“Will I replace him? Yes, I already have someone in mind. I will get him there as soon as I can.”
After talking to the CIA officer in Almaty, Emmett put down the receiver, and left his office for the weekend, more disconsolate than before.
4.
Almati
Charlie Connelly’s head bobbed him awake for the hundredth time since leaving Istanbul. The Air Astana’s aging Tupolev-204 was bouncing its way through another thermal draft from the Taklimakan Dessert far below. With only a few hours sleep the night before, he still was not able to doze on the plane. It didn’t have anything to do with this particular aircraft, or this airline for that matter. With all of his travels, he never had been able to master the art of in-flight deep sleep, as many of his associates seemed to do so effortlessly.
What was that fellow’s name—Gibson—Walter Gibson, that was it. Hell, old Walter could fall asleep as soon as the fasten seatbelt sign came on. Even before it came on, to the occasional anger of a flight attendant or two. He recalled their trip to Jakarta. It was like traveling alone. Charlie would shake him awake to eat, and he usually fell back to sleep before the attendants removed the trays. When they finally hit the ground, old Walter was ready to howl all night.
Last night’s telephone call from Emmett Valentine was not particularly conducive to sleep either. Through the years, he had grown to respect him, even like him if the truth were known. But damn it, he resented the intrusion on his well ordered life. After the job in Ukraine, he had promised Beth he would never get involved with the old man again. His relationship with the Agency was almost like having an illicit affair that both parties agreed to keep hidden from everyone else, but were mutually committed to continue.
Their association originally began very casually, with just an introductory contact by some of the Agency people visiting his office at Apex Electronics. They only wanted an insight to unimportant things like the import restrictions in Peru, or the economic stability in Sri Lanka, or some other seemingly reasonable request regarding a tedious detail occurring in some far-off place from which he had recently returned. Then things began to snowball, and he soon found himself dealing directly with Emmett, or one of the other people in Washington who worked for him.
He had actually found his little errands flattering and was initially pleased to be asked—to be trusted as it were. But, gradually he found himself getting in over his head. He usually felt more like Maxwell Smart than James Bond. Even then, he had to concede, it made him feel important that he could develop the skills that were so alien to his normal area of competency. He learned how to check to see if he was being followed, elementary dead-drop routines, and brush-pass-offs. Later, he was informed how to use simple encryption, as well as ways to contact certain people in Washington, if he needed to, without anyone becoming suspicious. Even later, if it became necessary, he learned how to cover his identity and purpose without detection. It was almost like on the job training in some kind of crazy corporation with the Mad Hatter acting as CEO.
All these things, he had to admit, added a little spice to an otherwise bland diet, providing melodrama to a more sedentary life of a recent retiree. However, he fully realized he was at best a knowledgeable amateur in a world where there were none. At least not for long.
Now Emmett had contacted him again. The old man back on the job once more. What was it he said? Something about old fire horses chomping at the bit. Charlie chuckled. That was Emmett all right. Charlie suddenly wondered, did it possibly describe himself as well? No, of course not! Not even close, he decided.
What did it say on the old Marlboro packs, back in the days when he was a smoker? Something about how cigarettes could be injurious to your health. Well talking to Emmett could be just as injurious—even more than smoking. Or practically anything else he could think of.
Although, he guessed, the old man certainly would not have called if it didn’t involve something serious, and if it was serious it could also be dangerous. When Emmett called it was always about something dark and grave, and he knew from past experience he could very likely be drawn into things that he did not fully understand; and then he would be unable to reverse or withdraw.
But what the hell, maybe he should go along with the old man one more time. He would not have called if he didn’t need help. Charlie didn’t like the way his thought process was taking him, and he began gazing around the cabin to force his mind in a different direction. Any direction would serve the purpose.
His traveling companions certainly constituted a mixed deck. He had watched them as they boarded the plane and found their seats. Many of them were Asian in appearance, mostly short and squat in ill-fitting suits. Charlie mentally classified them as bureaucratic mandarins of one government agency or the other. Before Kazakhstan became independent, the regime operated almost entirely under the direction of Russian apparatchiks. After independence, this was turned upside down with Russians taking a more subservient role, but still controlling the major operating levers of power.
Another group of men, Charlie guessed, were business managers with distinct Russian characteristics. They had a lighter complexion, square jaws, blond hair, and seemed to exude the confidence that comes from years of leadership.
There were also a few pale-skinned Europeans, or possibly American executives, traveling to establish or burnish a business relationship in resource-rich Kazakhstan.
Further back in the cabin, there was another group that caught his attention. They were middle-aged couples, huddled together, looking as though they were attempting to draw strength from one another.
The flight attendant had informed him earlier that these people were making the long trip in hopes of adopting a Kazakh child. With Russia’s current freeze on adoption, the country had become the world’s sixth largest source of available children. As a result, Kazakhstan was suddenly an important destination for American couples who previously never knew the country existed.
