by Leo Gher
“When we returned to my cabin, I was able to nurse him back to reasonably good health. Rufet was mostly unconscious for the first two months. After that, he was bedridden, but we had many long conversations. They were mostly about hunting, but then he started telling me things he thought I should know and convey to the Kedar Bey. He made me promise I would do so.
“But then, last month, the skin around the leg wound began to change, first red, then bluish-gray, then rotting black, and there was numbness, swelling, and pain. Gangrene had set in. I cut out the dead tissue and finally had to remove his left leg entirely. I had a few antibiotics, but it wasn’t enough to treat the infection long term. We were snowed in – six feet, maybe eight – so there was no way of getting more medicine. It was three weeks ago; Rufet, as usual, was sitting up in bed, watching the mountain. He didn’t say anything, he just died. I felt rotten. After all my efforts, and his too, I could not save him.”
Chira said, “I’m sure he was grateful, Ali. It was better than dying alone on that horrible crag.”
“You did all you could,” Iza added.
At that moment, Ali received a text message from TJ, his friend at the hotel: “Turks are looking for the foreigners who are staying at Hotel Katrina.”
Ali looked up and said, “Not good news.”
“What do you mean?” Sam asked.
“The Turk army is searching for you. I don’t know why.”
Chira was adamant, “I told you. Bәla is coming, and they don’t want us interfering.”
“You must leave,” Ali said. “I know them. They will eliminate any threat in front of them.”
“But how?” asked Iza. “We can’t go back to Kars.”
Ali said, “I’ll take you. There is another way that the Turks don’t know about.”
Sam was glad he had rented the 4x4. The other way was slow and treacherous. Before they headed north, Ali sent a message to the concierge at Katherina’s Mansion that he had taken a hunting gig, and would not be available for two weeks. He didn’t know if the Turks would buy the ruse, but it gave them time to escape. Ali had plenty of provisions, of course, and thought they had enough gas to get to Ninots.
Twenty-four hours later, they arrived at Highway #11 and were heading east for the village of Ninots at the border. Ali knew that if he got his new friends past that village and into Georgia, they would be safe. When they arrived at Ninots, they stopped to top off their tank. Sam thought it would be enough gas to get them home. The attendant at the station asked if they had been detained by soldiers. “The Turks?” Ali asked.
“No,” replied the man, “not Turks. They said they were Armenian… called themselves the Vartan Defense Wing.”
“So they were heading for Yerevan?” Chira asked.
“No,” the attendant replied. “They turned south. They said they were setting out for Kars to test their mettle.”
27
Bone Thief
When he told Lindy “I can’t forget you,” Jake was being deceitful. They had had too many fights, and he had grown tired of Lindy, disillusioned with her and the Armenian cause. The promise that Jake had held to so tightly for the past seven years could only be fulfilled in Azerbaijan, and he was determined to find his father’s bones and return them home for a proper burial. Once he achieved that, he would turn to his cause – restoring America’s patriotic past – and maybe even seek an office in the FAA. The decision had been a long time coming, and in the middle of the Black Sea crossing, Moynihan had settled on a course of action. He would leave the d-Wing after they reached Georgian shores, and then put Lindy Bedrosian out of his mind.
After a short walk along the Chorokhi River Port, Jake found himself outside the main gate at a transportation kiosk. He inquired about a taxi, and the clerk pointed to the stand 50 yards down the sidewalk. The ride to Batumi’s Kartveli Airport was uneventful and took less than 30 minutes. After searching several local carriers for a flight to Tbilisi, he found one that would work, Ural Airlines #16, leaving in three hours. It was the best he could do. The good news was, he was already within Georgian borders and flying domestic, so there was no customs inspector to complicate his life.
