by Fritz Galt
As the men resumed their earlier conversation, visions of mine shafts and open pits took hold of Jake’s imagination. Maybe Mongolia was worth fighting over as he had sensed in the diplomatic eruption over Bill Frost. When Jake had asked Matthew Justice for his hunch on where to start the investigation, Matt had said that it might have to do with the mining industry, “the real money in town.”
Cal Frost had been desperate to stop Bonnie and him, proving that they were on the right track. Jake’s old questions took on immediate relevance. Why was a lobbyist for the “green tech industry,” as Hank Frost had put it, involved with mining? And what was China trying to hide?
He was there to find out.
When the conversation turned to politics and sterilizing immigrants, Jake decided to move on.
As the sky brightened to the east, he saw a blizzard of snow kicked up by the wheels of their train.
He began to see solidly built farmhouses, Siberian birch forests, and long flat plains. The train had been on a gradual incline since Irkutsk, and he saw real hills on the horizon.
As Jake stood up to leave, the young American woman from Brooklyn was just entering the dining car. She wore a frozen, sleepy expression that improved when he waved at her.
“Where’s your friend?” Jake asked.
She pointed with her thumb back over her shoulder.
“Is he coming to breakfast?”
“He’s waiting for me to bring him something.”
“You’re on KP duty?” he asked with a smile.
She was quickly warming to him.
“Say, how do you pay for this?” he asked, unfamiliar with the process.
She was selecting ramen noodles in cups from a small display of snack food.
“It’s all in rubles,” she said.
“Do you think they’ll take dollars?”
“I’ll take dollars,” she said.
“But I want to pay her.”
“I’ll pay for you. You pay me back in dollars.”
Finally Jake got it. They were about to leave Russia, and she wanted to offload her rubles.
“Perfect,” he said. “You pay for my breakfast, and I’ll give you twenty bucks.”
“Deal,” she said, and stuck out her hand. “I’m Claire.”
“I’m Danny.”
They shook, and he ended up following her back to her car.
The accommodations were comparatively cramped in Third Class, but the view of the landscape was just as picturesque.
Long country roads were lined with planted trees, much like a European setting. To add to the quaint feel, houses were brightly painted, most with three windows facing the street. All this was being buried under a fresh layer of snow.
He took a seat on rumpled sheets next to the bearded boy from Brooklyn.
Ted was his name. He thanked his girlfriend with a mute nod. Either he wasn’t fully awake, or the two were having a tiff. Jake saw the passport still hanging out of Ted’s backpack. It was time for the lad to learn a lesson on situational awareness while traveling.
It was still dark enough in the cabin for Jake to reach across the sheets and nab the document.
So he did.
Then bang.
With a loud metallic clunk, the lights suddenly came on.
Jake’s hand was still halfway in the guy’s backpack.
“Pasporta!” cried a conductor, waking everyone up for immigration control.
The train was slowing down.
Jake successfully slid the passport the rest of the way out of the backpack. While the passengers watched the car’s granny stormtrooper pull sheets off beds, even out from under sleeping passengers, he quietly transferred the passport to his back pocket.
“Guess I’d better get back to my car,” he said, standing up.
“See you in Mongolia,” Claire said brightly.
Jake hustled out of the car.
Getting through border control and customs in Russia was a long process that took several hours. But it would have been much longer if Jake didn’t have a new identity and passport.
As the train finally pulled out of the last Russian station, he saw Claire and Ted arguing on the snowy platform.
“Thanks, kids,” he said under his breath.
Mongolian customs inspection was a minor inconvenience compared to the rigid Russian protocols. There were no Russian German shepherds digging into everyone’s bags, but there was a fancy metal frame through which everyone was obliged to walk. It was a long, cold wait in the blowing snow, and everyone had to carry their luggage through the frame.
Word passed down the line that the contraption was meant to prevent fissile material from leaving Russia.
Jake was impressed. At least someone was on the ball.
The Mongolian man in a warm military coat took Jake’s passport with bare hands. He looked at it, then back at Jake’s face several times.
Jake had chosen the passport of someone his size with the same general appearance, hidden by several days’ growth of beard. Unfortunately, he wasn’t the right age.
Jake tried to put on a young look and thought about Britney Spears. That might be the wrong generation for Ted, but brought back the blasé indifference of Jake’s youth.
The man studied his expression with interest. Jake was no actor. How long could he keep up the act?
Finally, with an amused smile the border guard returned the passport and motioned for the next in line.
Jake climbed back on board the train a new man.
When Jake arrived in Ulaanbaatar, dusk was falling. He stepped off the train and entered a higher, drier, colder world.
He looked around to get his bearings. The outline of tall apartment buildings across the street told him that he was near civilization, but not exactly in town. Relatively few passengers got off, leaving him alone on the platform with snow falling lightly on his mad bomber cap.
There he was, on a sub-zero evening stranded halfway between Russia and China in a large, mysterious place that smelled like a mixture of farmyard on a good day and Pittsburgh on a bad day, and looked like the loneliest outpost in Wyoming. Still he knew he wasn’t completely stranded as long as he had friends at the American Embassy.