Bored with studying his fellow passengers, and still unable to sleep, Charlie’s mind drifted back to his previous trip to the Central Asian Republics. Actually, it began with a brief late night arrival at the Almati airport. Once there, a driver hired by the United Nations Development Program in Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan met him. The new countries had just claimed their independence from the Soviet Union after generations of Russian control, and they were eager for assistance from the international development agencies to help them convert their economy to a free market system.
There was no airport in Kyrgyzstan that could accommodate international flights, and overland transportation was the only alternative. He had to carry several thousand dollars in expense money, concealed in a money belt, because credit cards were not yet accepted. The night was inky black-not a star in the sky. The driver was a stranger, and he knew the route had the reputation as the location for bandit families. He was damn glad to get to Bishkek safely.
Kyrgyzstan’s transition to independence had been sudden, and many of the country’s leaders still felt a strong affection for their Russian patrons. While many of the Soviet countries were angrily tearing down the statues of their former Russian leaders, Bishkek still prominently featured a huge statue of Felix Dzerzhinsky, founder of the KGB, in the center of their Gorky Park.
His interpreter had recently graduated from medical school, but had entered a local business college because he could not make a living as a doctor. The young man and his wife were paying their college expenses by smuggling and selling prescription drugs from India.
Charlie spent several weeks on the privatization project, working with the Kirgiz Government, before returning to Almati. He was able to get a brief look at the Kazakhstan capital before catching an Austrian Air flight back to his home in Chicago. He wondered if he would notice much of a change now that the country had more experience at self-governance, and independence.
The fasten seat belt sign began to flash. It was a welcome sight. The night had been short and the flight
long. The service was satisfactory—as much as on any flight lately. However, the plane was old and the ventilation system was not up to its task. Charlie felt tired and clammy, and somewhat apprehensive about what lay ahead.
Kazakhstan is a strange country, and he was unsure of what he might find. He also felt unsure about his assignment—both official and unofficial. He was to prepare a strategic plan for the privatization of a mining operation.
He had never been in a mine before, and didn’t know what it might entail. On the other hand, in his career he had worked for a communications company, a computer company, an aircraft company, and finally a consumer electronics organization, so perhaps a mining operation might not be too different. But then, the Valentine contact was adding another element of uncertainty. He had always adapted to what was required, but the last time he damn near got himself killed.
The ancient Tupolev smacked the tarmac, and then bounced, causing the fuselage to shudder. The brakes screamed in resistance as the treadless tires attempted to gain traction on the damp runway. Oxygen masks fell from their hidden receptacle, and some baggage toppled unceremoniously from the overhead bins. The approach was necessarily abbreviated because of the proximity to the Tien Shan mountain range surrounding Almaty, and the resulting hard landing was not accompanied by the usual applause that marks most countries where Charlie frequently traveled.
The flight attendants, in their drab uniforms, smiled for the first time during the trip, and unclipped their seat belts before policing the aisles. They commanded their temporary wards to remain in their seats until the plane came to a stop at the terminal. Like travelers the world over these passengers ignored the warning, and began to gather their bags; at least those that were not already littering the aisle.
Charlie rubbed his bruised knee while uncoiling his long legs before standing to revive his dormant circulation. Retrieving his carry-on, and checking for his wallet and passport, he joined the exiting travelers driven forward by Kazakh officials eager to get to the front of the customs line.
The attendants, whose smiles had now been replaced by glazed glares of officialdom, opened the exit doors and quickly stood aside to avoid the moving mass of deplaning passengers.
Gasping the cool fresh air, Charlie moved toward the terminal. The airport carried its mantel of history well. The building had provided a destination for the first flight of the first supersonic passenger jet, the Soviet Tu-144 that flew just ahead of the European Concorde. Inside, there were signs of a much-needed renovation, and idle construction workers were in the way of the passengers who were attempting to locate the incoming custom desks. There was also striking evidence of the recent revolt in neighboring Kyrgyzstan. Soldiers in ill-fitting uniforms and pie-plate hats closely scrutinized the new arrivals, while nervously clutching their leftover Russian Kalashnikovs.
The lines forming at immigration moved sluggishly forward, penguin fashion. No matter how many times he had gone through customs he always felt a level of nervousness.
Eventually a scowling face of a woman customs official confronted him. She stared at him with practiced bureaucratic contempt as he slid his entry documents over the soiled counter and under the cloudy glass partition.
Her hand shot out from the tattered sleeve of her gray uniform, and he wondered if he would ever see his passport again. It now became clear why the line moved so slowly, as the dour faced official inspected each page of his bulging passport. She then stared at him intently to verify that he was the same person in the faded photograph.
“It’s an old picture,” Charlie offered feebly.
“Get a new one before you come back again,” she spat back.
“Next,” she shouted, as Charlie quickly moved on.
