The fridge worked occasionally. Very occasionally. Okay, almost never.
I loved the large bottle of vodka and sparkling juices on the kitchen table. This guy knew his business. Other issues would work out over the coming few days, except heat and electricity.
Luckily I eventually got dribbles of hot water about every two days. I made out. The electric kettle, when there was electricity, heated water for the sink. Sponge bathing was awkward and maddening. You certainly did not brush your teeth with what was coming out of the tap.
Quickly I was briefed about my two people of interest and told I would meet both in the morning. With that the handler left and I was left in a country I did not know, a building I did not know where it was, and all I had was the cellphone given to me.
Without it I was almost lost. I did not even know how to enter the numbers for calling regardless. The handler called back over his shoulder that I should be downstairs outside the main door at exactly 7 A.M. No clock.
Sleep was impossible with the scurrying of rats and the fierce numbing cold of the building. Old fashioned bed, with laced hemp ropes as the box with a stained and lumpy thin mattress on top. The saving grace was a huge feather pillow and massive comforter that really was superb in fighting back frost bite.
Running to the bathroom during the night proved a cool experience. The wooden floor was heavily splintered and the darkness hard to navigate. I learned to sleep with my socks on after the first night.
Who was I? Hunter Blacke at your service. A well trained hotelier, major tour operator and tourism expert. What mattered is I was a shadow. Where ever I went chaos would follow.
Further trained in close combat, interrogation, extract and Intelligence techniques, the role was mostly gathering information as necessary and insuring I got to hell out of the circumstance without leaving a trace. My skills were adequate to the task.
I could advise the client on how to build a hotel, market the property and how to extract good guys from bad guys when the time dictated. Scores of countries later I end up in Armenia.
Chapter 6
Meeting Resources
My handler was right on time. He picked me up and we found our way through the heavy morning traffic with limping Russian Ladas and smoking little Meisherschmidts, belching and sputtering towards the city center. There were extremely few modern European vehicles anywhere to be seen. The roads were filled with pot holes and broken pavement.
One vehicle ahead must have been a farmer as the rusting out wreck of a car was completely loaded with potatoes and cabbage. Front seat, back seat and open trunk. Nothing but spuds and green heads but the car could not make a small rise in the roadway and came to a halt. In doing so the load shifted and both potatoes and cabbage rained onto the roadway finding their way under the wheels of traffic going both ways. Messy to say the least and you could see the tears in the driver’s eyes. He just viewed his meager income being squished to pulp all over the road. On top of that his rear axle looked like it was calling it quits.
We arrived downtown after driving past the massive famous Ararat Cognac factory, crossing over a bridge way and passing by another lesser known liquor production house. A great entry I thought. One could always be reminded Yerevan had superb cognac and quality vodka.
Arriving at the Marriott located on Republic Square, I was hustled in to meet this dark, complex, but hauntingly beautiful woman sitting by herself quietly drinking a morning tea. I was introduced at the table and the handler disappeared.
Republic Square was a massive soviet style landscape with circular drive flanked by massive local stone architecture, mostly government buildings, using the famous ‘pink’ stone of Armenia. A volcanic extract correctly named the ‘Pink Tuff’ stone. It is found nowhere else therefore the use in building gives Yerevan a very unique pink glow in the sunlight.
An intriguing woman this Osanna. Cautious, smart, oddly beautiful with her telling features framing her striking large brown eyes. No slouch here. Her intelligence was like an aura projecting strength with a driving inquisitive mind breaking through. It seems she was educated as a mechanical engineer. Hell in Armenia mechanical engineer must have been popular in its time. Numerous people would tell you they were originally mechanical engineers. There was no doubt in my mind Osanna was very well educated, mechanical engineer or rocket scientist. Close either way.
I mentioned I could help her and her Russian partner to reconstruct one of the factory areas into a Hotel and gardens. There was a light spark of excitement from her and it was determined I should meet with her counterpart as soon as possible. It felt we were off to a good start. There was calmness in her manner one could not help but like.
She quietly indicated she could work with me as I did not come across like the typical loud government bureaucrats from America. Hell I was not a bureaucrat. Personally I hold them in as low esteem as Osanna I am sure. Her smile was classic and held a mysterious lure.
My interest moved to Osanna on a more personal basis asking in particular does she do any translating for other companies or government and she replied she continues to do government translations. I pushed the envelope asking what she may have heard about the special gifting by the Israelis to government to help with the road repaving of downtown roads and reconstruction of key buildings in the city. All of a sudden Osanna shoulders went back and her face changed from generally friendly too having her lips faintly trembling with fear.
The subject changed. She suggested we meet for dinner with her boss to discuss a rebuilding project for them and what it would take to get underway financially. I agreed and the word was we would eat in the ‘Barbeque District’ at one of the oldest and finest food establishments in Yerevan. The street named Proshyan in this district, is better known as "Khorovadz Street" BBQ street where every shop on the street being a barbeque restaurant, some good and some better.
