by R G Ainslee
She joined me on the outstretched sleeping bag with two steaming cups. "I came for adventure and wanted to meet someone special." Her voice took a brittle edge, "Found neither."
We drank tea and chatted for a half-hour. I experienced a deep conflict of emotions. Jane was a nice person, someone I could have learned to like. We seemed to understand each other. She was a lot like me before I met Lisette: empty, unfulfilled, and resigned to a lonely life.
She scooted closer and tilted her head. "Would you fancy to try the local beer called chaang? They make it by pouring hot water through fermenting barley." She gave me an anxious look. "I must warn you, it is dreadful strong."
"Sounds potent." My head was still pounding from the effects of high altitude after the day’s trek. "Maybe not. Got a long day tomorrow."
She leaned towards me and the light from the lantern reflected off her glasses. Cleaned up, she would have been an attractive woman. With her light freckles and red hair, and melodic accent, she was indeed Irish.
"Suppose you miss your Guinness."
She entwined her arm with mine and rested her head on my shoulder. "I'll tell you something I miss more." Her voice emitted a soft pleading, "Will you stay with me tonight?"
A warm tingling of anticipation triggered a clash of contradictory emotions: the feral man inside, versus my commitment to Lisette. I needed to get it under control before I yielded to temptation, too tired to resist and too tired to do anything anyway.
"I'm newly married and … don't need to … you know."
Her face contorted, a tear began to form as she turned her head away. "I'm sorry. I was attracted to you because you seemed different from the others. So many men come here, I am either invisible or they think I'm easy prey. I'm not like this. It's that I'm so lonesome. Please understand."
"Think I do." The suffering in her voice tore at my heart. I understood what it was like to lead a lonely life. At least we had that in common. I decided to stay a little while longer but couldn't even think about becoming involved with her.
Her gaze veered away into the distance, silent as a tear rolled down her cheek. "Enough of my miserable life, tell me about your wife. How did you meet?"
"She's French and we met in Kenya on Lamu Island."
"How romantic, tell me more." The doleful look in her eyes betrayed a deep sense of pain or empty desperation.
I told her how Lisette and I shared a special relationship, how both of us lost our parents in auto accidents, how I helped her to deal with it, and how it served to forge a bond between us. Unfortunately, I couldn't add any details about the dangers that followed.
I would have stayed longer if it were not for Lisette. As I was leaving, she gave me a hug and thanked me for keeping her company. I sincerely hated to leave.
Half-way to the rest house, I decided to go back and ask if she had seen Suslov and his porter. As I approached the door, the sound of faint but distinct sobs halted me in my tracks. I listened for a moment and decided against disturbing her. She might get the wrong message.
As I ambled through the darkness, absorbed in my thoughts, feeling sorry for Jane, something caught my attention. A movement off to the left detected in my peripheral vision triggered an immediate response. A short man lunged with a kukri knife. I sidestepped just in time. He caught the blade on the hem of my parka and twisted away. The distraction was all I needed.
Somehow, I managed to channel a burst of energy into the tip of my right mountain boot. Before he could recover, the Vibram sole met his elbow with devastating results. The kukri fell to the ground. He yelped and bolted towards the woods. It was over in seconds. I left the knife and jogged to the rest house. At the door I glanced back, no one followed.
Friday, 22 December: Dughla
We left early the next morning. The light still dim, the sun not yet full over the high mountains. Pungent juniper smoke from large urns filled the air, an offering to the gods. I stopped by the clinic to say good-by to Jane. She was busy treating a slight Japanese man. We exchanged cautious waves.
Our goal for the day was Dingboche, a small village up the valley, an easy trek. We planned to stay a day to acclimatize to the altitude. As we proceeded, the trail became more difficult. Landslides covered the path and ice choked the river crossings.
We made good time and took a breather at an almost deserted place of stark beauty. Dingboche, a collection of rock huts and rock walls at 14,000 feet, was a summer feeding ground for yak herders.