He had forty bucks to negotiate a cab ride to the embassy, but there were no cabs in sight. Instead, he saw a steady stream of Priuses and SUVs stuffed with families behind frosted windows. Strangely, most drivers sat on the righthand side while they drove on the right side of the street.
His feet and ears were already beginning to feel the first stage of frostbite as he pulled off his gloves to try his phone.
He checked the signal strength and saw two bars. That would be good enough to make a call. But then a notification popped up. His regular service from the U.S. was unavailable, but a Mongolian company named Mobicom was willing to handle his calls, at a price. He figured he was being ripped off, but for the moment he was grateful for any service.
He wanted to call in the cavalry at once, but his teeth were chattering and his fingers were too frozen to operate the phone. He needed to warm up fast.
He took one look at the forlorn-looking building that served as the railway terminal. The lights were already off.
He turned around in search of anywhere that had heat. Wedged between the street and tracks was a string of the small shops. Maybe they could sell him warm clothes.
As the last cars pulled out of the makeshift parking lot, he slipped and slid on his leather soled shoes over ice-covered dirt to the cluster of stores.
The first order of business was to get decent footwear. The Cyrillic signs meant nothing to him, and since there were no display windows, he had no idea what the stores sold. He would just have to dive in and find out.
He opted for the building with cars parked out front and a sign in English that read “Made in Mongolia.”
He brushed off his cap, stamped the snow off his shoes, and pulled the wooden door open. A second door designed to prevent a draught to
ok him into a large, gloomy room of vendors that reminded him of trading posts of yore.
There was plenty of fur and leather, felt and cashmere, and handmade souvenirs for tourists passing through on the train. He went straight to the shoe section.
Elderly women with tight skin, high cheekbones, and healthy red cheeks sat among their wares as if posing for National Geographic. But they didn’t pay any attention to him.
He examined the leather boots on display. After a minute of sliding on ice, he knew he needed to go for the best boots the country had to offer.
“You take card?” he asked the cashier, hoping that pidgin English would break any linguistic barriers.
“Visa? MasterCard?” the woman asked.
She spoke his language.
He was attracted to the cowboy boots with intricately tooled designs. “Are these for men or women?” he asked.
She turned a boot over and showed him the bottom.
“For men,” she said, pointing out the low, flat heel.
She picked up another, this with a high, slender heel. “For women.”
After shoving his big feet into several boots, he found a pair that was both lined with fur and fit well.
He watched the woman swipe his card and successfully print out a receipt. Once again the thought crossed his mind, why hadn’t anyone blocked his card? With even a trip to California, he needed to inform the credit union that he was traveling, otherwise they would stop all payments in case the card had been stolen. Certainly being in Russia or Mongolia would raise a red flag.
And yet he was able to stride out of the place like a buckskin cowboy, having ditched his aviator cap as well and replaced it with a Russian fur hat. And his credit card was still good to go.
It was clear that the FBI was allowing his transactions to go through in order to monitor his every move. But what could they do from 15,000 miles away?
He stood in the air lock before stepping outside, and pulled out his phone. He found the U.S. Embassy in Mongolia number he had entered a few days before.
He paused to review his options. He had two helpful contacts at the embassy. One was Chad Stubbs, the regional security officer, and the other was Matthew Justice, the science attaché. It was already likely that Chad knew he was a wanted man. Jake would try his luck with Matt.
He dialed the embassy, and the same woman answered as when he had called before.
“American Embassy. Sain baina uu. How can I direct your call?”
“Hello. Could you put me through to Matthew Justice?”
“Who is calling, please?”
He hesitated and felt for the stolen passport. Was he Ted from New York, Danny from Georgia, or Jake from America’s Most Wanted List?
“It’s the FBI,” was all he said.
The call went through.
“This is Matt,” came the familiar voice with the same flat accent.
“Matt, this is Jake.”
There was slight hesitation, then, “Jake Maguire?”
“Yes. Good memory.”
“We had you last in Irkutsk.”
“I’m here in Ulaanbaatar, and I’m freezing to death.”
“Ha! Where can I pick you up?”
“I’m next to the train station in a store called ‘Made in Mongolia.’”
“You can stay with Eve and me.”
Now that was hospitality. Either they didn’t know that he was on the run, or they were desperate for company.
“I’ll be there right away,” Matt said.
“I’ll be waiting for you.”
“Just give me an hour and a half.”
That was “right away?”
“Thanks, Matt.”
Jake tapped the red “Hang Up” button. He was sure the call registered all the way back to the National Security Agency. What an amazing boon technology could be. And, as Edward Snowden had said, also a double-edged sword.
Jake had an hour and a half to kill. It would be enough time to make a critical call to the NSA. But first he had to stay awake. And for that, he needed coffee.
He was picking up the scent of food coming from outside. He poked his head out to look around, and saw a brightly lit shop next door. Through the plate glass window, it looked like a café.
On the off chance that they sold coffee, he rushed over and quickly shut the door behind him.