Our restaurant apparently had no public name as such and if you knew about it you knew about it. If not, you didn’t. So much darkness.
Chapter 7
Pushkin Street Under Siege
Osanna and I walked from the Hotel Marriott, up Abovian Street, over to Pushkin Street where there was the downtown office of my new found friend. Along the short walk there were numerous older people sitting on boxes displaying their paper bags of sunflower seeds, rotting figs and single cigarettes that they sold to survive. Disturbing to foreigners from richer lands. Younger locals however have high regard for their pensioners and seniors. They stopped often to just drop a few coins buying nothing.
Continuing to the line of old stone buildings, one housing Osanna’s street level office there were twenty to thirty construction people located nearby with diggers and demolition equipment. Osanna stated we had about two hours before the wrecking ball would be taking down their building. The statement seemed like a passing joke. No. The lady doesn’t joke.
Staff, all young eager interns from the University, was hustling around doing their business like nothing was going to happen. Everybody was on cell phones and worked off a few desk top computers. The phones were busy and everyone obviously had their tasks in hand.
My arrival was a celebration with them. Like an aging rock star I took in the attention.
Osanna reluctantly was attempting to find a connection I could pursue to get inside government offices to determine what happened to the missing diamonds. Her efforts were appreciated.
Time passed fast. All of a sudden out of nowhere Dmitri Grigor, the Russian owner, pulled up with three cars following. He yelled to the staff to move the offices now. Computers were unplugged. The few lights turned off, shelves emptied with everything thrown into the waiting cars. As we closed the doors the wrecking crew pulled up close to the building. Driving quickly away in the rear window one could see the first strikes of the wrecking ball hit the front of the building. Swirls of thick amber dust obscured all activity. Pushkin Street was clearly not going to wait on anyone. Progress was underway.
&
nbsp; We drove very fast to a completely different part of the city pulling up to an older typically soviet apartment block. Everybody grabbed something from the cars. Walking up two floors, what would be called a domestic apartment was quickly set up as the new offices for Osanna and staff. Everything was up and working within 20 minutes. Now seeing this I realized just how adaptable these Armenians were.
Chapter 8
What the Hell Was That?
We left the offices and nearby found a small Georgian restaurant buried on the corner of a busy street. The place was apparently notorious for many reasons. Regardless of reputation it was the only true Georgian cuisine in town. One had to step down broken stairs to the entrance. The place was small and everywhere there sat burly swarthy dark men in black leathers. Yes. They clearly had guns in their waistbands and in shoulder holsters. This was the best Georgian food in Armenia but it also was the meeting place of the Armenian secret police. I spent more time reviewing the scene than I did the menu. Osanna did the ordering for me and I got into a staring contest with one table of the local goons.
One of the people who joined us for lunch was a young man with the USAID offices. There was no doubt the parties in the restaurant were clearly viewing their options. Should they come over and demand identification and determine who the hell we were? Should we be whisked away to their nearby headquarters for further interrogation? Should we just be ignored?
All at once every table got up and left. We were the only ones left sitting amongst the empty tables. Things in Armenia happen in abrupt, definitive ways. The carry-over of soviet times was highly evident. Was this the cloak or was this the dagger?
I could see the USAID lad sweating and asked if he was okay. He nodded and smiled. Then I asked if he was perhaps a young CIA recruit getting his wings in the field for the first time. That struck an unholy nerve and without hesitation he got up from the table and quickly left leaving the door open behind him. I went on to enjoy one amazing lunch. The soup was to die for.
Osanna did not want to talk about my enquiries on government offices or personnel I should be interviewing for an angle on the diamond disappearance. She advised it was not a good place to do anything but enjoy the impromptu music and food offered by the owner of the restaurant. The Georgian music and the food were a totally new experience and a good one at that. Georgian food was simply fabulous. The company enlightening.
Chapter 9
Mystery Dinner
The evening came quickly. Osanna and her boss Dmitri came by my crumbling apartment picking me up to attend our dinner gathering. I stood waiting outside while locals walked by eyeing me up and down. This was worse than the movie setting of legendary Orson Welles, The Third Man Theme, as I stood shuffling on the broken stones that made up the stairs into the building. Darkness had fallen and one lonely light cast its yellow glow over the building entrance. People were scurrying about just like my disorganized family of rats in the apartment.
Out of nowhere a large Land Cruiser arrives and Osanna says out the window, in broken English, “Get in Mr. Blacke.” Well that was easy.
Driving in the early darkened evening it was easy to see so few lights were on, anywhere. In fact traffic lights failed to work as well. Dodging vehicles at each intersection gave one a great appetite. The Land Cruiser, weirdly heavy with extra thick window glass, just barrelled on through without hesitation. Everyone yielded.
We arrived and drove into an alley way where numerous cars were parked. An attendant guided us to our spot. Truly if a visitor was out looking for a restaurant this would not have been a choice. In fact there was no name or signage attached. It was just there.