We halted at a farmhouse. Ang Dorjie asked the farmer, ageless seasoned and tough, his skin leather-like from years of exposure to harsh mountain winters and merciless sun, if he had seen his cousin. The man spoke with purpose and gestured up the valley.
"He says my cousin and a man with grey hair spent the night here and left this morning."
I was thankful Suslov was still ahead and didn't relish the prospect of meeting up with him again. It was a sure bet he was on to me and I didn't have a clue what to do when we met up with him. Suslov must be armed — he's KGB. All I have is a couple of knifes. A twinge of pain from my shoulder: the old gunshot wound, a bullet from Marsden’s gold-plated pistol. The one only a Nogales pimp, or Marsden, would carry. A chilling thought occurred. Done it again, jumped right in.
"We must stay for tea," insisted Ang Dorjie, "He has invited us. In our culture, hospitality is important. It is his duty, a sign of respect."
"So, all we have to do is ask for tea, that's nice."
"No, don't ask. We must always wait to be offered. It is rude to ask for tea or food."
As we sat drinking our tea, the farmer lit up a local smoke, the twisted kind. I recognized the odor from my hotel room — it smelled a lot like a yak dung fire. Whoever broke into my room had been either a local or a wasted hippie. Since nothing was missing, I assumed he worked for Suslov. I hadn't told Ang Dorjie about the break in or the attack. I still wasn't sure.
We originally planned to stay the night but decided to keep going.
* * *
We spent the late afternoon hiking up the valley over a grassy moraine, an easy trail but difficult because of thin air. At that altitude, it wasn't possible to get a satisfactory deep breath, every step and every breath required a conscious decision. The intense sun, bright, hot, and unhindered by thin air reflected off the snow-covered mountains. We halted beside a large rock and slipped on special snow goggles.
An hour before sunset, we arrived in Dughla at 15,000 feet. Craggy summits and stone formations rose sharply on either side of the valley. At the foot of the steep slope, two stone huts, our accommodations for the night. Ang Dorjie said it would be more expensive, and it was.
The hut was crowded with Japanese on a climbing club trip. Employees of an electronics company, a few spoke passable English. They had been to base camp and planned to traverse the Cho La Pass up the valley from Dughla.
Ang Dorjie brought a plate of rice and lentils. The farmhouses long past, we had to pay for our food and tea, prices increasing with the altitude. I scooped the hot and spicy food down, not even minding the gritty rice. After a necessary trip outside, I began a long cold night on the rocky floor of the well-ventilated stone hut.
8~ Graveyard of Crows
Saturday, 23 December: Gorek Shep
I woke to a cold gray dismal morning. Despite being incredibly fatigued, I had been unable to sleep comfortably. The night spent huddled close to the yak dung fire while a stream of frigid air poured in through cracks in the walls. The Japanese climbers left before dawn.
After a rough breakfast of hot tea and cold chapattis, we trekked up a long steep path and across a jumble of ice and rocks. Before long, we passed 16,000 feet. Lobuche, set in a jumble of glacial moraine, came into view. Two isolated stone huts presented an even more dismal scene than Dughla.
A colorful tent encampment occupied a flat area past the second stone hut. A trekking party sat comfortably on canvas chairs as they feasted a hot cooked meal. A short stocky man with sandy ha
ir meandered by, heading for the group.
I asked, "You been up to base camp?"
"Right mate, we spent two bleedin days up there. Never so glad to leave a bleedin place in my life. It's bleedin cold, dirty, and the blokes up there are an arsey lot."
"Did you see anyone else on the trail?"
"Yeah. A bloke traveling with a porter came into base camp as we left." A short brunette dressed in a fashionable parka called, he waved back to her, wished us good-luck, and rejoined his group.
"They are making good time, if they are at base camp by now," commented Ang Dorjie.
I wondered how Suslov was doing with the altitude. Maybe he's in worse shape than me. Maybe not, they're making good time. Still didn't have a plan.
Our porter Pemba Gombu returned with two steaming cups of tea. He spoke with Ang Dorjie and pointed up the trail.
