Death on the Silk Road

by Russell Miller

  Charlie felt very much alone, as he had many times before walking in a strange city. Perhaps it was a reflection of his fatigue. He wondered what was ahead and what tomorrow would bring.

  It started to drizzle, and he decided it was time to turn back. It grew colder and he tugged at the collar of his Burberry trench coat, attempting to protect himself from the frigid dampness. Soon the steady chilling rain coated the black city streets, leaving them looking even shabbier then before. He was glad to see the brightly polished door of his hotel coming into view.

  He welcomed the warmth of the hotel room. Laying stretched out on the too short bed he tried to sleep, but it came grudgingly. He thought of home and his wife. They had been married forever and were comfortably accustomed to each other. Through the years together, it was commonplace, but never easy, for them to be apart for long periods. Early on, he had been a corporate nomad moving from company to company and city to city. Sometimes out of necessity, and other times to seize an opportunity while chasing the American dream. Wife and family followed with some difficulty, but always without complaint. In the end, they all seemed to benefit from the experience by making them individually independent, but collectively compatible.

  Since he retired, life seemed to continue drawing them apart. After Beth learned off his association with the Agency, she had become more uneasy about his travels. Never the less, she kept her concerns to herself.

  Now here he was in Kazakhstan, a place few people were even aware of, and of those that were, fewer still could spell. The fact that his location was so far from home only served to draw him closer to his family.

  His last thought was of his wife before sleep finally overtook him.

  Charlie stretched out to kill his ringing travel alarm, only to discover the source of his irritation was coming from the hotel phone on his nightstand. At first, he thought it might be his wife retuning his earlier call, until he heard the soft purr of the scrambler, quickly followed by the all too familiar voice of Emmett Valentine.

  “Did I wake you Charlie?”

  “Of course you did, what the hell is that music?”

  “Is it too loud?” Emmett inquired solicitously, turning the dial slightly on his stereo receiver. It’s Puccini—one of my favorites. Poor Madam Butterfly, Lieutenant Pinkerton took advantage of her, and after Cho-Cho San renounced her religion and her Asian culture, the callow officer leaves her alone and returns to his own country. How sad.

  “Sometimes I think that is what the Agency often does to its agents,” he mused, leaning back in his recliner and staring at the picture of the man he had just lost working in the Caspian oil fields. “But it can’t be helped can it?” he added recovering quickly. “We are constantly at war with a ruthless enemy that wants to destroy our way of life. As soon as we think we have won one battle, a new enemy arises. However, that’s what keeps the old juices flowing. Right Charlie?”

  “God damn it Emmett, I just got to sleep,” Charlie answered, furious at being awakened. “Why the hell are you calling in the middle of the night?

  “I am afraid the time change slipped my mind. I’m terribly sorry,” Emmet added without a great deal of sincerity, “but I thought it was important to warn you of the situation that seems to be developing there.

  “It now appears that Central Asia is becoming a simmering cauldron of intrigue, with all the major powers trying to stir the pot. The Agency believes that spying on the U.S. from Russia, China and others is now at Cold War levels—perhaps even greater.

  “My Operation Silk Road has suffered a severe blow. (Even as he voiced the cryptonym, it sounded to him like a glorified reference to a pitifully meager effort.)

  “They recently found one of our men in Kazakhstan, in his hotel room, with his throat sliced from ear to ear. He had been working undercover over in the Caspian Basin trying to find out who the power players were. Who controls the oil fields is becoming extremely critical to us.

  “Who did it?” Charlie asked, becoming more sympathetic with the old man and his middle of the night calls.

  “We don’t know. We may never know. It could have been the Russians or the Chinese--or God knows who else. Some of our people are trying to walk back the cat to see what could have gone wrong to blow his cover, but it’s becoming obvious things are heating up in Central Asia, and I thought that you should be aware of it. We don’t want you to end up the same way.”

  “I appreciate your interest Emmett, but my connection to you and your people is so nebulous I barely understand it myself. I leave tomorrow for the mine, and the place is so far up in the hills that practically no one can find it, much less have an interest in what we are going to be doing there.”

  Emmett closed with “Get a good night’s sleep old friend.”

  Charlie tried as hard as he could to take Emmett’s advice, but like many things connected to Emmett, it was so easy to say but so hard to do.

  5

  The driver was waiting at the hotel as promised. His impressive collection of gold teeth glistened in the harsh lobby lights. After grinning a greeting, he led Charlie to the waiting car, and tossed his bag casually on the back seat.

  As they sped through the rough streets, Charlie thought about his late night conversation with Emmett. He was concerned about the death of their agent. Emmett had made his point. Any association with the Agency had an element of danger, particularly, when someone is dangling alone on a tenuous thread in a distant and remote country rife with conflicting interests.

  He automatically turned to study the traffic behind him. It had become a habit since his association with Emmett Valentine. A bad habit—a foolish habit—a mark of paranoia, but a habit he was unable to break.

