The trio made their way through immigration, Pitt and Giordino garnering extraordinary scrutiny, before collecting their bags. The airport was small by international standards, and while waiting for a curbside cab Pitt noticed a wiry man in a red shirt studying him from across the concourse. Scanning the terminal, he observed that many of the locals gawked at him, not used to seeing a six-foot-three Westerner every day.
A weathered cab was flagged down, and they quickly motored the short distance into the city.
"Ulaanbaatar—and all of Mongolia, really—has changed a good deal in the past few years," Sarghov said.
"Looks to me like it hasn't changed much in the past few centuries," Giordino said, noting a large neighborhood of felt gers .
"Mongolia somewhat missed the station on the twentieth century," Sarghov nodded, "but they're catching up in the twenty-first. As in Russia, the police state no longer controls daily life and the people are learning to embrace freedom. The city may look grim to you, but it is a much livelier place than a decade ago."
"You have visited often?" Pitt asked.
"I have worked on several projects with the Mongolian Academy of Sciences at Lake Khovsgol."
The taxi careened around a crater-sized pothole then screeched to a stop in front of the Continental Hotel. As Sarghov checked them in Pitt admired a collection of reproduced medieval artwork that decorated the large lobby. Glancing out the front window, he noticed a car pull up to the entrance and a man in a red shirt climb out. The same man he had seen at the airport.
Pitt studied the man as he lingered by the car. His features were Caucasian, which suggested he wasn't with the Mongolian police or immigration authorities. Yet he looked comfortable in his surroundings, earmarked by a toothy grin that habitually flashed from his friendly face. Pitt noticed that he moved with a measured balance, like a cat walking atop a fence. He was no tap dancer, though. In the pit of his back just above the waistline, Pitt saw a slight bulge that could only be a gun holster.
"All set," Sarghov said, handing room keys to Pitt and Giordino. "We're in neighboring rooms on the fourth floor. The bellboys are taking our bags up now. Why don't we grab lunch in the hotel cafe and strategize our plan of inquiry?"
"If there's a prospect of a cold beer in this joint, then I'm already there," Giordino replied.
"I'm still stiff from the plane ride," Pitt said. "Think I'll stretch my legs a bit with a walk around the block first. Order me a tuna sandwich, and I'll join you in a few minutes."
As Pitt exited the hotel, the man in red quickly turned his back and leaned on the car, casually checking his watch. Pitt turned and walked in the other direction, dodging a small group of Japanese tourists checking into the hotel. Walking briskly, he set a fast pace with his long legs and quickly covered two blocks. Turning a corner, he shot a quick glance to his side. As he suspected, the man in the red shirt was tailing him a half block behind.
Pitt had turned down a small side street lined with tiny shops that sold their goods along the sidewalk.
Temporarily out of sight of his pursuer, Pitt started running down the street, sprinting past the first half-dozen shops. Ducking past a newsstand, he slowed in front of an open-air clothing shop. A rack of heavy winter coats jutted from the shop's side wall, offering a perfect concealment spot from someone rushing down the street. Pitt stepped into the shop and around the coatrack, then stood with his back to the wall.
A wrinkled old woman wearing an apron appeared from behind a counter piled with shoes and looked up at Pitt.
"Shhh," Pitt smiled, holding a finger to his lips. The old woman gave him an odd look, then returned to the back of the shop shaking her head.
Pitt had only to wait a few seconds before the man in the red shirt came hurrying along, nervously scanning each shop he came to. The sound of the man's footsteps announced his arrival as he approached and stopped in front of the shop. Pitt stood perfectly still, listening for the sound of heavy leather soles on concrete. When the patter resumed, Pitt sprang from the rack like a coiled spring.
The man in the red shirt had started to jog to the next shop when he detected a movement behind him.
He glanced over his shoulder to find Pitt, towering nearly a foot taller, only a step behind him. Before he could react, he felt Pitt's large hands grasp his shoulders.