The trip to the capital was short, only 40 minutes, and by eight pm he had cleared the TAV domestic terminal. But the next leg of the journey, he knew, would be complicated. Crossing the Georgia-Azerbaijan border would be tricky for the very American-looking Jake Moynihan. He was roughly a head taller than any Georgian man, with steely blue eyes and a broad Irish brow, so he would likely not pass for a national of any nearby Caucasian country. The best way to sidestep Azerbaijani customs, he decided, was to take the BTK Rail Line. There was an overnight train to Baku leaving at ten, so he booked private sleeper accommodation. It had a bed, a toilet, a snug bench seat with a pull-down table, and a wardrobe.
Jake assumed a generous bribe to train personnel would be enough to avoid any border entanglements. When he arrived at his compartment, he unzipped his duffel and removed a small, black-and-silver shoulder bag with a lock attached. It was perfectly sized to hold his Ruger 9mm and two magazines. Jake said to the conductor, “Would you place this bag in a secure locker, please?” and then handed the man a $50 bill. The man nodded, acknowledging Jake’s intent.
His sleep didn’t last long. At 11:30 pm, Jake was awakened as the train braked hard once, twice, and then slowed to a stop. Right away, he realized he had made a mistake; the train would not be an easy escape from the customs authorities on the frontier. After 15 minutes of waiting anxiously, Jake heard the officers enter his sleeping car. He had no plan now, only the hope that the conductor he bribed could somehow divert the Azeri inspectors.
When Moynihan opened the cabin door, he saw the border-enforcement officers approaching – two women and a man, all uniformed, all armed. One of the female officers approached and said indifferently, “Identification and passport.” She inspected it against Jake’s data and photo, then uttered, “Wait here for the inspector.”
Afterward, she returned to the corridor and spoke with the male officer. As was his custom, the chief inspector took his time. He snatched the passport away, gave it a quick look, and then entered Jake’s cabin. “Good evening, Mr. J. Monahan.”
“It’s Moynihan,” Jake said calmly, then started to reach for his wallet. Making only the slightest movement, the conductor shook his head. Jake understood.
“My apologies, sir,” said the inspector. “You’re traveling to Azerbaijan?”
“A family trip. I have a brother in Baku. I haven’t seen him in some time.”
“Please step out of the cabin,” the policeman ordered. Jake had no idea if this bumpkin had gotten word of the Vartan militia on the march or was just being a typical bureaucrat, but he followed the inspector into the hall. Glancing back tentatively, he could see the two female officers ransacking the interior of his quarters. He was reasonably sure they were looking for contraband: drugs, weapons, or illegal cash.
“Your bag, sir, will you please open it?” Jake obliged, unpacking the clothes, toiletries, a new iPod, and his tanker boots. After rummaging through everything, the inspector searched the duffel bag for hidden pockets or slots. “The boots,” he intoned, “you are a military man, then?”
“Not really, officer,” Jake replied. “I expect to do some hiking in the mountains while I’m here. I love hiking.”
“Okay, Mr. Monahan. You may pack everything up.”
“Moynihan,” Jake insisted.
One of the others handed Moynihan a pen and a 5x8 card. “Please fill out this customs form.” Once he had finished packing, Jake sat down at the desk to complete the form. For a second time, the woman checked the information card against his passport data. Afterward, she handed it back to Moynihan, saying, “Have a good trip.” By 12:45 am, the border guards had left, and Jake was able to breathe again. Ten minutes later, the train was rumbling its way
eastward.
Gobustan was the next-to-last station on the BTK route to Baku. Ordinarily, a transnational train wouldn’t stop at such a tiny village, but Gobustan was on the Caspian seacoast just three miles west of the main dock, and that’s where BP oil workers boarded commuter tugs to their offshore rigs. The BP work-shifts were monthly, and the changeover always occurred on day eleven. Among the 40 or so young men who got on and off the train that Sunday in March, Jake Moynihan went unnoticed.
“Taxi, mister?”
Jake was taken aback by a stranger speaking English. “How’d you know I was…”
“British?”
“Yes, British,” Jake smiled.
“I smart-assed man in village.” Moynihan laughed at Mr. Malaprop, but the would-be taximan went on with his broken English, “All forengers in Gobustan is BP mans.”