Entering the baggage area, he was surprised to see a short man holding a large sign with GBC lettered in bright red. Below the Bank’s name was the name Konnely. Assuming that must mean him, Charlie waved to get his attention. The grinning Kazakh sign bearer took his sleeve and led him rapidly through the gate. In passing, the attending guards studiously ignored them while the customs agents casually examined each piece of incoming luggage. The Bank’s driver quickly deposited him in a large room with overstuffed chairs, supervised by a flag-draped portrait of “President for Life” Nursultan Nazarbayev staring down at the shabby room.
After exchanging his passport and baggage claim for a large cup of tea magically provided by the Bank’s greeter. Charlie relaxed and waited. The room quickly began to fill up with a scattering of Kazakh officials and visiting businessmen. Each group kept to themselves, assuming an air of indifference, while nervously waiting for their luggage to appear. The small air conditioner wheezed valiantly as the room became engulfed in clouds of strong smelling cigarette smoke exhaled by the previously nicotine deprived passengers.
All eyes turned toward the doorway as two burly guards pushed a man into the room, and shoved him toward a chair by the exit. The prisoner struggled vainly until one of the guards cracked him across the face. The man staggered, and fell awkwardly into the chair with such force that it almost tipped over.
Charlie was relieved to see the driver reappear, carrying his bag and happily waving his passport. The little man motioned to follow him outside. Charlie pointed quizzically toward the cowering man in the corner. The driver’s response was a shrug of the shoulders and a whispered “Uighur-- all thieves and crooks.” The two of them walked, with their eyes averted, past the pitiful man attempting to wipe a bloody nose on his sleeve.
Outside, the driver carefully squeezed Charlie’s bag into the small trunk of an indistinguishable car. The airport was on the northeastern edge of town, 12 kilometers from the city center. The driver maneuvered his vehicle expertly through the increasing traffic, speaking rapidly in an unknown language, while pointing to buildings that seemed to look like all the others.
Finally, the car came to a stop in front of the old Hotel Kazakhstan. As Charlie unfolded himself from the back and retrieved his bag, the driver searched his pockets for an envelope from the Global Bank Corp. He triumphantly handed it over with a broad smile. “Tomorrow—tomorrow,” he sing-songed holding up nine fingers. His assignment satisfactorily completed, he climbed behind the wheel of his car and roared away with a cloud of noxious black exhaust.
Russian architects apparently knew no other form-factor than the rectangle. From Soviet city to Soviet city, the only difference in their buildings was the number of floors that were included. In the case of this hotel, however, they capped their efforts with a distinguishing golden crown that glistened in the afternoon sunlight. Charlie remembered he had stayed here when he returned from his consulting project in Bishkek.
Going through the lobby, he could notice a few significant changes of questionable taste that had taken place since then. The older conventional Soviet light fixtures were missing, recently replaced by modern brighter lights. The new management had attempted to introduce an artistic element by randomly scattering throughout the now bright lobby golden statues of buxom Kazakh girls carrying baskets of fruit and goblets of koumiss, the traditional national drink.
He noticed one dramatic change when he checked-in. The desk clerk was friendly and accommodating, unlike his predecessors who seemed to place a premium on hostility. He also noticed that the traditional floor-ladies no longer occupied their place of authority. They had been a fixture in Soviet hotels, keeping a jaundiced eye on the arrival and departures of the intruding guests.
Once in his room, he tried placing a call to his wife, only to be greeted by their recorder. After leaving a message that he was well and on schedule, he closed with his love. A shower and an unsuccessful attempt at a nap followed his unsuccessful call home.
Charlie decided to take a walk to unwind, attempting to recover from the time change and cramped quarters on the long flight. The sun was beginning to disappear, being gradually replaced by threatening clouds. He was struck, as he had been on the drive in from the airport, that Almaty was
a city without a soul, or even a strong sense of identity. It was built originally on the site of a former Silk Road town that was later destroyed by marauding hordes of Mongols. It was now definitely Russian, with masses of box-like apartments and straight grid like streets. Towering in the background, Charlie could see a range of the Tien Shan Mountains. Their snow capped peaks managed to add a scenic element to an otherwise drab city.
Charlie studied the faces of the sons and daughters of Genghis Khan, liberally mixed among those with a more East European appearance. It was late in the afternoon, and a dark cloak of melancholy seemed to hang heavily on the workers making their evening trudge home. They presented an interesting blend of nationalities, Kazakh, Russian, and their Ukrainian look-alikes, along with Uzbeks, Uighur’s and Tatars.
Russia controlled Kazakhstan since the 1700s. Over the centuries, Russian soldiers and settlers poured into the country pushing the Kazakh nomads off their land, and relegating them to the status of second-class citizens.
The city’s fabric was now a tantalizing mix of cosmopolitanism combined with the atmosphere of a gold rush boomtown. Even though the oil driven economy had improved considerably, the benefits did not appear to have trickled down to the average Kazakh, and were not reflected in the faces of the people he was passing. They appeared grim, and only a few seemed to be talking among themselves. Instead, they stared directly ahead, unsmiling and determined.
Death on the Silk Road Page 4