Pitt could have tackled the man, or spun him around, or thrown him to the ground. But he wasn't one to fight physics and instead simply used their forward momentum and pushed the smaller man ahead toward a round metal hat rack. The assailant smacked face-first into the rack and fell forward onto his stomach amid a clutter of baseball caps. The fall would have incapacitated most, but Pitt was hardly surprised when the wiry man bounced up immediately and crouched to strike Pitt with his left hand while his right hand reached behind his back.
Pitt took a step back and grinned at the man.
"Looking for this?" he asked. With a slight flick of his wrist, he flashed a Serdyukov SPS automatic pistol, which he leveled at the man's chest. A blank look crossed the man's face as his right hand came up behind his back empty. He coolly looked Pitt in the eye, then smiled broadly.
"Mr. Pitt. You seem to have taken advantage of me," he said in English only slightly tinged with a Russian accent.
"I don't like people crowding my space," Pitt replied, holding the gun steady.
The other man looked up and down the street nervously, then spoke quietly to Pitt. "You need not fear me. I am a friend looking out for you."
"Good. Then you can join me for lunch with some of my friends, who will be interested to meet you."
"To the Continental Hotel." The man smiled, removing a child's hat with the image of a running camel on its crest that had somehow stuck to his head during the scuffle. He slowly sidestepped Pitt and began walking in the direction of the hotel. Pitt followed a few steps behind, concealing the gun in his pocket and wondering what sort of eccentric this was who had been following him.
The Russian made no move to escape, instead marching boldly into the hotel and across the lobby to the main restaurant. To Pitt's surprise, he walked directly up to a large booth where Giordino and Sarghov were sitting, enjoying a drink.
"Alexander, you old goat!" he greeted Sarghov with a laugh.
"Corsov! They haven't run you out of the country yet?" Sarghov replied, standing and giving the smaller man a hug.
"I am an invaluable presence to the state mission," Corsov replied with mock seriousness. Eyeing Sarghov's bruised face, he frowned and said, "You look as if you just escaped from the gulag."
"No, just the inhospitable mongrels I told you about. Forgive me, I have not properly introduced you to my American friends. Dirk, Al, this is Ivan Corsov, special attaché to the Russian embassy here in Ulaanbaatar. Ivan and I worked together years ago. He's agreed to help us with the investigation of Avarga Oil."
"He followed us from the airport," Pitt said to Sarghov with lingering doubt.
"Alexander told me you were coming. I was just making sure that no one else was following you."
"It seems I owe you an apology," Pitt smiled, covertly handing the pistol back to Corsov, and then shaking hands.
"Quite all right," he replied. "Though my wife may not like the looks of my new nose," he added, rubbing a purple welt administered by the hat rack.
"How your wife liked the looks of your old one is a mystery to me," Sarghov laughed.
The four men sat down and ordered lunch, the conversation turning serious.
"Alexander, you told me of the attempted sinking of the Vereshchagin and the abduction of the oil workers, but I didn't know you were seriously injured in the ordeal," Corsov said, nodding at a thick bandage around Sarghov's wrist.
"My injuries would have been a lot worse had my friends not intervened," he replied, tilting a glass of beer toward Pitt and Giordino.
"We weren't too happy about getting our feet wet in the middle of the night, either," Giordino added.
"What
makes you think that the captives were brought to Mongolia?"
"We know that the freighter was leased by Avarga Oil, and the survey team was working under contract for them as well. The regional police authorities could find no permanent holdings in all of Siberia for the company, so we naturally assumed they would return to Mongolia. Border security confirmed that a truck caravan matching the description of those seen at Listvyanka had crossed into Mongolia at Naushki."
"Have the appropriate appeals for law enforcement assistance been made?"
"Yes, a formal request was sent to the Mongolian national police, and cooperation is taking place at the lower levels as well. An Irkutsk police official cautioned me that assistance would likely be forthcoming very slowly here."