“Okay, okay,” an amused Jake said, and then he asked, “You know where Georghe Markirov lives?”
“Of course, the Markirov Bey is my grandfather! I am Shahin. Twenty pounds and we go anywhere.”
“Too much. I’ll pay $5 US if you take me to the Markirov Bey.”
It was a short ride. Ten minutes later they pulled up to the only two-story house in the village. Shahin got out and waved to Moynihan to follow. “Let’s go.” As he stepped through the front door, he shouted, “Ana, is Georghe Bey here? This man wants to see grandpa.”
They had met only once before – at Tom’s funeral. Nevertheless, during a long and leisurely lunch, Jake and Georghe Markirov reminisced about Tom’s career fighting terrorists, and about the few weeks after the funeral when they all worked to clean up the cottage grounds and begin rebuilding the lodge. The American dutifully asked about Tali and Conor, and said he planned to see his brother in the coming days. “You just missed him,” said Markirov. “He was here with Mira and others this past week.”
Then Jake asked if he could visit his father’s grave. “I’d like to see the cottage,” he said, “maybe spend the night, if that would be all right?”
“Everyone is at the cottage this week,” Shahin commented.
The Markirov Bey thought Jake’s request odd, but could not deny a guest’s request. “Yes, it would be okay. Shahin will take you there. It is already open. We must simply unlock the gate.”
Shahin laughed, “Critters, you know.”
“Shahin can stay the night if you like.”
“Thanks, but no thanks. I’d like to be alone.”
The cottage was nothing like he remembered years ago; at the time, it was a mess. The great Oriental plane tree that dominated the grounds had been struck by lightning and had fallen, entirely obliterating the dilapidated structure. The only thing uncluttered at the time was the garden. The workers had put out a few blooming azaleas to make it more presentable during the interment. Jake thought, that’s where they buried my father – in an unmarked grave. Standing at the kitchen window, Jake was looking directly at a spot in the far corner of the garden. It was different now, a beautifully manicured yard of azaleas.
What Jake also recalled was anger: a malevolent, concealed anger. He wanted revenge, then and now. Muslims had killed Tom Moynihan, director of a worldwide antiterrorism task force, and Muslims were entombing his American father in unholy ground. He’d felt impotent, isolated, and betrayed. His only friend then was Sam Mansour. He remembered Sam scooping up a handful of earth from the gravesite and then tossing it into the air, saying, “Praise the one who breaks the darkness.” A swirl of wind caught the dust, and it blew upward and away, but not out of Jake’s memory. Jake Moynihan had held that memory close to his heart for most of his adult years, and now he sensed that a settling of scores was at hand.
That’s when Jake noticed a lightning storm offshore, and coming his way. The trees next to the garden caught his eye; they and the three-story cottage were the tallest structures in Gobustan District. If lightning were headed his way, the garden would be a dangerous place. It was now or never – if he were ever to discover his father’s bones, he would have to do it pronto.
He found a shovel in the utility room next to the kitchen. It was not yet dark when Jake reached the garden, but he was immediately confronted with two problems: the absence of any kind of grave markers for either Zara or Tom, and a thick growth of flowers and shrubs everywhere. He took a chance and began digging at the place he guessed was the burial site. Jake knew there would be no coffin to uncover – Azeri Muslims traditionally buried their dead with a simple shroud – so he expected to find only bones, no flesh. Zara’s remains were decades old and most likely irretrievable, but Tom had died less than eight years earlier, so his bones should be somewhat intact. After 30 minutes, however, he had uncovered nothing but dirt and roots.
As Jake sat down to rest, he heard the rumblings of thunder. Up to that point, it had been a clear day. Still far away, he thought. The bellows rolled on, becoming louder as darkness grew. The cracklings arose from the Caspian, so Jake turned to see what was coming his way. That’s when he felt the cool breeze on his face. It was sweeping over and bumping into the warm earth of Gobustan Hill, and Jake recognized an abrupt atmospheric imbalance. Something different about this storm, he believed. A lightning show will assuredly follow.
