Murder in Mongolia

by Fritz Galt

  “Address?”

  “You’re the FBI.”

  Jake smiled. “We’ll find it.”

  He took a sip of coffee. “How do you make your living?” He looked the victim’s brother in the eye.

  “First I worked on Capitol Hill,” Cal said gruffly. ”Now I’m a lobbyist for the tech industry.”

  Hank nodded, as if proud of his father’s achievements.

  Jake turned from Bill Frost’s brother to the truculent young nephew. Hank looked to be in his mid twenties with a chinstrap beard designed to chisel an otherwise fleshy face.

  “Do you live here, too?”

  The young man seemed cooperative. “I live in DC.”

  “Thanks for coming out for this visit.”

  “I work out here.”

  “Work where?”

  Hank cleared the room with his eyes. “State Department.”

  But the State Department wasn’t in Virginia. There was only one reason for a diplomat to work in Northern Virginia.

  “State Department my ass,” Jake said. “We’re all blue badges here. Where do you work in the building over there?” He motioned toward CIA’s Langley headquarters.

  “I’m not kidding,” Hank said. “I graduated from the A-100 Class at State.”

  Jake thought the kid was taking his diplomatic cover a bit too far, but the CIA and FBI had a longstanding antagonism, commonly called “The Wedge.” He decided to proceed along a new line of questioning.

  “Have either of you been to Mongolia?”

  Both men shook their heads.

  “Wish I have,” Cal said. “You can fly-fish in the most remote freshwater streams in the world. Mongolian salmon can grow up to a meter and a half long.”

  “And you, Hank?”

  “I have a classmate over there,” he said. “We keep in touch through Facebook.”

  “And who is this ‘classmate?’”

  Hank still seemed determined to keep up the pretense of working at State. “His name is Matthew Justice. He’s the science attaché at the U.S. Embassy in Ulaanbaatar.”

  “Science attaché?” Jake had never heard of such a job.

  “He covers environment, science, technology, and health.”

  Jake wrote it all down. “Have you heard from Matthew since the incident?”

  Hank nodded, but offered no more.

  Considering Matthew Justice’s beat over in Ulaanbaatar, Jake figured the diplomat would have lots to contribute to the investigation. He made a note to contact Matthew as soon as possible.

  “Now for the hard stuff,” Jake said.

  Joyce shot him a warning glance. There was no easy way to discuss murder, and the two men were still accommodating, but Jake realized he had to lay the groundwork first.

  “Let’s start with Bill’s show,” he said. “Have you followed his career?”

  Here Hank was more forthcoming. “I grew up on my uncle’s show for kids. He made us all proud.”

  “Did you follow his latest series?”

  Hank nodded. “The show was in its third season covering environmental issues around the world. He would research his shows year-round, and they would air from fall to spring. Summers were reruns.”

  “Did he ever take you on his trips?”

  Hank seemed quite the fan and had all the details at his fingertips. “He always traveled alone for research, then a production team would follow a few weeks later and they would tape over the course of a week.”

  “Do you know what he was investigating in Mongolia?”

  “No,” Cal said flatly, as if he wanted to drop the subject.

  Hank looked down at his feet.

  “Hank?” Jake prodded.

  “I only know what Matthew said.”

  “Over Facebook?”

  “Not publicly. He was excited that my uncle was going there. It’s a great way to shine a spotlight on environmental issues.”

  “And what are the issues?”

  Here Hank suddenly clammed up.

  Maybe he was the type who spoke only when he knew the answer. Maybe he had been told to keep his mouth shut. Or maybe, as Jake suspected, it was a touchy subject in the family. “I suggest you talk to Matthew about the environmental issues,” was all he said.

  There was an awkward silence.

  Then Joyce jumped in, her face radiating positivity. “So tell us what Bill was like.”

  Cal snorted. “He was a difficult son-of-a-bitch.”

  “How so?” Jake said.

