cancer took her, the house was too large—too lonely and too close to the wrangling and political machinations of Washington, so he moved.
Inside his apartment, Emmett put a tape in the cassette player and a packaged dinner in the microwave. Tonight he was having veal scaloppini and Chianti.
Before eating, he turned to the picture of his wife on the mantel, taken years before, and raised his glass in a silent salute. She had been gone for many years, but she was always there.
After dinner—it had not taken him long to finish--he removed the file from his briefcase, and paged through it more carefully than he had in the office.
He had to admit he had seldom heard of rare-earth, but now it was of considerable interest to him. The presence of the unique mineral element could explain why there was the sudden interest in the Tekeli mine, and why the project might be in jeopardy.
He was well aware that the U.S. military had become extremely concerned that some minerals such as cobalt, lead, and zinc, that had at one time been abundant, might suddenly become scarce. Because of their alarm, they were stockpiling these materials, along with lithium and some rare-earth elements they might need in the future. He understood all of that, but the immediate question was not what, but who else would be interested enough in the mine to kill for it.
He wondered if it was too late to call Vienna. He decided to try anyway, and set the scrambler before dialing Vincent St. Claire’s home number.
“Damn it Emmett don’t you ever call anyone during working hours?” The voice leapt out of the speaker phone loud and clear--and very angry.
“Seldom Vincent. I work during working hours and talk at night. How are you old friend?”
Vincent relented, he felt sorry for Emmett. He realized that he was a lonely man with a great deal of responsibility. He could understand that very well---very well indeed. “So what is on your mind tonight Emmett?”
“It looks like the mine at Tekeli could contain the rare-earth element neodymium, in addition to the lead and zinc we already knew was there.
“And you know that how?” Vincent inquired, surprised at the new development.
Emmett gave Vincent a quick briefing on how Charlie Connelly had samples taken from the mine, and had given them to Roger Pembroke when he visited Tekeli. After Roger returned to Almaty, he had the samples flown out in carrier pouch to Washington. The Agency’s experts analyzed them, and determined that it was the rare-earth element neodymium.
“So now Vincent,” Emmett inquired with superficial detachment, “tell me what you know about rare-earth and who would be interested in controlling the Tekeli mine for it.”
Vincent paused briefly before replying, “I know enough about it to know that if there is neodymium there, it could explain why people may not want to see the project completed on time. By the way, can you turn down that damn music? It is hard to hear what you are saying. What is it any way?”
Vincent’s criticism of his musical selection hurt Emmett. “It’s a tape of Andre’ Rieu’s orchestra playing Viennese waltzes. I put it on especially for you.”
“I hate Strauss,” Vincent replied. The two men had worked together for a long time, and it was late. Late enough to be cranky.
“Tape did you say tape? Are you still playing cassette tapes Emmett?” Vincent chided him. “You are not exactly at the cutting edge of technology old man. What you need is an IPod.”
Emmett turned down the volume, and hastened to change the subject. “The reason I called was I would like your opinion regarding who might be trying to sabotage the Tekeli mine, and your project there. I have my own opinion, but I wanted to hear your thoughts as well.”
Vincent felt flattered that Emmett sought his opinion. It was not a frequent occurrence. He must be more worried than he let on.
“Well old friend I was wondering about that myself. It is obvious someone wants that mine taken out of the hands of the Kazakhstan Government. I know you always suspect the Russians, but consider this. We know that China is buying up mineral resources all over the world, using income from U.S. debt to make their purchases. They are particularly interested in building strategic reserves in metals, particularly rare-earth metals, in order to give Beijing increased ability to influence global prices in a commodity sector it already dominates.”
“How do you know all of this Vincent?”
“Details of their stockpiling plans haven’t been made public. But, the Global Bank pays close attention to things going on in China, just as the CIA does in the Mideast. For us, that is where the action is right now.