"It is true. Russian influence in Mongolia is not what it used to be," Corsov said, shaking his head. "And the level of security here is much reduced from the past. These democratic reforms and economic issues have loosened the state's control over its own people," he said, raising his eyebrows at Pitt and Giordino.
"Freedom has its costs, pal, but I wouldn't take it any other way," Giordino replied.
"Comrade Al, believe me, we all relish the reforms that have expanded the freedom of individuals. It just occasionally makes my job a little more demanding."
"And what exactly is your job with the embassy?" Pitt asked.
"Special attaché and assistant director of information, at your service. I help ensure that the embassy is well informed about events and activities within the host country."
Pitt and Giordino gave each other a knowing look, but said nothing.
"Gloating again, Ivan?" Sarghov smiled. "Enough about you. What can you tell us about Avarga Oil?"
Corsov tilted back in his seat and waited for the waitress to lay a round of drinks on the table, then spoke in a low voice.
"The Avarga Oil Consortium. A strange animal."
"In what manner?" asked Sarghov.
"Well, the corporate entity is a relatively new concept in Mongolia. Obviously, there was no private ownership under communist rule, so the appearance of autonomous Mongolian companies has only occurred in the last fifteen years. Aside from the explosion of individual or publicly owned companies in the past five years, the earlier entities were all created in partnership with the state or foreign corporations. This is especially true of the mining companies, as the locals had no capital to start with and the state owned the land. Yet this wasn't the case with Avarga."
"They are not partnered with the Mongolian government?" Pitt asked.
"No, their registry confirms that they are fully privately owned. The point is more interesting, as they were one of the first companies licensed under the newly autonomous Mongolian government in the early 1990s. The company name, by the way, comes from an ancient city believed to be the first capital of Mongolia."
"It doesn't take much more than a land lease to start an oil company," Giordino said. "Maybe they only started with a piece of paper and a pickup truck."
"Perhaps. I can't say what resources they began with, but their current assets are certainly more substantial than a pickup truck."
"What have you been able to verify?" asked Sarghov.
"They are known to have a minimally producing oil field in the north near the Siberian border, as well as a few exploratory wells in the Gobi. They also own exploration rights to some sizeable lands around Lake Baikal. Their only real physical asset is an oil field services yard in south Ulaanbaatar near the rail depot that's been around for years. And they recently announced commencement of mining operations at a small copper mine near Kharakhorum."
"Nothing outlandish in any of that," Pitt said.
"Yes, but those are only the publicly acknowledged holdings. A listing of their more intriguing assets I was able to acquire from the Ministry of Agriculture and Industry." Corsov's eyes shifted back and forth, indicating that the minister of agriculture and industry did not actually know that Corsov had acquired the information.
"Avarga Oil Consortium has acquired oil and mineral rights to vast tracts of land throughout the country.
And more amazingly, they have acquired outright ownership of thousands of acres of former state land spreading all across the country. That is an unusual privilege in Mongolia. My sources tell me that the company paid a considerable sum to the Mongolian government for these land rights. Yet it does not appear to the eye that the company would have the resources to do so."
"There's always a bank somewhere that's willing to loan money," Pitt said. "Perhaps funds were fronted by outside mining interests."
"Yes, it is possible, though I found no evidence to that end. The funny thing is, much of the land is in regions with no known oil or mining geology. A large section courses through the Gobi Desert, for example."
The waitress appeared and slid a plate of roast lamb in front of Corsov. The Russian stuffed a large piece of meat in his mouth, then continued talking.
"I found it interesting that the company head does not appear to have any political clout or connections, and is actually unknown to most Mongolian government officials. The deals the company made were apparently conjured up with cash, the source of which is a mystery to me. No, the company head keeps a low profile in Xanadu."
"Xanadu?" asked Pitt.
"It's the name given to the residence, and headquarters, such as it is, of the company's chairman.