  “Bill was an old cuss,” Cal said, as if looking back fondly on their childhood. “Adversarial. You say ‘green,’ he says ‘blue.’ You want ice cream, he tells you it’s made of crap. You ask for the time, and he says. ‘Why do you want to know.’”

  “But that’s what made him effective,” the young Hank said. “He took on the issues nobody else dared to touch.”

  “Did he get results?”

  “Companies ended up paying fines. Corruption and other governmental misconduct were uncovered. Individuals were brought to account.”

  “So you’re saying, he made lots of enemies.”

  At this, Cal nodded. “Took more incoming than a Texas attorney on a quail hunt.”

  “It’s true,” Hank admitted. “He wasn’t popular. In fact, just crossing international borders became a hassle because nobody wanted him nosing around.”

  “Yet he kept at it,” Jake said. “What was it for? The money? The fame?”

  “Not the money,” Cal said. “He was a disaster with money.” He turned to this son. “You explain it better.”

  Hank began, “Uncle Bill was a true believer. Foundational to him was the notion that capitalism is innately opposed to the environment. Who stopped the march of Europeans across America trying to turn the plains into farmland, the forests into lumber mills, and the mountains into tourist attractions? It was a very small segment of the population that saw the gains as an ultimate loss.”

  “So Bill was kind of a Johnny Appleseed?” Joyce spoke up, touching on his underlying character and motivation.

  Hank nodded. “Uncle Bill once said that to counter his book The Wealth of Nations, Adam Smith wrote The Theory of Moral Sentiments. He knew that without morality, capitalism would rage out of control. And he was right. What is the people’s bible? The ‘invisible hand’ of the market, manifest destiny, God made Eden for the pleasure of Adam and Eve, etc.”

  “Except Eve ate the apple,” Jake said.

  “Exactly. And that’s conveniently overlooked.”

  Apparently unhappy with the direction of the conversation, Cal intervened. “Special Agent Maguire, why are you here?”

  Jake took a deep breath and glanced at Joyce, who nodded her approval. “We believe that your brother may have been murdered.”

  “How?” Cal said with a growl.

  “Explosives.”

  “By whom?”

  Jake shrugged. “That’s why we’re here. We’re investigating his death to see where the clues lead.”

  He tapped his notebook and looked at Hank. “And I’ll certainly be in touch with your ‘classmate’ Matthew Justice, the science attaché in Mongolia.”

  “Bill was a good man,” Cal said, as if the victim needed to be defended.

  “I understand that,” Jake said. “But whatever the circumstances, the U.S. Government has the authority to investigate a homicide, and with your permission, we wish to continue pursuing this matter.”

  “Look,” Cal said. “Bill had plenty of detractors. And lots of people will be happy that he’s gone. Lord knows we stood on the opposite side of every issue known to man. But nobody had the right to take his life. Nobody has the right to take anyone’s life, no matter how miserable a being. So that’s where I stand.” He looked at his son. “You okay with this?”

  Hank nodded. “Sure, Dad.”

  “Okay,” Cal said. “Then count us in. And I suppose, ma’am, that’s why you’re here. This could eventually go to trial. Am I right?”
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br />   “We will support your family the whole way,” Joyce said. “And our personnel will help you navigate the criminal justice process.”

  “That leaves only one small matter,” Jake said. “We’ll need to collect DNA samples to compare with the body.”

  Cal stood up. “I think this meeting is adjourned.”

  “Joyce, the kit, please.”

  She retrieved an evidence bag from her briefcase.

  “No way, ma’am,” Cal said. “As a former government employee, I have a sample on file.”

  Hank stood up in his father’s defense.

  Jake was surprised. “So you’re going to make our evidence unit request your DNA profile from the Congressional Office of Medical Services? I won't get it until Christmas of next year.”

  Reluctantly, Cal agreed, but grabbed his head. “Just don’t mess with the hair.”

  Joyce donned a pair of rubber gloves and removed three hairs at once from the front of Cal’s head.

  He cursed roundly. “I said, don’t mess with the hair. That freaking hurt.”