Ang Dorjie said, "The owner of the hut is the cousin of Pemba. He told him a man with white hair will pay him to send a runner to base camp when we arrive."
"Did he?"
"No, he ask Pemba first. What do you say?"
"Think we need an element of surprise. I'll pay him not to."
"No, it is okay. Don't worry."
I did worry. Suslov wanted an advance warning. What for? What was he planning? Still didn't have a plan.
We finished our tea and left for Gorek Shep, located at 17,000 feet. The way was rough, an uneven track with ice on the shaded north slopes. A stark landscape spread before us: no trees, grass, or vegetation, we had long since passed the tree line. The air cold and dry, clouds rolled over the mountains, the thunder of avalanches echoed from afar.
Past the last flat before Gorek Shep, an ice field with unusual wave shaped ice formations made walking difficult. I slipped several times, but thick clothing protected me from injury. Snow began to flurry as we trudged along the rough winding path.
We arrived to find a filthy stone hut, the floor covered with ashes from past fires, and no door.
"This is awful, let's stay at base camp, it can't be any worse."
Ang Dorjie shook his head. "No, we must spend the night at the hut, trekkers are not allowed to stay overnight at base camp." The frozen lake down from the hut emitted unusual ghost-like groaning sounds. "It is ice moving in the lake." A large black bird flew by. "See the crow. Gorek is the Sherpa word for crow. Gorek Shep means the graveyard of dead crows."
"That's just great. It's all I need. A graveyard for a crow."
He gave me a puzzled look, but I didn't explain the apparent irony. My name, Brannan, is a Celtic word for raven or crow and airborne intercept operators are known as Ravens or Old Crows. My fatigue gave in to a sense of foreboding.
"Do you feel like going to base camp today or do you want to wait a day?"
"Let's eat and go now." I wanted to get it over with, if we tarried at the hut, Suslov might find out. Surprise was my best hope. We needed to catch him off-guard.
* * *
The final approach to Base Camp from Gorek Shep led us across the lower reaches of the Khumbu Glacier. The glacier cracked and groaned as we tread across the surface. An avalanche rumbled. A reminder of the risk involved in crossing a glacier late in the day. Melting snow yielding to the weight of ice can produce a cascade of ice and snow carrying away everything in its path.
We passed a group of Japanese trekkers, bent over gasping for breath. I was managing the altitude, but would pay eventually, we had been moving too fast.
At last, a scattering of tents and huts, the famous Mount Everest base camp, staging ground for momentous adventures on the peaks high above. The end of our quest revealed a garbage dump. Trash and assorted piles of abandoned gear littered the landscape. The putrid aroma of human waste wafted through the air.
The small village held few occupants, January being the off-season for climbing. The Hungarian scientific expedition's tents and a domed hut sat on the encampment's far edge. Ang Dorjie left to find his cousin and speak with his Sherpa friends. I rambled around trying to appear curious but not inquisitive.
In front of a large tent, an older man with a grey goatee and thick glasses, a stereotypical East European professor, sat on a folding chair reading a large book. I approached and tried to open a conversation.
"Are you going to climb the mountain?"
He glanced up as if annoyed by the intrusion, "No, of course not. We are scientists, not adventurers. — What do you want?"
"Just looking around. What kind of experiments are you doing?"
"Please leave. We do not have time for you." He shifted in his seat and continued reading.
I left the irascible professor with his book and ambled around searching for signs of my contact. Wary of Suslov, I remained on guard. Would he find me before I found the Kayroli woman? I needed to find her first.
She was female and worked with telemetry, the only description I had to work with. Several women were present in the camp. Which one was Valentina Kayroli? Then it came to me — a satellite dish perched about 50 yards away on a small pile of rocks. I wandered over and pretended to examine the antenna.
A minute later, a feminine voice yelled from a distance. "Te, ne érintse meg az antennát. Menj innen." A woman wearing a fur-trimmed parka marched across the ice in my direction.
