He had never been good at faking his feelings or shielding his emotions. Too much Irish perhaps. He sucked in his breath before cocking his right arm in preparation to give the miner more than he had received. Nadia’s hand on his wrist provided a more rational restraint. Before he could reconsider, the miners had finished filing out of the room.
“Sorry,” Nadia apologized.
“You were right, of course. Let’s get the hell out of here.” Charlie was furious. Not at Nadia, but at Henry, the miners, and the entire impossible situation.
Returning to his room, Charlie immediately tried to use the private number that Trevor Gunn had provided. Surprisingly it went through.
“Gunn here.”
“How the hell could you have provided us with a twitchy accountant,” Charlie roared, ignoring the cheerful greeting on the other end of the line.
“Whoa, whoa there, hold on old boy, what is going on up there?”
Gunn’s composure infuriated Charlie even more, but after a moment he realized that there was no benefit in giving Gunn hell, and began more coolly to recount what had happened at the meeting.
“So he broke down sobbing in front of the miners. Good lord man,” Trevor exclaimed, “that’s very un-British I must say. Very dodgy. Very dodgy indeed. Why do you think that happened?”
“Don’t know. He started out by talking about how he was glad to be back in Kazakhstan, and the more he talked the more he sobbed. Then Andre and I took over. Did you know he had been here before Trevor?”
“Not the foggiest. Nothing on his CV. But, unfortunately there is nothing that we can do about it now. We could never get someone up there in time to replace him. Try to find out what his problem is. You fellows keep an eye on him. I am sure you can work it out.
“Your confidence is deeply appreciated,” Charlie replied with veiled sarcasm.
“By the way old man,” Trevor hastened to add before closing the conversation, “I understand that we will be getting another American at your Embassy here. He is going to be replacing your fellow Durand. You know, the one that got murdered over in the oil fields. Do you know a Roger Pembroke? He is going to be the new Assistant Cultural Attaché.”
“Never heard of him, but then I have never been too culturally inclined.”
“Charlie—be careful up there, and keep in touch. We need to finish the project on schedule but we want you all safe as well.”
“We will try to oblige Trevor.”
After the call with GBC was completed, Charlie thought for a few minutes about how best to proceed. He wasn’t sure, but one thing was certain. He needed to have confidence in the people with whom he was working. They all seemed competent, but then so had Henry. Sure he had a few quirks, but who doesn’t he thought, opening his laptop.
He quickly composed an email to Emmett Valentine using a secure address. It listed the names of the people on the project, and to the best of his knowledge, where they came from. Emmett would know what to do with it. He had worked with the Agency long enough to know and they had extensive resources when it came to background checks. After hitting Send he knew that the message would travel the atmosphere like a phantom, first to be encrypted, then decrypted, and eventually placed on Emmett’s desk, flagged for a rapid response.
The next thing was to find Henry and determine what his problem was, and what to do next. Andre and Dave were already in the lounge.
Charlie went down the hallway to Henry’s room. He hesitated, and then tapped on the door. “Let’s talk.”
11
Karaganda
Henry had stopped crying. He seemed to have regained control of his emotions; but with his rumpled suit, tousled hair, and red-rimmed eyes he appeared, for all the world, like an accounting artifact from hell.
By the time the two of them entered the lounge, Andre was uncorking some of his Chilean reserve, and Dave had managed to scrounge-up four clean glasses from the kitchen.
“Que pasa mi amigo?” Andre inquired pleasantly, passing an overflowing glass of white to Henry. He took it gratefully, and drained it before speaking. “Oh my God, I am terribly sorry. I had no idea that would happen. I thought I could get through it without a problem.” He handed his glass back to Andre who quickly refilled it.
The men were silent, then Charlie finally blurted, “what the hell was that all about?” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he felt badly. He knew he should have been more tactful, more indirect.
“I don’t know where to begin,” Henry mumbled, “my name is not really Henry Butts. I changed it when I came to England. It is really Henry Butofski. I was born in Poland before the war. My father was a mathematician. When the Russians rolled through our town, they rounded up all the Jewish families they thought could be helpful to them and tossed us into freight cars-- They packed us in like kippers in a can. At first there was no food no water, no toilets--it was terrible. The worst was the cold. Oh my God the cold!” His voice trailed off.
Andre refilled Henry’s glass once more.
“Anyway…..” Charlie said, encouraging him to continue.
“Well anyway,” Henry picked up the thread. “We traveled for days. For weeks. I don’t know. Finally, we ended up in Kazakhstan. Kazakhstan for God’s sake! None of us had ever heard of the place. Even my father, who was an educated man, had never heard of Kazakhstan.
“What happened then?” Dave prompted sympathetically.
