by Doug Walker
CHAPTER NINETEEN
After a late breakfast they set off for the heart of the city that apparently had no heart. The bus they rode was jammed after just a few blocks, the city, a boom town with construction cranes jutting skyward here and there; copper, gold and coal mining account for the economic surge, bringing with it the evils of a Chicago by the Steppes.
Despite the boom, Mongolia remained the world’s least populated country, considering 600,000 square miles and slightly more than three million people. The first priority was to find an e-mail shop where Orson messaged Katrina and asked her to get five thousand dollars ready to wire to a bank to be named later.
He also asked her to attempt to cancel his credit cards, giving her what information he could remember. And to alert the state department that his passport had been stolen. Then he asked her to tell no one as he was determined to clean the mess up himself and return home on his own and report the failed mission.
Blaming himself for being such a stupid buffoon, he fell back into his old lone wolf character. “Some lone wolf!” he thought. He had Alta at his side in Mongolia and Katrina backing him up in Washington. But he promised himself not to involve the White House unless the word leaked out from another source. With all the spying and eavesdropping going on these days it was a wonder everyone didn’t know what everyone else was thinking. Except there was too much information floating around for even an army of individuals to process for any given purpose.
After sending the e-mail they dropped into the first bank they came to and asked an assistant manager if he might open an account in order to have five thousand dollars wired from the States.
Of course he asked to see a passport.
“I’ve been robbed,” he explained. “My passport and my entire identity are gone. I have only a few dollars borrowed from this nice lady,” indicating Alta.
“And the five thousand would be wired when?”
“Considering the time difference probably not until tomorrow or the day after. But definitely by the day after.”
“You would then withdraw that money,” he said.
“Probably not all of it right away. But maybe two thousand. I have to clear up some things including a passport and credit cards.”
“Because the money would be here temporarily, there would be a one percent charge. Would that be satisfactory?”
“Very definitely. We’re both doing business.”
The deed was done and he permitted Orson to use the bank’s equipment to send the e-mail to Katrina with the bank name and proper numbers. It seemed so easy. Yet Orson was still without papers – in the old days without papers carried the acronym, WOP.
With that done, Alta led him to one of the better restaurants where they feasted on cardamom-scented lamb marinated in rum and baked in a tandoori oven. There was also mashed eggplant, onions and tomatoes spiced with coriander and chiles. They drank the salty milk tea with a sheen of fat, called suutei tsai.
Full up with Mongolian fare and not quite recovered from his drug experience, they called it a day and jammed on a bus to return to Nalayh to while away the evening hours and sleep like sated bears after a bout of passion.
The following day, too early to check on the bank, they found a web shop in Nalayh and Orson received a scorching missive from Katrina asking what the hell he thought he was up to in Mongolia and why she shouldn’t alert the White House and evacuate his sorry ass.
Orson explained the best he could that in his heart he believed he had failed in his mission and it was his lookout to do the right thing. If she insisted, he would simply steal a wild horse, ride out onto the Steppes, never to be heard of again.
She replied that the money was already on its way and that since he was a prime jackass he might simply run out on the Steppes by himself and survive on prairie hay, if such there was. She would await his return with a baseball bat.
Attempting to calm his nerves, Orson had a lengthy discussion with Alta about Mongolia, its religion and politics. A thin majority of the population was Buddhist. But that religion was mixed and altered by Shamanism, which had been practiced in Mongolia since before recorded time.
The major brand was called Yellow Shamanism, which Orson failed to understand completely. There was also Black Shamanism and maybe a few other colors.
It seemed to involve an altered state of mind, ancestor worship and getting in touch with the spirit world. Very likely, mixed with Buddhism, it also involved suffering, which made one zero in on the essentials. Suffering could be looked on as a blessing. Although the sufferer might not immediately realize this benefit, perhaps never, if the suffering proved terminal.