The storm began as spider lightning – blinding shocks of whiteness zigzagging from cloud to cloud – flashing, cracking, hissing like a creature searching to escape. Jake thought he might have to stop digging and move inside. If it rained, there would be no retrieving the bones this night. He would just be dealing with a pool of mud.
But as the thunder grew raucous and the lightning more frequent, Jake became fascinated with the display. Now he could see white-hot bolts attacking the shoreline and then moving up the hill toward the cottage. Without intending to do so, he counted the seconds between the lightning and the thunder. Closer, he calculated. But then everything abruptly stopped, and there was stillness all around. It reminded him of the silence of the confessional and his lengthy chat with Father Wysocki, an ecclesiastical debate about the very act he was now committing. Jake thought it very weird.
That’s when the ghosts became visible – fire ghosts.
The first appeared as a single flame of soft blue light at the apex of the chimney. It lingered there momentarily, divided in two, and then rolled along the peak of the roof in opposite directions. They stopped at the gables. Lightning rods there, Jake imagined.
He thought he heard sizzling and popping, and the distinct smell of sulfur as well, but he wasn’t sure of any of it. Thunder again?
“That doesn’t make any sense,” he said aloud. After ten seconds, the flames disappeared, and the utter blackness was a shock. Jake couldn’t find anything on which to focus. It was intensely pure, as if he had found another existence, a place without light. He felt something, but he could not see, only sense. Moynihan wondered wildly about what was happening.
Sprites playing with my mind, he thought.
Next, the fire ghosts emerged at the tiptops of the trees that framed the yard. Again, they lingered – two teardrop flames, growing ever larger. After a few seconds, they abruptly plummeted to the ground and exploded. A 1,000 delicate, dazzling blue lights lit up all the surfaces of the garden. It was overwhelming for the most part, but there was something out-of-place. Jake noticed an object a few feet away that did not naturally belong in a garden. He rose, walked over, and picked it up. That’s when the blue, brilliant flames faded and disappeared, and the security lights came on. Jake could see once more.
As he brushed away the dirt, he recognized the object as a belt buckle, and it seemed to be familiar. When Jake scrapped away more of the debris, he uncovered the image of the Irish Harp, the traditional symbol of immortality. That’s when it dawned on Jake. It was his father’s belt buckle, an heirloom given to Tom’s grandfather by the Ancient Order of Hibernians.
Jake was completely puzzled. How could this
buckle emerge from six feet underground?
Shifting ground, of course; earthquakes, erosion, and earthworms; somehow, some way, over the years, the belt buckle had worked itself to the surface. It struck him like a clap of thunder. He’d been digging in the wrong place. Tom’s grave was at his feet!
After that, it didn’t take long to find the bones. Zara’s and Tom’s remains, like the belt buckle, had been on the move for years. But it was now impossible to tell any difference between the two sets. He conceded, this is not going to work. He wished he had done more thinking than digging.
But Jake kept tunneling through, and eventually, he discovered every gravedigger’s prize: a large skull with an ample brow like that of many Irish men. He sat on the ground, brushed away the dirt of the years, and slowly but surely realized that he had found his long sought-after trophy: his father’s bones. Holding it up toward the sky to measure the worth of the thing, he boasted, “What crown is this that I have come so far for?”
Jake Moynihan had always been a man of resolve. But this night, with its mysteries and surprises, had challenged his sense of order and control. So, he set aside his new trophy and then filled the holes he had made in the garden. He picked up the skull and went to the cottage. He sat down on the front stoop, his mind full of questions. But would there be any answers? Only if someone writes a story about this, he mused.
The night magic did not fool Jake Moynihan. He recognized the blue flames for what they were. His grandfather was Chicago’s harbormaster, after all, and men of the sea relish telling stories of St. Elmo’s Fire. On more than a few occasions, Jake had heard tales of the Pentecostal flames flitting about on topsails and masts. But the experience of it transcended his grandfather’s telling of it. And Jake Moynihan knew that because it happened in this place and at this time, it was more than a coincidence.