“We believe China may be playing rare-earth roulette with the capitalist countries. Our representatives in Beijing tell us that the outlines of their effort are apparent in recent statements from Chinese government agencies, and the state controlled companies, as well as reports that we monitor daily in their government run media.
“So what does this all mean to us?” Emmett asked, thinking over what he had just learned.
“If by us you mean the western powers; it means that China can better control the price of the rare-earth elements making them more valuable while, at the same time, making them more expensive for other countries to obtain for their own industries”
“Such as?” Emmett asked.
“Such as oil refining, cell phones, and high technology batteries for military applications. That could be why, old boy, that the glorious Peoples Republic might like to see the project at Tekel
i fail to be completed until they have a better opportunity to get their hands on the mine.”
Emmett was impressed by Vincent’s information, but felt he had to criticize him for something. “You seem only concerned with the project, rather than worrying about the people you have sent there.”
“Come on—come on Emmett. Don’t play choir boy with me. We both have put men in jeopardy in the past. It comes with the territory.”
Vincent concluded the conversation with, “by the way, did you know that Connelly and the rest of them are snowed-in up there, and we couldn’t get help to them if we wanted to?”
The line went dead, and Emmett shut-off the scrambler. Vincent had certainly won that conversation he conceded. Up to now, he had focused all of his attention on Russia, believing that all things evil emanated from FSB Headquarters at Lubyanka Square. Now he was having difficulty realigning his thinking toward China. He consoled himself that the country was currently more communistic in its political hierarchy than Russia. They don’t call them the People’s Republic for nothing he decided.
Tomorrow, he would have to think how he might get Charlie out of there if it became necessary, Vincent’s project be damned.
23
The mood around the dinner table had not improved during the day. Each of them was still concerned over what had occurred at the mine, and how it might affect them.
They were all experienced professionals, having worked on these types of projects before, and were comfortable working under pressure to complete their work on schedule. This was the first time, however, any of them had worked under conditions where their lives were at risk.
Charlie shared their concern. He had never felt so isolated. In the past, if it became necessary, he was always able to maintain contact with Langley, and if that became difficult, he could at least meet with the local CIA Station Chief. Here, at Tekeli, the snowstorm had made that impossible.
Charlie had unlocked Andre’s empty room and retrieved the last bottles of wine, but it was having little effect on the diners. Occasionally there were attempts at conversation, but once attempted they quickly failed. The hotel manager and her staff, ignoring the mood of her customers, busied themselves with their own responsibilities.
After his experience at breakfast, Henry was more cautious what he ate, concentrating exclusively on the bread, which was always excellent, washed-down with water glasses filled with Sauvignon Blanc.
Charlie tried to get their minds off their situation by attempting to focus their attention on the project. Clearing his throat to attract attention, he began with “so Henry, how close to completion of your assignment are you?” It seemed to work as everyone’s attention was diverted from their plates to the accountant. Even Dave looked up and stared at him, interested to hear his reply.
Henry seemed pleased to be the center of attention. “I have pretty much gone as far as I can with the data I have. I can only do so much with them so I guess my analysis is complete. Now, I am preparing my recommendations and after that I will work on the presentation with Elaina.”
Elaina agreed with what Henry said. “I’m already beginning to prepare the charts for the presentation. It won’t take much longer.”
“What about you Dave?” Charlie asked, munching on an apple for his dessert.
“Apples are originally from Kazakhstan you know,” Dave mimicked Sammie Wang. Then, he added more seriously, “pretty much the same as Henry. There is really not much more I can do, other than round off the rough edges.”
Nadia nodded in agreement. “I already have part of his charts done, and have started putting your information together as well Mr. Connelly. Both Elaina and I have the Russian versions done, and will begin concentrating on the English ones now, but that will take more time.
Charlie rose from the table. “It looks like we are pretty close to being on schedule then. Now if we could just get out of here without anyone more being killed we will be in great shape.”
As they headed down the hallway, Charlie added as an afterthought, “be sure and lock your doors.”