Orson replied to his wife that he planned to return to hearth and home as soon as possible and had a plan, although did not add that the plan was a small seed not yet fully germinated in his brain cage. The two of them went from the web shop directly into the city where they found the funds deposited. Orson withdrew three thousand dollars, presented a thousand to Alta, pocketed two thousand for himself and they returned to the yurt.
During the crowded bus ride back to Nalayh he inquired of Alta if she and her mother might be nomadic because they lived in a yurt. She grinned and responded, “Maybe. We can fold up the yurt, harness it to the chickens and goat and head for the Steppes, free as a couple of birds, battling brigands and foul weather. You’ve heard stories, haven’t you?”
“Genghis Khan and the Golden Horde, rape and pillage, sack, burn and loot.”
“They got your number, didn’t they?”
“Fell prey to a lovely bar girl. But now I’m thinking of escape to Russia. Any ideas?”
“Russia. You’re imagining things. What would you do in Russia?”
“Grab a train to Moscow. You forget I haven’t a passport. I have a friend in Moscow.”
“For another five hundred U.S. I’ll get you a passport. What nationality would you like?”
“Can you toss in an eye patch?”
“I guess. But the duct tape is charming. People pause and stare. Have you noticed?”
“I don’t see how you can get me a passport.”
This brought a chuckle from Alta. “What do you suppose happened to your passport?”
“Can you buy it back?”
“Probably not. But there are a few more floating around. Any special nationality?”
“British or Canadian.”
Two days passed. Then Orson had a new eye patch, a passport photo taken and a Canadian passport issued to a Calgary resident, Robert J. Scholl, age 46. A day later, small bag with toothbrush and a new pair of sox enclosed, Orson boarded a plane for JFK. He planned to rent a car and drive to Washington, entering in a stealthy fashion.
Alta was at the airport to kiss him goodbye. She had opened a checking account by depositing twelve hundred U.S. dollars and had another thousand in her purse.
The plane had begun its descent into JFK when the captain announced. “There’s been some sort of a mishap on a major runway. Emergency vehicles, foam, water, people all over the place. We’ve been diverted to Toronto. Sorry about the inconvenience.”
Immediate chatter all over the aircraft. The stewardesses roamed the aisles attempting to calm tempers. Orson was keenly aware of his Canadian passport, but reckoned if the plane was unloaded the passenger would stay within the secure area and there would be no problem.
On the ground in Toronto, he was having coffee and reading a newspaper when a uniformed agent approached and said, “Canadian passport?”
“I’m an American,” Orson replied and the official walked on by. A half hour passed and a voice came over the loud speaker: “Would Robert J. Scholl please report to immigration.”
Orson hardly noticed the voice and went on reading. In a few minutes he became aware of a general sweep of the boarding area. Everyone’s passport was being examined. When his turn came, he said, “I’m an American, but I’m traveling with a Canadian passport.”
“May I see it, Sir?”
He
handed it over, the official read the name, Robert J. Scholl, and then asked, “You’re not Robert J. Scholl?”
“Of course not. That gentleman is a Canadian. From Calgary, I believe.”
The official smiled slightly. “But you’re traveling with his passport.”
“Mine was stolen. I bought that one in Ulan Bator. One needs a passport to board an airplane. You know that.”
“There’s a passport shop in Ulan Bator?”
“I don’t believe it’s a legitimate one. A woman I met there bought it for me. She seemed to know what she was doing. You see mine was stolen, probably sold to someone else, maybe this Scholl person. So I bought his. Indirectly, of course. I was simply a visitor who was victimized. Now I’m simply trying to get home.”
“Passports are for identification purposes, Sir.”
“That’s generally true, but when the chips are down and the cards are all out, one does what one must do.”
“Generally that would be to visit one’s embassy, report the stolen passport, apply for a temporary one. That would seem the right course.”
“Who am I to judge?”
“Your picture is on this passport.”
“True. That’s a necessity. One doesn’t board a plane with someone else’s mug shot on their passport. That’s a dead giveaway.”
“A giveaway for what, Sir?”
“That it’s not your passport. They’re right about that. Letting you board a plane with someone’s passport other than your own, you might be some sort of troublemaker.”