  To hell with it he decided, and sat back trying to enjoy the ride. The rain had stopped in the night, and the morning broke brisk and bright. Charlie’s mood eventually lifted with the clouds over the peaks of the heavenly mountains as the locals refer to the sheltering Tian Shans. The buildings they were passing, more rapidly than Charlie would have liked, looked less drab and the city appeared more serene.

  As his driver sped along his route, they passed an imposing marble megalith facing the east side of the presidential palace on Ulitsa Furmanova that the driver haltingly identified as the Central State Museum. Amazing, he thought, what oil revenue can produce.

  In stark contrast to the museum, the Global Bank Corp’s Almaty office was located in an unassuming gray office building in the heart of the city. In the dimly lit lobby, he had to squint to read the directory and decipher the alphabet soup of international aid and development agencies spread throughout the five floors of the Russian-built structure. Scrolling down the English list that included the ADB, CICA, CSTO, EAEC, EBRD, ECO, FAO, he finally located the GBC neatly nestled alphabetically between FAO and the IBRD.

  Two years earlier, President Nazarbayev riding a mounting wave of prosperity, decided to invest some of the country’s burgeoning oil revenues in building a new capital city of Astana in the northern part of the country.

  It appeared to him, from scanning the list that the majority of the NGOs had, so far, decided to keep their offices in the more socially desirable Almaty.

  An “out of order sign” dangled by a dirty string on the elevator door. It looked as if it had been there since the building opened. Realizing he might be late, and forgetting his accumulated fatigue, Charlie vaulted the first flight of stairs, then more slowly puffed the remaining four to the top.

  On the way, he could not avoid noticing that the walls were spider-webbed with cracks running crazily all the way from the bottom floor to the top. It looked as if a passing earthquake—earthquake hell---even a faint tremor could turn the old building into a pile of rubble. Russian buildings have the unenviable reputation for shoddy construction, beginning to deteriorate even before they are completed. This one appeared to conform to the established norm.

  Reaching the top floor, a series of unmarked doors lined the dim hallway. One was sl
ightly ajar at the opposite end of the corridor, and Charlie headed in that direction.

  All eyes turned as he entered a large conference room. “Charlie Connelly,” he offered casually, introducing himself to a group already seated around a gray metal conference table. The two women, seated at the opposite end glanced at each other with approving looks.

  Charlie was an impressive man, tall, well built, with slightly graying temples, and a firm square jaw. He carried himself with an air of authority acquired from many years of increasingly responsible management positions.

  Not waiting for an invitation, he chose a chair closest to the door he had just entered. This positioned him facing a younger man at the opposite end who waved in acknowledgement to the new arrival.

  “I told your driver to pick you up earlier, but he is always late,” the young man offered apologetically. “I guess we are all here now,” he continued. ”I was just going to start the obligatory introductions,” he added looking over his assembled listeners. It was really his first real opportunity to study them closely.

  ”We were only chatting until you arrived. I am Trevor Gunn, head of the Global Bank Corporation in Almaty,” he began. “All of you were selected by our office in Vienna for your particular skills, and I have looked over your CVs. You look perfect for our job. Before I give a rundown on what we expect as a work product from you during the next three weeks, why don’t each of you sound off with name, rank, and serial number,” he suggested nodding to the man seated to his left.

  “Henry Butts, Certified Public Accountant, from Devonshire, more recently London,” the gray haired man provided cautiously—almost as if he expected an argument or rebuttal. “Worked on projects in Belarus and Lithuania for the World Bank,” he added as an afterthought.

  When Henry finished, the man to his left offered, “Andre Malott, Mining Engineer, and man of the world. Originally from Paris—more recently from Santiago, Chile. Hola, and bonjour“.

  Dave Dieter took the nod from Andre. “Process Engineer, Cairo, Illinois—USA, and yes people there really is a Cairo, Illinois. I can assure you it is far less interesting than the city on the Nile; although it was made famous by Mark Twain and Clark Gable who hunted geese there.” His attempt at clarification only further confused the majority of his listeners. “We also have coal mines. That’s where I worked before retiring,” Dave added, his voice trailing off.

  It was now Charlie’s turn, and the attention at the table focused on the late arrival. “Charlie Connelly, former international peddler and world traveler. Strategic planner for this gig,” he told them with a grin. “Former project experience with the UNDP in Kyrgyzstan, and with GBC in Ukraine.” It seemed he was the only one of the consultants who had worked before with the Vienna based organization. “Home town Chicago,” he added, waiting for the usual gesture mimicking a cocked pistol that was the typical response to the windy city, but it didn’t come.

  “And now……” Trevor Gunn motioned to the people seated together on his right.