Located about two hundred fifty kilometers southeast of here. I've never seen it, but was told about it by a Yukos oil executive who was invited there for a business deal some years ago. It is supposed to be a small but opulent palace built on the design of the original summer home of the thirteenth-century Mongol emperor. Filled with antiques. There is supposedly nothing else like it in Mongolia. Oddly, I've never known any Mongolians who have been inside the place."
"More evidence of unaccountable wealth," Sarghov said. "So what of our captives? Would they have been taken to the industrial site in town or to this Xanadu?"
"It is difficult to say. The trucks would easily pass unnoticed in and out of the facility here, so that would be a good starting point. Tell me, though, why were these oil workers abducted?"
"That is a good question, and one we would like to find out," Pitt replied. "Let's start with the industrial site. Can you get us inside for a look?"
"Of course," Corsov replied as if insulted by the question. "I have already surveyed the facility. It is protected by security guards; however, access should be attainable near the rail line."
"A quick nighttime look-see around shouldn't bother anyone," Giordino said.
"Yes, I suspected that would be your wish. You only need verify the presence of the survey team. Once we establish they are here, then we can push the Mongolian police authorities to act. Otherwise, we will be old men before anything gets done. Believe me, comrades, time can indeed stand still in Mongolia."
"What about the woman, Tatiana. Have you any information on her?"
"Unfortunately, no. She may have traveled to Siberia under an assumed name, if the immigration authorities are to be believed. But if she is part of Avarga Oil and here in Mongolia, then we will find her."
Corsov finished devouring his lamb and knocked back a second Chinese-brewed beer.
"Midnight tonight. Meet me at the back of the hotel and I will take you to the facility. Of course in my capacity, it is too dangerous for me to join you." He smiled, his large teeth glistening.
"I'm afraid I must be sidelined from the cloak-and-dagger business as well," Sarghov said, waving a bandaged wrist. "I'll do my best to assist in any other way," he added with disappointment.
"Not a problem, comrades," Pitt replied. "No sense in creating an international incident with both our countries. We'll just play the lost tourists if anything happens."
"There should be little danger in some harmless trespassing," Sarghov agreed.
Corsov's cheerful face suddenly turned solemn.
"There is some tragic news
I must warn you about. A LUKOIL Russian oil survey team was ambushed and killed by men on horseback in the mountains north of here two days ago. Four men were brutally murdered for no apparent reason. A fifth man witnessed the murders but managed to escape undetected.
A sheepherder found him exhausted and terrified not far from the village of Eroo. When the man returned to the scene with the local police, everything was gone—bodies, trucks, survey gear—it had all vanished.
An embassy representative met him and escorted him back to Siberia, while LUKOIL officials confirmed that the rest of the survey team had gone missing."
"Is there any link with Avarga Oil?" Giordino asked.
"Without any evidence, we just don't know. But it does seem an odd coincidence, you must agree."
The table fell silent for a moment, then Pitt said, "Ivan, you have told us little about the owners of Avarga Oil. Who is the face behind the company?"
"Faces, actually," Corsov corrected. "The company is registered to a man named Tolgoi Borjin. He is known to have a younger sister and brother, but I could not produce their names. The woman, Tatiana, may well in fact be the sister. I will attempt to find further information. Public records being what they are in Mongolia, little is known of the family publicly or even privately. State records indicate that Borjin was raised in a state commune in the Khentii province. His mother died at an early age and his father was a laborer and surveyor. As I mentioned, the family doesn't seem to have any particular political influence and are not known to have a visible presence in Ulaanbaatar's upper society. I can only repeat a rumor that the family are self-proclaimed members of the Golden Clan."
"Deep pockets, eh?" Giordino asked.
Corsov shook his head. "No, the Golden Clan has nothing to do with wealth. It is a reference to lineage."
"With a name like that, there must have been some old money somewhere along the line."
"Yes, I suppose you could say that. Old money and land. Lots of it. Nearly the entire Asian continent, as a matter of fact."
"You're not saying ... ," Pitt started to ask.
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