“I suppose that’s why they have passports, Sir. I’ll have to ask you to come with me.”
Orson frowned. “I might miss my flight.” He knew his plight was hopeless. He was nabbed and that was it. Nabbed. But he had tried to make the best of it.
He sat in a holding cell while his initial interrogator attempted to explain his plight to a superior.
Eventually, he was seated in an office. In a few minutes a man who appeared to be the head of immigration plus a police lieutenant entered and sat across from him.
“You are Robert J. Scholl?” the policeman questioned.
“No. I’m an American, Orson Platt. I was drugged and robbed of everything I had in Mongolia. A woman who helped me purchased the Scholl passport for me so I might return to Washington where I live and work.”
“And this woman, what might her name be?”
“It is a complicated name. But she goes by Alta.”
“And she lives in Ulan Bator?”
“No. She actually resides in a yurt in what you might call a suburb. Its name is Nalayh. She lives with her mother, a goat and a small flock of chickens. They have a small garden patch.”
“You have known this Alta for some time?”
“No. I was drugged and robbed shortly after my plane landed. A cab driver told me I couldn’t check into my hotel at an early hour. He stopped at a small café where I had a slightly alcoholic drink, made with milk. A bar girl served it, but everyone seemed to be in on it. The drink was heavily drugged. Everything I owned was taken except my underwear. The cabbie must have driven into the country and deposited me by the road where Alta found me.”
“At that point you might have called the American embassy.”
“If there had been a phone, I could have. But my mission could have been in conflict with the embassy. I was advised to avoid it. So I did.”
“You were on a mission?” the immigration official questioned.
“In one sense we are all on a mission. A sojourn through life.” He looked from one man to the other, his lone eye holding their gaze.
“Tell us about your mission?” the policeman asked.
“I work for the White House. My title is assistant chief of staff. But I usually do errands for the President. She had sent me to talk to certain Mongolian officials. The country is strategically placed between China and Russia. The details of my mission are secret.”
“Perhaps, though, you will share them with us,” the policeman said.
Orson smiled for the first time and replied, ”No way.”
“If you eventually got hold of money, you could have phoned your boss and straightened this whole mess out,” the policeman said.
“What you say is true. I simply couldn’t bring myself to confess that I had failed. I wanted simply to slink back to Washington and apologize to the President in person. If the plane had not been diverted to Toronto, this wouldn’t have happened.”
“But you would still be guilty of an illegal act,” the immigration man insisted.
“I intended to mail the passport to the Canadian embassy, minus my photo, of course.”
“As if that would set things right,” the policeman said. “This man Scholl is a wanted criminal. Is there any way you might have a clue to where he’s hiding?”
“Well, you said he’s in Mongolia. I think there’s a good chance he might be dead. He must have been drugged the way I was to lose his passport and probably the rest of his possessions. These people who drug others for a living are not pharmacists. They don’t take the age, weight, and medical condition when they administer the knock out drops. Someone with high blood pressure, a heart condition or so forth might easily die. Then there’s a chance they might hide the body, or roll it over a hill, leave it to rot or be eaten by wild beasts.”
“But if the authorities recovered the body,” the policeman said.
“They left me in my skivvies. There’d be no way for even a coroner to identify the victim, except by the usual fingerprints and dental records. Hardly likely in Mongolia.”
“This Scholl is a monstrous sex offender,” the officer said. “We have no extradition treaty with Mongolia. We know you’re not he. We have his particulars. Very likely you have a real scar and are missing an eye. Anyway, you look nothing like him. Just who you are, we don’t know. So we will call the White House and get to the bottom of this. Until then you will remain in detention.”
“Of course,” Orson said. “I could use a trip to the rest room and a sandwich.”
“As you say.” The policeman nodded to the head of immigration. You take care of the prisoner, I‘ll do the checking.”
“You have my name?” Orson asked.
The cop laughed. “A one-eyed man with a deep scar. Could be a pirate.” He left the room.