“They put us in these camps, Gulags they called them. Do you know what Gulag stands for?” Henry asked, his voice full of bitterness. “It is a Russian acronym for the Chief Administration of Corrective Labor Camps that ran the system. The Russians had camps everywhere.
“Karlag was the name of the Gulag network in Kazakhstan. We were zeks. That is what they call convicts—criminals in Russia. We were criminals to them. We were just zeks—just ciphers.”
The little accountant paced back and forth in the small lounge while he described his family’s terrifying experience at the hands of the Soviets. As his story unfolded he became increasingly agitated, and his pace quickened.
“I believe they planned to use my father and his mathematical training on their nuclear program. But, it was wartime. The main thing was to get people who might be harmful to them out of the way. Kazakhstan was the most God forsaken place they could think of. Somehow, the paperwork must have got bollixed up, and they sent us to Karaganda to work in the mines. Men, women and children. We were like the donkeys that pulled the wagons out of the tunnels. The only reason they didn’t starve us to death was that they needed the ore.”
Henry paused, lost in his thoughts.
Andre refilled his glass, although this time it was not nearly close to being empty.
“Before the war, people thought that the area was uninhabitable,” Henry continued. The Russians figured that would be the perfect place for a dumping ground, and they needed a supply of minerals for their war effort. The camp ran for miles. I can still remember how they drove us from the train—we rode and rode. Along the way, I could see areas where there was nothing but mounds of dirt. I learned later they were mass graves.”
Nadia slipped into the room, unnoticed by Henry, and took a place on the couch next to Charlie. He slid his untouched wine glass toward her, but she shook her head with a faint smile.
Henry took a sip of wine, and cleared his throat. “There were people from all over Europe at the camp. People from Hungary, Poland, Lithuania--Germany, of course. The Germans were treated the worst—if you can imagine that. We had schoolteachers, scientists, artists, the whole goddamn gamut of occupations and professions…. except those like doctors that would be more valuable at the front.
“My mother died within the first six months. My father lasted a year. Another Polish couple, without children, adopted me—if you can call it that. They tried to take care of me as best they could. They shared their rations, and tried to comfort me over the loss of my parents.”
Henry’s eyes began to fill u
p again. He paused for a moment and blew his nose before continuing. “After the war was over, they didn’t need us anymore, and we were told that we could leave or stay—whichever we wanted. No one wanted to stay, but how to leave, where could you go? Eastern Europe was occupied by the Russians, Germany was in shambles, France was trying to recover from the occupation.
“Somehow, the Vatican was working behind the scenes attempting to arrange homes for some of the children by claiming they were Catholic. I don’t know how I got chosen. Just luck I guess. I had to sign a certificate stating I was Catholic. The Polish family had to sign it as well.
“The Church was able to get us to England, with the help of some relief organizations. They placed me with a Catholic family. There are Catholics in England you know.”
No one answered.
“I got an English education, and was raised a Catholic. So you see standing before you a Catholic Jew or a Jewish Catholic. I am never sure which. Anyway, I became an accountant, and eventually set up my own business.”
“What brought you back to Kazakhstan?” Nadia asked gently.
Her question seemed to startle Henry. Apparently, he had been so lost in his recollections he had not seen her enter the lounge.
“You must hate the Kazakhs and the Russians,” she added.
“Why did I come back here?” he replied puzzled. “That’s a good question. Eventually, I sold my business in England and started doing consulting work. I think I mentioned back in Almaty that I had worked for the World Bank on some projects, and when I heard that GBC was looking for an accountant for a project in Kazakhstan I thought it would be interesting to see what the country was like now. I guess, now that I think about it, I really wanted to confront my own demons. The terrible dreams—the night sweats. I always had trouble getting along with people for any length of time. My wife left me after just a few years.
“It was a terrible mistake coming back. I realized that on the ride up here. The deeper we got into the country, the more I regretted coming. Then when I took the podium today, and looked out on all those Russian faces, everything came flooding back, and I was overwhelmed. I could almost feel the cold, and smell the odor of death, and I just lost control.
“But that’s over now. It’s out of my system. I know it is. I will be all right. I guarantee it.” Henry stared at his associates imploringly with his red-rimmed eyes, begging for their acceptance.
“You must still hate the Kazakhs and Russians?” Charlie repeated Nadia’s question. It was important to get a feeling for Henry’s emotional stability. He knew the miners had no time for the visiting consultants. That was accepted, but if Henry was on some kind of a vendetta that would really make their task impossible.
Henry pursed his lips. “No-- no I don’t. Surely, nothing was the fault of the Kazakhs, he added “They just happened to live in an out of the way place that was rich in minerals that could provide a dumping ground for the perceived enemies of the Communist Party.
“The Russians? Well, that is another thing. I hated the Communists. That’s a certainty. Now I’m over it. It was a long while ago. No problem now. I will be all right. I know my job, and I can do it better than most. I want to stay and finish the project. I am sorry I broke down. It won’t happen again.” He looked at his associates, who nodded their acceptance.