Osanna guided us into the entrance and a short bulging older woman with badly dyed tufts of red hair came up suggesting we follow her. There was a series of doors, and no restaurant so I thought. A door was opened and I found myself sitting at a prepped table in a small but cozy room. This was our table seating. This building was a leftover once again from the soviet era.
Going out was a treat in those days and for the most part only those in government positions, military, politicians, city leaders and the sort could do that. Nobody trusted anybody and in some cases you did not want people listening in on your conversations or seeing who you were dining with. Therefore, restaurants were built with private rooms and no window viewing.
Regardless the vodka overtook the odd arrangement and the evening began. Copious amounts of vodka, lavash, and the country’s favorite flat bread rolled around onion stems, peppers, and various types of lettuce started out an evening that ended with plates of incredible barbequed lamb and pork, done over the smoldering coals of grape vine cuttings. Delicious, even more than finger licking good. Large volumes of wine dropped on the table. After dinner drinks rounded out this truly ethnic dinner experience. So good. Memorable. Now what was the name of this place? I wanted to know how to locate it on my own.
As we completed our final round of drinks the door burst open and our friends from the lunch time experience pushed into the room with guns drawn and they stood there with their ugly pudgy faces exhibiting a menacing situation. We were asked to stand up and take the wall. We were searched rather gruffly and sat back down. The question they had is who was I. Of course my hosts really didn’t know, although Osanna suspected, and they saw me as the hotel restoration guy suggested by the Canadian Government as a mentor in their country rebuild. The big boys in black leather did not buy it. They were good at their job.
As I stood facing the wall when asked why I was in Yerevan I decided to tell them. I was there looking for missing diamonds. There was a long pause and we were all asked to sit down.
The men in black simply disappeared leaving my hosts and me in the silence of the room. There was no further contact with those people. The evening ended well. We were alive.
The incident was troubling but passable. Was our closeted room bugged? Everything is bugged.
The food this day was enlightening from the scrumptious Georgian lunch to this fabulous truly traditional Armenian dinner. I was glad to be here with good people and unquestionably amazing food. Today was high on the list of remembering world class cuisine over anything else. Armenia has the pomegranate represent the Country. I would add apricots and figs, and on the top of my list the barbecued pork. Just an explosion of flavor.
Osanna suggested, in the morning I meet an Armenian gentleman known as Artem. Apparently nothing happens in Yerevan without him knowing about it. We were to have breakfast at the upscale Tulip Hotel on downtown Abovian St. We ended the night with me being driven back to my cold damp apartment. Please. Just one more piece of juicy, fatty, barbecued pork.
Chapter 10
When the Going Gets Tough
Fortunately I travel with a mini light and could find my way up the flights of stairs necessary to find my accommodation. Everything remained dark and the solitary climb was simply me following the little flashlight beam up the stairs.
Reaching my door I felt uncomfortable. It was like something else was close by in the dark corners of the hallway. There was a slight click from my left. I reached in the dark and grabbed an arm. Turning it back sharply I heard the elbow crunch and watched the area light up from the flash of the gun. My sight was challenged and my ears were ringing.
Struggling in the dark I continued to hold the arm taking it back the other way and turning it inside out. The gun was heard dropping to the broken tiled entrance way to the apartment. From the other side I could only hear footsteps quickly retreating down the stairs in the dark.
The person I was holding took three hard cracks from my heavy shoe into their jolly parts. There were agonizing groans, then silence. I kicked again to be sure. Nobody came out from any other apartment to see what was happening. Nobody. It was the old way. What was not your business you stayed away and gave it no mind. A good thing for me. No witnesses.
I threw the attacking person down the tile covered cement stairs head first and could only hear the
m crashing into the next level. Damn it felt good. I picked up the weapon after locating it with my trusty little light. You really have to love the smell of hot gunpowder.
Luckily I figured out how to open these old school doors with the multi-lock mechanism. Quickly I escaped into the dark of my apartment. As I attempted to find the cell phone my handler gave me so I could call in emergencies I tripped on the ripped carpet, fell to the hard wooden floor and just lay there for what seemed hours. I could feel my nose bleeding. The cell phone bounced under a heavy side chest. No way was I going to fish it out now.
The evening had been adventurous. That floor was damned cold so I eventually gathered my strength and crawled my way to the bed, lay down fully dressed and covered myself with the big lumpy comforter. I kept the gun locked in my hand. The blood kept trickling down my throat. I leaned over and there went my fabulous dinner. I threw up.
The medieval doors on these old apartments were thick, massive pieces of metal and wood. I did not expect anybody to be crashing through it this night.
Clearly somebody wanted to explore the reasons for my asking questions about the diamonds. Perhaps they were determined to ensure nobody found out their destiny. Perhaps they just did not like snooping outsiders poking around their hay stack.
The Armenia Caper Page 2