  “Really,” she replied sarcastically. “Guess you’ve never had a bikini wax.” Then more seriously, she said, “Sorry not sorry. I need the skin tags at the end of the hairs. It’s got to come out by the roots. You’ll live.”

  Cal whined, “Aren’t you supposed to be some kind of empathetic victim person?”

  “Only on my good days. Besides, when it comes to lobbyists and spooks, this is just about as good as it gets.”

  With that, the coffee was over.

  Jake shook their hands on the way out, but didn’t feel the love in return. Strangely, they hadn’t seemed shocked to learn that Bill Frost might have been deliberately attacked. Nor did they seem concerned that there might be a killer on the loose.

  After Jake’s quick dash out to the suburbs to drop Joyce off on the Orange Line of the notoriously unreliable Metro rail system, he was back in Glover Park earlier than he had expected.

  He had texted Amber to meet him for dinner at Town Hall at 6:30, but arrived half an hour early.

  Dusk was just settling in as he stood on Wisconsin Avenue and listened to a bugle play “To the Colors” at the nearby Naval Observatory.

  While most military installations lowered the flag at a predetermined hour each evening, the Naval Observatory was the official keeper of astronomical data such as sunrise and sunset, and lowered its flag precisely at sunset.

  He looked up the street for Amber’s elegant figure, but saw only headlights turning on and cars vying for the limited street parking.

  The bugle call changed to the somber tune of “Retreat,” and he double-checked his phone. The time on the phone corresponded exactly with the sunset time on the weather app. Naval personnel, and maybe even the Vice President of the United States whose residence was located on the base, would be standing at attention for the flag-lowering ceremony.

  Jake checked the sky. If it weren’t cloudy and the streets weren’t lined with leafy trees, he would be able to watch the sun slide over the horizon just then.

  Finally with full night rapidly approaching, the bugle launched into the energetic “Carry On,” and he imagined the military personnel returning to their duties.

  He felt a tap on his shoulder.

  “What? Am I late for dinner?”

  It was the soft, Washington-accented voice of Amber Jones.

  Jake put his phone away slightly embarrassed. He hadn’t seen her coming. And no, he wasn’t checking the time.

  “You’re early,” he said. “I just wanted to see if the Navy was on time.”

  She stared at him, the whites of her eyes gleaming in the gathering dark.

  He grinned and gently put his lips to hers. She responded warmly.

  “And no,” he said. “I’m not a time freak. I’ll tell you about the Naval Observatory’s bugle calls later.”

  “Oh that’s who was playing ‘Colors,’” she said. “And actually, that sounded more like the recording of a trumpet. I grew up hearing a real bugle play ‘Colors’ at sunset at the Marine Barracks at Eighth and I, Southeast.”

  He thought about the fact-checker extraordinaire who worked at NPR HQ near Capitol Hill, not far from where she grew up. Nothing escaped her notice.

  So arm in arm they entered the toney watering hole that already buzzed with patrons. A table with white linens by the window seemed to be waiting just for them.

  The Town Hall pub and eatery featured craft beers on the steep end, but Jake was willing to spend a little to get whole with Amber after his TV dinner fiasco.

  According to the waitress, a friendly coed from Colorado, pilsners were out of season, so Jake ordered a burger and an amber in honor of his date, and Amber had a Left Hand IPA to pair with her bransino.

  The waitress smiled pleasantly, took their menus, and left.

  “Jeez,” Amber said, looking around at the rustic American atmosphere and the spotlit tables. “This sure is a step up from Five Guys.”

  Jake was pleased that the place was having the desired effect, but was secretly concerned this would become their new hangout now that they had moved into the city. He was sure that the fancy dinner, what with taxes, tip, and craft beer, would double what they were accustomed to spending.

  “Don’t get used to it,” he said. “I’m just trying to impress you.”

  “Wait. Isn’t that a contradiction?”

  She was being too clever for him, too late in the day.

  “Thanks for emailing me the AP video from Mongolia,” he said.

