by Doug Walker
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
There came a day when President Warren told Orson she was sending him to Mongolia, to Ulan Bator, on a mission of goodwill.
“Mongolia,” Orson replied, “is a country of some importance, and we doubtless have an embassy there. Goodwill would seem the major occupation of most embassies. I know they are useless to tourists.”
“It is true they do their best to have little or no contact with travelers from the States, and goodwill would seem a major function. But there is something going on in that embassy that dismays me. When a person such as myself takes the office of president, you might say the highest in the land, although that is debatable, they inherit a huge bureaucracy. The bulk of these are what one calls holdovers. They may be holdovers from the late previous administration, or holdovers from previous, previous administrations. But they are holdovers. Loyal to America of course, but not necessarily loyal to the sitting president.”
“Your meaning seems clear, but you did appoint the secretary of state. This seems meat for that job.”
“You would think so,” the President responded. “But the secretary of state is in charge of all the embassies, quite a worldwide network. It would not be meet or wise to have that person seem to interfere with the function of the embassy. Appearances become important.”
I see. You know I am a recently married man and would be leaving wife, household and small children behind to journey to Asia?”
“I’m aware of your predicament. You entered into that relationship freely and without seeking my advice or encouragement. So you find yourself on your own. It is now the morning, so I suggest you spend the remains of the day reading up on Mongolia. Its location itself is of vital importance, lying just between China and Russia, a pair of huge but not totally trustworthy allies.
“Also, the governing forces over there, and it is a democratic nation, they enjoy speaking in metaphors more attuned to the age of Genghis Khan, of whom there is a large, much revered and very impressive statue set in Sukhbaatar Square. If you have idle time you might have your photo taken in front of said icon, a token to take home to the little woman.”
“The metaphors you speak of?”
“Such things as their horses are light and fast, their archers sharp and straight, their wrestlers sturdy and ready for battle. Like that. One presidential candidate boasted that he was raised in the dust of many horses. Yet Ulan Bator is a large, modern Asian city, although there are many yurts in the suburbs.”
“Yurts?”
“Yes, those round, bent-wood shelters, the top and sides covered with layers of cloth plus sheep’s wool for insulation. In Mongolian the word simply means home.”
“I know what a yurt is,” Orson insisted.
“You did ask. Now get to your research. Your plane leaves tomorrow afternoon.”
“Yes, master.”
Orson’s plane settled down at Chinggis Khan International Airport just after 8 a.m. local time. With only a small carry-on, he cleared immigration and customs without incident, traveling as a tourist, a status that permitted him to remain in the country for fifty days without a visa. He hoped to wrap up the little business he had there in less than a week.
Grabbing a cab he was off to the Best Western Gobi’s Kelso hotel with the promise of free Wi-Fi.
After less than a mile the cabbie told him he could not check into the hotel before noon, then suggested a pleasant café to idle away a few hours.
It sounded better than sitting in a sterile lobby or sipping coffee in the stainless steel room of a hotel shop. The café was dimly lit, an attractive hostess asked if had sampled the local drink. She was lovely, with almond eyes and a body wrapped in a tight sarong. Odd, he thought, for such an early hour.
“Are you Mongolian?” Orson asked.
A delightful smile. “We are from everywhere. The Chinese might call us half. Half this, half that, maybe a little bit of something else mixed in. What might I bring you?”
“What is the local drink?”
“The proper name is Arkhi. I think it’s made with Kefir. I’m no expert, but it is made from milk, so it’s a healthy thing to place in one’s stomach.”
Orson shrugged. “A small measure should do me no harm.”
On that score he was incorrect. The small measure he was given was laced with a drug, something like scopolamine, packing a wallop sufficient to knock one out for two or three days. The next thing he knew he was coming alive on his back, staring at a ceiling, gradually realizing that he was in a yurt.
An old woman was seated against the wall. She appeared to be knitting or doing some type of needlework, illuminated by an oil lamp. When he turned his head to look at her, she returned his gaze and smiled. He doubted she spoke English.
Orson was under a rough blanket and suddenly realized he was wearing only his skivvies. Not yet fully awake, he asked what had happened. She raised a hand intended to shush him, then returned to her work.
He was thirsty, very thirsty, but still groggy. He lapsed back into sleep.
Later on he was shaken awake, opening his eyes to see a young woman’s face. “My mother said you were awake a few minutes ago.”
He nodded and raised himself on one elbow. “I need water.”
“Of course. You were drugged. That was a couple of days ago.”
“Days,” he said in wonder.
She gave him a cup of water. He drank and she refilled the cup.