Back in his room, Charlie noticed frost had coated his window, so that he was looking at the outside world through an icy prism with wildly distorted refracted images. He shuddered. The room felt unusually cold.
His thoughts turned home, and his wife Beth. They had been apart for long periods before, but this time it felt very different. Not only did Kazakhstan seem to be located at the end of world, but the mine was even more isolated because of the weather conditions.
Fear had also been his traveling companion during his previous associations with the CIA. This time he was unsure of the enemy and their motives remained unclear.
The difficulty in communicating with Beth also provided and added element of distress and distraction. He was never sure that his emails were getting through. The few messages he had received from her were incomplete and disjointed, seemingly unrelated to any he had sent. This made him uncertain if the majority of his emails ever survived their transmission.
He decided to try again to reach Trevor and provide a status report. The first time he tried, he heard only a crackling on the line. He repeated the attempt with similar results. The third attempt connected him to Trevor’s recorder.
He left his message, and began reviewing his own recommendations to the Kazakh Government regarding the viability of the Tekeli mine. Perhaps work was the best answer to his problems. While it might not solve them, it might at least provide a reasonable distraction.
He quickly became tired, his eyes burned from reading under the room’s poor light, and he decided to go to bed. He checked the Beretta to make sure that it was still under his pillow, and soon fell asleep.
Morning came sooner than it should. Rays of light penetrated the thickening frost on his window. He looked outside and was not surprised to see that it was snowing again. More lightly than before, but still more than they needed.
The walkway to the brewery had filled in overnight. At least it gave the miners something to do. He thought he could see an outline of footprints leading to the hotel, but was not sure. Anyway, it would probably be someone on the staff, or the miners attempting to clear another path.
The pushups came easier this morning. He must be getting back in shape. He had halfway expected a call from Trevor this morning, acknowledging his message of the night before. None had come by the time he had showered and shaved and left the room for breakfast.
On the way to the dining room, he decided that he would lay off the sausages, himself. They hadn’t hurt him when he wasn’t aware that they contained horsemeat. Now it was different. What was that old adage about what you don’t know can’t hurt you. He had never believed that, and he decided this was not a good time to change his opinion.
Passing Henry’s room, Charlie noticed that the door was slightly ajar. He thought that unusual. All the people had been locking their doors, even if they were in the rooms, or when they were to be gone for only a few minutes. He peered in and saw Henry still in bed, the sheet drawn up around his chin. Apparently, the wine had proved an effective sedative.
Only a faint light filtered through the window. Drawing closer to wake him, Charlie noticed a red strain trickling from each ear and running down the side of Henry’s mouth. Then he was shocked to see that Henry’s eyes bulged open, staring sightlessly at the ceiling. Charlie’s stomach churned.
“Oh my God--poor Henry! “
Bending over to close his friend’s eyelids, he noticed a slender leather cord embedded in his neck. What he found revolted him. What kind of a demented bastard would find it necessary to murder a nearsighted accountant?
He felt terribly sad for Henry. He had a difficult life, only to return to meet his death in the country he had escaped as a child. What a terrible way to go. How ironic for the circle of life to close in such a bizarre fashion.
As he gently pulled the edge of the sheet over the lifeless body of his friend, the realization flooded over him that i
f someone would kill this type of man, for whatever obscure motive they might have, none of them would be safe.
Charlie locked the door securely behind him, and walked slowly toward the dining room. An almost tangible pall hung over the room as the rest of the group sat apprehensively around the table waiting for their missing members.
They all turned to watch as Charlie, at a loss for words, silently removed Henry’s chair from the table, placing it against the wall next to Andre’s. The realization of what his action implied came suddenly and powerfully to them all.
Dave was the first to speak, “Oh my God, what has happened to Henry? Did he die in his sleep?”
Both Nadia, and Elaina sat silently, too shocked to speak. Tears flooded Elaina’s dark eyes, and she buried her head in her hands. She and Henry and made an odd pair of opposites, but they had grown close as they worked together.
Death on the Silk Road Page 20