  “Not a problem. Was it useful?”

  “In a perverse sort of way.” He thought about the nagging discrepancy between the Mongolian police and the embassy’s version of events. “I’m going to call Mongolia tonight to clarify matters.”

  “Oh-oh. Does that mean you’re going to burn the midnight oil?”

  “No,” he said defensively. “I’ll be in bed by eleven.”

  He hoped that would be the case, but he couldn’t be sure.

  “Interesting that you asked me about Bill Frost,” she said. “I’ve asked my boss if I could do a feature on him.”

  He stared at her bright, intelligent eyes over the homemade potato chips. Not only was his investigation supposed to be out of the press, he didn’t need a major news organization advertising evidence and alerting the perpetrator.

  “You have to know,” he said, “that whatever I told you is strictly off the record. I could lose my job for such a leak.”

  She had an impish smile. “But that doesn’t keep me from talking to you about Bill Frost, does it?”

  Jake was intrigued. “What, exactly, can you tell me about your story?”

  “I can’t reveal my sources,” she said.

  Now she was getting all disclaiming on him.

  “I guess you have that right,” he said.

  “Oh, here are the entrées,” she said, suddenly changing the subject.

  But Jake’s curiosity was piqued. He dismantled and reassembled his burger without the caramelized onions and gave Amber his full attention.

  “And what did you find out?” he asked.

  “You won’t leak this to the press?”

  “Honey, you are the press.”

  “It’s an exclusive.”

  “I’m not leaking anything. Now, spill.”

  She took a forkful of fish and rolled it around inside her mouth. Then she washed it down with a swig of beer.

  “He definitely was murdered,” she said, and raised an eyebrow.

  Boy, she was farther along on the case than he was. He had spent two days simply lining up the bureaucracy to get the case going and had yet to make his first call to Mongolia. And here she already had enough evidence to definitively say it was murder.

  “Amber.” He hated when she got to him like this. “How do you know?”

  “It’s all over the Russian press.”

  His jaw stopped working and the meat just sat there. “What?”

 
“Press. It’s in the press.”

  “The Russian press. How credible is that?”

  “Why would they lie?” she asked.

  “Why would they cover the story? You have to ask, what’s their agenda?”

  “You do know that the Russian Embassy is on the next block.”

  As an FBI special agent, he was acutely aware of the biggest neighbor on the block. The imposing white marble relic of the Cold War kept its official distance, but its tentacles were everywhere.

  He looked around the restaurant to make sure comrades at other tables weren’t close enough to overhear them.

  “What are they saying?” he asked in a whisper.

  “They blame the Chinese.”

  That stopped him cold. The Russian press was accusing the Chinese of killing Bill Frost? What beef did they have with China? Or had Bill Frost ripped a bandage off a wound between the two titanic powers of Asia? If so, was Jake getting into something above his pay grade?

  “Do you know how the Chinese are responding?” he asked under his breath. He was keenly aware that the Chinese Embassy Visa Section was located a block in the other direction.

  “No response from the Chinese that I’ve heard,” she said.

  “Are you sure you want to get in the middle of this?”

  “Hey, I’m a member of the press. This is what we live for.”

  “You might be walking into a trap. The Russians could be baiting you.”

  “Thanks for your concern. But I’m a big girl now.”

  He thought about the natural tension between the press and federal investigators. Was that going to come between them?

  “Okay, truce,” he said. “I know you can handle this.”

  “Damned right I can.”

  He lifted his glass to her.

  “Truce?” he asked.

  “Will you make it up to me?”

  “Sure,” he said with a smile. “After I get home.”

  “What’s this ‘after I get home?’”

  “I have to make my call from the office.”

  “You don’t trust me?”

  “I trust you.”

  She didn’t look like she believed him. “Well, don’t expect me to wait up for you.”

  She reluctantly clinked glasses.

  He sipped quietly. His relationship with her was important to him, but his investigation into international relations had just taken a serious turn.