by R G Ainslee
"Okay Cowboy, so you can handle a knife, but can you use it when the chips are down?" He made no attempt to hide the snide expression of condescension on his face.
Sat up straight, made eye contact, and enunciated with emphasis, "Yeah, no problem, don't worry about it."
He glared, not yet convinced. "You got military experience?"
"Army. Eleven years."
His eyes perked up. "Special Forces? Nam?"
Guess he thought if I knew how to use a knife, I must be a snake eater. "No. ASA. Saigon and Thailand."
He didn't even try to mask his disgust, muttered something inaudible, and cleared his throat. "An Army Security Agency weenie, so you don't have any actual field experience."
It was obvious he didn't have much confidence in my qualifications for the mission. Didn’t care and kept quiet. We stared at each other in an uneasy silence.
"This Hungarian woman I'm supposed to meet at the Everest base camp, how did she contact you?"
"Didn't contact us directly. She managed to pass a note to an American tourist in a restroom at her hotel."
"You mean you haven't talked to her?"
"No. But—"
"Is that the only communication you had with her? I thought things were set up for—"
"No. That's all. I forwarded the note to Langley. They took it from there."
"You mean she doesn't know I'm coming."
"Thought you boys had that all worked out." He shook his head in disgust and held up the palms of his hands. "Don't blame this one on me. I'm just the messenger."
And I'm the sucker. Gotta stay calm and take this one step at a time. "This woman have a name?"
"Her name is Valentina Kayroli … and no, I don't got a photo of the dame."
"Okay. Supposing I make contact and she wants to leave, how am I supposed to get her out of the country?"
He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his chin, as if deep in thought. "If you can get her to the Kathmandu airport, we can get both of you on a flight to Patna in India." He looked me straight in the eyes, a penetrating glare. "But don't expect you to be able to get her out of the mountains alive."
His comment hung for a moment, another inkling of trouble. Had my doubts when Wilson said it would be a routine mission: all I had to do was go up to the Everest base camp, find out what she knew, and see if she wanted to defect. Wouldn't be the first time he was wrong.
"Why not?"
Harris pulled out the pack of Camels again. "Their security's pretty tight. Got a feeling they ain't just a scientific mission." He paused to light up.
"What ya think they're up to?" Had a good idea but wanted him to tell what he knew.
He inhaled and blew out another stream of smoke. "Not sure, but we do know the Russkies are keeping a close eye on ‘em. The Soviet embassy has a new guy. A Major Victor Andreyevich Suslov, almost certainly KGB. I sent a profile and picture of him to Langley and expect word back any day now. One thing for sure, he ain't here to study local agriculture."
He opened a folder on his desk. "Here's a photo one of my men took on the street." Suslov looked like a slick henchman in a James Bond movie.
My sixth sense told me something had gone wrong. It usually does. "Is he still here in Kathmandu?"
"Lost track of him last week, he might be anywhere by now." Harris paused to flick an ash. "You'll need to keep your eyes open for him."
* * *
On the way back to the hotel, I spotted a stall selling knifes and made one additional purchase, my favorite weapon, a switchblade. Didn’t even bargain, paid full price.
As I left the knife seller, a short wiry Nepalese man standing across the street stared at me in a way that didn't seem quite right. Wasn't just idle curiosity, it was something else. The survival instinct is universal among living beings — a little voice tells you trouble is coming. Instinct is the best detector of danger. If something doesn’t feel right, it's probably not.
Careful not to make eye contact, I made my way back to the hotel, bypassing the most direct route. It had been a few years since I was last in Kathmandu and little had changed, except there seemed to be fewer hippies and more trekker types on the streets.
The crowds on New Road went about their business as I made my way over to Freak Street. A dazed hippie girl wearing a ballet outfit offered a sample of the best weed in town. That's why they call it Freak Street.
Halted in front of a bookshop and chanced a look back. He was standing on the corner. Moved on, entered a few shops, returned towards the square, dodged a cow barreling down the street, and then paused to view a snake charmer in action. As I stepped aside to avoid a bicycle on New Road, I stole a glance back down the street. He was still there.
A few blocks later, I entered the Panorama Hotel, a modest tourist establishment, comfortable and best of all not high profile, just the sort of place for a semi-affluent trekker. I lingered by the reception desk.
The short wiry man approached the front door, hesitated as if to come in, and then strolled on past the door. I rushed out to the street, but he was gone. Hadn't seen him before the embassy, he must have picked me up there.
* * *
After an evening meal at Aunt Jane's American style restaurant and an interesting conversation with three Peace Corps girls, I returned to the hotel in a taxi. I paused outside the hotel entrance but failed to detect anything unusual. The man was nowhere in sight, but it was dark. He could be anywhere.
The first thing I noticed as I entered my room was the smell of cheap smokes. Someone had been in my room, a local most likely, judging by the pungent odor. Nothing was missing, but several things had obviously been moved, the flap on my pack open. I wasn't sure if it was carelessness or a subtle message. One thing for sure, they didn't find anything interesting. I was travelling clean, carrying nothing inconsistent with my cover as an innocent trekker.
That night, sleep didn't come easy, too many questions on my mind. First, the guy: Why is he following me? Is he just a thief searching for an opportunity? But he took nothing. Perhaps he works for the Soviets, but how would they know? I just arrived. Maybe they have someone staked-out at the embassy. On the other hand, Harris might have someone tailing me? But why?
The woman: Passed a note to a tourist, give me a break.
And Suslov: What's the real story on him. Why did he show up at this time?
Just don't make sense. Am I being set up? Who knows?
A word from RG Ainslee
Thank you for reading The Ethiopian Intercept, the second book in the Secret Cold War series. I hope you enjoyed it. If you liked what you read, would you please leave a short review on Amazon or Goodreads. Just a few lines would be great. Reviews are the highest compliment you can pay to an author. They also help other readers discover and make informed choices about buying books in today's crowded market.
More books are coming soon. Ross Brannan's adventures continues in a series of fast paced thrillers that take him to Africa, the Middle East, and beyond. The next story, The Iranian Intercept, finds him enmeshed in a web of intrigue and danger in Nepal, Iran, and Afghanistan.
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