"Don’t understand. Just looking around."
"Mit csinálsz? … Go away, not touch antenna."
As she made her way up the rocks, I could read the name stenciled on her parka — Kayroli.
"You leave. Is not to touch antenna."
She spoke with an appealing accent, was about my height with an oval sunburned face and a delicate upturned nose. Brown curly hair peeked out from her parka hood. That wasn't all. I had seen her before.
My mind raced as I tried to recall where and when, and then it hit me — The Ras Hotel bar in Addis Ababa. She had been with the group of Russian technicians when Amadeo and I waited for J. Andrew Marsden on the night before his capture. Marsden tried to kiss her, and they had harsh words. Then she slapped him and stormed out of the bar. No mistake about it, she worked with Marsden.
"Valentina?"
She froze in her tracks. "Honnan tudod…" An expression of bewilderment came over her face. "How you know my name?"
"You left a message in Kathmandu."
Her expression changed to a mixture of fear and surprise. "Ki… Who are you?"
"My name is Ro— Dan McDonald. I was sent to speak with you. Your note to my embassy said you had information for us."
Her eyes betrayed a deep sense of doubt. "I not know what you mean."
Couldn't blame her for being cautious, I needed to break the ice. "I know you worked with J. Andrew Marsden."
She gasped for air, the mention of his name hit like a hammer blow. Her eyes, wide with primal fear, betrayed something beyond the present danger.
"I was at the Ras Hotel in Addis Ababa … the night you slapped him."
She stepped back in fright. Had I gone too far?
"Nem értem … How, I not understand?"
I decided to risk it all. "I was with the men that seized him the next morning. We carried him out of the country to America."
Her face lit up in astonishment. Her voice broke up as she spoke, "You there. You take him." She tried to compose herself, taking a deep breath. "If that so … you save my life." She read my puzzled look. "He rape me and say he do again. He is … gennyla'da … bad man. I plan kill him, but he disappear. I not know why." She paused. "He no longer danger to me?"
"Marsden was in prison, but he escaped a few weeks ago."
"Escape? — How? No… Where?" The sense of relief and hope disappeared from her face.
"We don't know where he is."
"They have way. He be back soon. If he return to Russia, I be ordered to work with him. I not do that. I go away." Her face betrayed a sense of panic and desperation. "Please, I leave this place. I do anything." She choked back a sob.
"We need to talk."
"K
erem! … Please take me away."
I wanted answers before committing to anything. She could still be a trap. "We talk first. Tell me what you know."
"I do anything you ask … anything." She stepped closer, gazed into my eyes, her voice trembled as she pleaded, "I be your woman."
Despite a tingle of expectation, I mumbled, "No … I can't…"
"You mean you—"
"I'm married. Married … we just married this year. Look, I'm here to help you."
Tears began to form in her eyes.
"Don't take it so hard, if I wasn't married—"
"No, you not understand, now I know I trust you. Please take me from this place, take me with you. I not want to see him again."
"Where can we talk, I have questions."
"Yes, yes. — What you want to know?"
"Where is Suslov?"
Her eyebrows raised a notch. "Suslov? We have no Suslov."
"He must have just arrived, a Russian with silver grey hair."
A glimmer of recognition flashed in her eyes. "András the journalist from Bécs."
"No, he is Major Suslov of the KGB."
Her body tensed. "Are you sure?"
"Yes, there's no doubt. Is he here in camp?"
"No, he go with guide to icefall. He come back the evening. If he KGB, we must leave before he return."
I peered over her shoulder and noticed the professor advancing our way. "We have company. Will he be trouble?"
"I speak with him." She hurried and met him half way. They argued for a minute and he threw up his hands and strutted away.
I met her at the base of the rock pile. "Any problem"?
"I told him you curious about science and I take you and keep you from trouble."
We spent the next half-hour walking around the edge of the camp pretending to be interested in the towering spectacle surrounding us. "You claim to have important information. What is it?"
She paused, deep in thought. "You promise to take me with you?"