“Two days, maybe more. These things happen. A cab driver will take you to a café. They pick you off at the airport. You are drugged. Taken to a back room. Your clothing and belongings divided up. Then the same cab drives you off somewhere, usually a lonely place, and dumps you. They mean you no physical harm.”
“No physical harm,” Orson said, rubbing his head, suddenly realizing that his eye patch was also gone. “I must look a fright with this bad eye!”
“It looks like it’s been gone for some time,” the woman said.
“Yes. It’s hideous. I need to cover it.”
“My mother and I, we’re used to such things.”
“Do you pick up bodies often?”
“No. We have radios, newspapers, we know what goes on. My mother’s a widow. I had a husband, but he drifted off somewhere to look for work. We have chickens, a goat, a small garden, we get by. That’s our story. What’s yours?”
“You speak fair English.”
“I’ve been to school. It’s the common language these days. What’s your business, Mr. One Eye?”
“Orson. My name’s Orson. I’m an American. Is there a toilet?”
“Out back, a small shed.”
“I seem to be in my underwear.”
She laughed. “You were dumped that way. They left you something, didn’t they?”
“The cab driver and the bar girl, yes. Plus I suppose the bar owner.”
“Share and share alike. When you come back we’ll have tea and something to eat.”
Orson rose and stood on unsteady feet. “Why do you help me?”
“Why not? Maybe you’ll help us.”
“Why not. We can help one another. I’m in a pickle.”
“What does that mean?”
“Tell you later.” He left the yurt and found the outhouse.
After hot tea and a bowl of some sort of vegetable gruel he rejoined the living. “I have to do something about my predicament. I’ll need clothing. Not much. The weather seems fine. Just a shirt, pants and maybe flip flops.”
“What did they get from you?”
“My bag with not much in it. Toiletries, a change or two of clothing. But the main thing, my passport, my wallet, several hundred American dollars, a couple of credit cards, driver’s license, insurance cards, a few other cards.”
“Watch?”
He laughed. “A twelve-dollar watch.”
“Some are worth thousands,” she said. “I’ve seen advertisements.”
“You can’t have TV.”
“True. We have battery ra
dio. There’s a sort of shower house-club where there’s a TV, 24/7 as you westerners say. That’s also a laundry room. Not a bad lifestyle, really.”
“I would feel better if I could cover the spot where my eye used to be. Do you have any tape?”
“A roll of that gray stuff, duct tape.” She bunched up toilet paper and put it over the eye spot, then slapped on vertically an eight inch section of duct tape.
“That’s better,” he said.
“Not much of an improvement. Now what?”
“I’ll pay you generously when I get some money. But I need the clothing I mentioned, plus you can be my translator and I’ll need enough money for us to get around, send an e-mail and take care of business. How far are we from the business area?”
“This section of town is called Nalayh. There is a bus. We do have some money, but not very much. Are you married?”
“Recently, I recently married a retired dancer. Of course you’re married too.”
“I suppose. My husband’s been gone a year and a half anyway. I’m not much of a charmer. And I am 27-years-old.”
“That’s old.”
“Around here it is. I can be your Mongol wife. Was the barmaid who drugged you pretty?”
“She was OK. She had almond eyes. You’re more of a Slavic individual. There’s nothing wrong with you.”
“Good. I’ll be your Mongol wife for as long as it lasts.”
“You will not regret it financially. But it won’t last for long.”
“Why? What’s your business?”
“Secret mission.” He smiled in an attempt to look sinister. It was hard with one eye and a piece of duct tape covering much of his face. I can’t do what I came to do. So that’s a bust. What I need to do is get back on my feet and get the hell on out of here.”
“You need a passport.”
“You’re no dummy. You’ve got that right. So I let myself get drugged on some kind of milkshake. What a dope.”
“Arkhi.”
“Yes, mildly alcoholic, heavily sedated. Here I sit in my only garments, my underclothes, in a yurt in the middle of Mongolia. It’s like I died and went to heaven.”
“Or hell.”
“If I’m to live in hell, I should know your name.”
“Altantsetseg, Alta for short. And you are Orson.”
“Yes I am. Good memory.”
“As you said, I’m no dummy. Getting you clothing will be no problem. If we don’t have enough money I can borrow some with the prospect of getting more.”
“I’ll guarantee that unless more evil dogs my path.”
“You will have clothing and money. Tonight we will have a good dinner, enjoy a good night’s sleep as temporary marrieds, then set off for the big city with tomorrow’s sun.”
“If this isn’t heaven, you can see it from here.”