  “Sammie Wang,” the Asian appearing man offered. “I am going to be your man Thursday on this project. I have been at the mine for the last three weeks coordinating with the local management trying to get them to organize the basic information you will need to make your recommendations and prepare a plan. I have asked for organization charts, head counts, production levels, and whatever other information I could think of that you might need. These may or may not be available when you arrive.” he added with a broad grin to emphasize his uncertainty.

  “Thank you Sammie. By the way, the reference is to a man Friday, not Thursday. At least in England that is. Sammie has worked for our office here in Almaty before, and has been of enormous help. He speaks Russian, Chinese, and passable English” he chuckled. “His wife is also secretary to the American Ambassador’s wife, and she has been of great help to this office.

  “Now let me introduce our two lovely ladies who will be traveling with you to Tekeli and acting as interpreters with the Russian mine management after you arrive. They are also accomplished computer operators and translators. They will be invaluable when you need to convert your presentations into Russian, which you will need to do. As you may already be aware, Russian is the lingua Franca of Kazakhstan. Nadia, has worked for us before, and just returned from the Tenghiz oil fields –over in the Caspian Basin--where she worked as an interpreter for a Canadian exploration company”

  The older looking of the two gave a slight flutter of her hand in recognition.

  “Elaina,” he continued “is also from Almaty, and has been working in our office here for the last three months.”

  “Now for the project,” Trevor continued. “The Government of Kazakhstan commissioned the GBC to provide restructuring advice on how best to prepare their mining combinat for purchase--hopefully by outside investors. Or if that is not possible, to remain more profitably in government hands.”

  “The study objectives are:” Trevor began, flipping on a slide.

  -- Determine Tekeli Combinat Financial and Operational Viability

  -- Assist the Restructuring Efforts Being Pursued by the Combinat

  -- Provide Recommendations and Strategy for Financial and Operational Restructuring

  -- Provide Technical Advice related to Mining and Mineral Processing

  “The operation is quite large,” Trevor continued, “and includes two distinct mining operations, employs over a thousand people, and even includes its own brewery and railroad, in addition, of course to the operating shafts and concentrator. You will have to………”

  While Trevor Gunn described the project, Charlie studied the people who he would be working with for the next three weeks. It was easy to do. The room was cramped and the conference table large, leaving little room for anyone to pass behind the seated attendees. The area was windowless with bright yellow walls. A single bank of neon fixtures, with one flickering tube, cast a jaundiced reflective glow on the tightly assembled occupants.

  Henry Butts--that is certainly an insignificant name-- Charlie thought, looking at the small bookish man with wiry gray hair. He noticed that Henry furtively observed what was transpiring around him through myopic eyes, partially aided by thick, metal rimmed, British Healthcare glasses. He wore his life studying balance sheets and P&L statements as he did his wrinkled gray suit.

  “The mine itself has not been actively worked for several months,” Trevor was saying. “The miners claim the vein has been worked-out. The mine management tells the government that this is not true and that the miners are afraid to go back underground.”

  “What are they afraid of?” Andre asked, becoming more attentive.

  Andre Malott was the physical opposite of the accountant. He was a large powerful man, his thick white hair made him avuncular appearing. Cheerful and confident he gave the impression of being as much at home in the conference room as he undoubtedly was in the mineshafts. His rather large nose revealed a latticework of red veins that seemed to establish a crimson road map to his past failings.

  “They believe it may be haunted,” Trevor chuckled dismissively. He continued, “The concentrator capacity is under-utilized. That is why we brought in a process engineer. Ore reserves may be limited. Working capital and investment funds are tight. Uncertainty about the future is………..”

  The reference to the process engineer caused Charlie to focus attention once more on the man from Cairo, his fellow Illinoisan. Dave Dieter was a big man with deep wrinkles and a quick smile. He seemed to be a pleasant man, reminding Charlie of his old high school chemistry teacher. The man would probably be competent and easy to work with he decided.

  The two mining experts were dressed casually in old sweaters and Khaki trousers; in contrast to the accountant’s suit and tie, and Charlie’s navy blue blazer and turtleneck. He was pleased with the two men, but the number cruncher was still a question. He would be living closely with these men during the next three weeks, in a remote area of a remote country. It wou
ld be necessary to depend on their ability to do what they were hired to do and still maintain, at least some level of civility, if not friendship.

  “Tekeli is a typical company town.” Trevor persisted. The mine is the sole support of the surrounding community. The entire area depends on it for support, as well as continuing its social infrastructure for schools and hospitals.”

  This situation was familiar to Charlie. He had worked before on a consulting project in an out-of the-way village in Ukraine. The Russians had isolated the town from the outside because of ICBMs concealed in the surrounding Carpathian Mountains, and secret military electronic factories hidden in the town itself. Under the Russians, no one was allowed to enter or leave. He was the first person from the “outside” most of the people had ever met, much less someone from their former enemy the United States. His assignment was to assist one of the former military electronic organizations to convert their product line from defense to consumer products.