Henry drained his glass, and started back to his room. “I need to get some sleep,” he told them. “I’ll be fine in the morning.”
Halfway through the door, he paused. “Did you know that Solzhenitsyn was a zek in Kazakhstan? That’s where he wrote One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich.” The significance of his parting statement was lost on the group. But, it was obviously important to Henry.
After he had left, Charlie thought about what he had just heard. He still had many questions running through his mind. He wanted to respond but instead turned to the group. “What do you think? Can he do the job?”
Each man looked at the other. Finally, Andre offered, “What is our option? What is the alternative? I am not an accountant, and I don’t think any of you fellows are either. They never could find someone else, and get him up here in time to meet Trevor Gunn’s schedule. We have no choice.”
“Agreed,” Charlie muttered.
“You know that Elaina is pretty good with numbers,” Nadia offered. “That is what she did in the office at GBC. She obviously doesn’t have the level of experience that Henry does, but she can back him up if need be.”
Charlie considered her suggestion. There really wasn’t much choice, but with Elaina as support, and doing most of the interface with the mine staff, it might work.
“OK let’s stick with him,” Charlie offered. The others nodded their agreement.
Andre left to inspect the mine, and the others drifted back to their rooms.
Charlie began to change for dinner. He was drained. The others must be worn out as well. You had to give Andre credit to go into the mine so late in the day.
He took off the blazer and hung it carefully in the armoire. His shirt was damp and it stuck to his back. As he peeled it off and tossed it onto the bed, a small piece of paper fluttered to the floor. "What the hell was that?" he wondered, stooping to pick it up.
Carefully unfolding the soiled, blue-lined paper, he tried to figure out how it got into his pocket in the first place. He recalled the shirt was fresh from the laundry when he unfolded it that morning. It couldn’t have been in there then.
He replayed the day’s events. The note couldn’t have been in his shirt when he put it on, so how in the hell did it get in his pocket. If not then how? The only answer he could come-up with was that the miner who shoved him at the meeting might have slipped it into his pocket when he ran his hands down his chest. Perhaps—just perhaps, but why?
The note had a diagram of some sort. He could make out two vertical lines leading to a series of horizontal ones running in divergent directions. At several points on the diagram, there were crudely penciled Russian words. He could tell that much, but he didn’t understand the drawing, or what might be written on it. It must have been important to the miner, but he had no idea why that might be.
“Nadia,” he shouted, but she had already returned to her room.
12
Almaty
Roger stared bleakly at the soul crushing sameness of the cinder block architecture his cab was passing on its way from the airport to the American Embassy. He was shocked when Mr. Valentine called him into his office and told him he would be leaving immediately for Kazakhstan. He could still recall, with considerable clarity, and some concern, Mr. Valentine telling him ‘this is not a training mission Roger. We do not have the time, or the available personnel, to break you in slowly. It’s o-p-e-r-a-t-i-o-n-a-l,’ pronouncing the word very slowly to convey all the risk inherent in such an early assignment.
Hell! The only time he had even traveled out of the country before was when he and his friends would go down to Cabo San Lucas for spring break. Now he was in Central Asia. Join the CIA and see the world--that was part of the allure the Agency offered to its new recruits.
But Kazakhstan for God’s sake! The only thing he knew about the country was from watching Sacha Baron Cohen’s movie Borat. He had seen it twice when he was in college, and thought it was hilarious. It was obvious from what he had seen so far the movie bore little resemblance to reality. He knew the country was an emerging petro-power, and it was possible in the future it could become one of the world’s major producers of oil and gas. They had at least told him that before he left, but he could see little evidence of that as his cab raced through the gray early morning streets.
He was nervous. There was no denying it. He knew eventually he would be going into the field. It was what he wanted. That was what all the new recruits wanted. It was just that he thought it would be later rather than sooner. He was shocked when Mr. Valentine told him he was replacing a murdered agent. Shocked hell, he was scared stiff after he had time on the plane to think it
over. But, this was his big chance. He was well of that, and he did not want to screw it up.
The taxi pulled to an abrupt stop in front of the American Embassy. Roger paid the driver, and grabbed his bag out of the trunk. A tall iron fence separated the building from the street. He showed his passport to the Marine guard at the gate who, after glancing at his picture, waved him through. The embassy was in an old multi-storied Russian style box building with a reflective dark coating on all of the windows.
Once inside, Roger approached another Marine, a sergeant with three rows of “fruit salad” on the chest of his dress blue tunic. He was a powerfully built man with a wrinkled world-weary face, situated behind a glass-enclosed desk, centered under the official print of President Barak Obama.
Death on the Silk Road Page 10