He was immediately met with loud music and the smell of frying fish. There was a small counter with sushi plates on display. Behind the counter, a young woman was cooking up some sort of shrimp-like food.
But Jake had picked up the competing smell of coffee. In his cowboy boots, he strode through the miniscule restaurant to the far end where there was an espresso machine.
He ordered a coffee from the cute barista in the pink apron.
“Cappuccino? Latte?” she asked.
“Just coffee.”
As she got to work on his order, he listened to the K-pop music. If he had suddenly been teleported there, he would have no idea where he was.
He took the coffee to a table by the window that was etched with symbols of stars and mugs.
The shop faced the cramped parking lot with its single row of cars. A busy four-lane was just beyond that. Then there was a new apartment complex that sat amidst crumbling Soviet-era buildings.
He sipped his coffee and watched the apartment lights come on one at a time.
But he couldn’t help noticing the other patron with her coffee. She could have been the sister of one of the Mongolian food handlers at Sizzling Express in Foggy Bottom. A chic young woman in make-up and leather pants, she sat amidst the warm scents and away from the wind and noise and pollution, letting her thoughts drift.
Ah-hem. Jake flipped through his phone for unread messages, looking for anything from Amber. How was she surviving out in the Gobi? Had she managed to keep away from Cal Frost?
There was nothing from her, no voice messages or texts, and no word from NSA, which was tracking her phone.
Which brought him to the task at hand. He needed the NSA to help him find Bill Frost. Amber might have beaten Jake to the story, but he believed finding Bill would answer most of his questions. Why the faked murder? Why all the fits by the Russians? Why were the Chinese offended? Why did Bill’s brother try to literally kill the investigation, then fly to Mongolia?
Ulaanbaatar was sure attracting trouble.
The only people not to make it to the land of the Mongols was Bill Frost’s production crew. And back at Oakwood Cemetery in Falls Church, they had given Jake a valuable piece of information: Bill Frost had a satellite phone.
That was one line of investigation he had yet to follow. And that was why he needed Emily Yun.
He checked the time in Maryland. It was 7:30 a.m. Was Emily already at work?
He called.
And she was.
Emily sounded alarmed to hear his voice. “Aren’t they after you?” she said at once.
“Don’t believe everything you read,” he said as cryptically as possible.
“Oh,” she said. “I see.” Then her voice changed. “What’s that music?”
Jake became aware of his environment once more. “I think its Korean pop music.”
“You’re in Korea?”
He didn’t disabuse her of that notion. He had to continue playing the part of the international man of mystery.
And he needed to get back on point. “Do you know Bill Frost?”
“Aw, Bill Frost.” Emily sounded genuinely sad. “I read that he died.”
“Again, don’t believe everything you read.” Jake was tired of all the FBI lies. “I want you to tap his phone.”
“But he’s dead.”
“Imagine that you’re wrong. Bill Frost has a satellite phone. Can the NSA still track satellite communications?”
“We’re a bit rusty, but I’m sure we’re still up to it.”
“Up? Was that meant as a pun?”
“Yes.”
“I’m slayed
. Please send me any information you get from Bill’s satellite phone. Where it is, who he calls, who calls him, and what they say.”
“You think he’s still alive? I just saw his funeral on TV…”
“You’ll find out soon enough, won’t you. But please don’t mention this to anyone. And please don’t spread word that I’m still on the case. Okay?”
“If he’s still alive, shouldn’t I report it?”
“You tell me what you find out, and I’ll report it.”
“Okay, fine.”
“And one more thing. Could you tap his brother Cal’s phone, too?”
“Jake, I’m going out on a limb for you.”
“Okay, don’t worry about the brother,” he backed down. “And thank you, Emily.”
He knew she’d come through.
He hung up before she changed her mind.
Either the traffic was heavy or Matthew Justice was one busy man. An hour and a half after Jake had called Matt, a white SUV with distinctive red license plates pulled up to the line of stores.
The timing could not have been better.
Jake was sure the café patron was making eyes at him, after he had caught the young leather-clad woman glancing his way several times.
She was a tall, dark-haired beauty who had her whole life ahead of her. He shouldn’t be part of her dreams.
Matt Justice was a rangy lad with a crop of carrot-red hair and abundant freckles. He didn’t have “Environment, Science, Technology, and Health Officer” written all over him, but Jake liked to be pleasantly surprised by people. Matt could be a diamond in the rough.
“I called ahead to Eve,” Matt said, as he jumped behind the wheel. “We have a dinner party for visiting WHO and CDC colleagues tonight, and she’ll set another place.”
They entered the jerky start and stop of traffic. At bus stops, people stood wrapped up and wearing fur hats just like Jake’s. Vehicles with sooty back bumpers jockeyed for traffic lanes that were invisible to Jake, as there were no painted lines on the street. But Matt had mastered driving techniques and he was a busy man.
“Why is the health crowd here?” Jake asked.
“Oh, man. You don’t want to know. We’ve got an unfolding public health disaster in the countryside.”