by Fritz Galt
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Murder in Mongolia
An Eco-Thriller
Fritz Galt
Sigma Books
Murder in Mongolia
An Eco-Thriller
© Copyright 2019 by Fritz Galt
All rights reserved.
Sigma Books
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the author. All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The names, incidents, dialogue and opinions expressed are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Nothing is intended or should be interpreted as expressing or representing the views of any U.S. government department or agency of any government body.
Table of Contents
Part 1—Washington
Part 2—Out of Office
Part 3—Russia
Part 4—Mongolia
About the Author
Part One
Washington
Man is a part of nature, and his war against nature is inevitably a war against himself.
— Rachel Carson
“The Silent Spring of Rachel Carson”
CBS Reports
April 3, 1963
Chapter 1
Sunday
There was nowhere to hide on the exposed hillside. He needed to reach and take refuge in a copse of trees that covered the upper reaches of the mountain.
Breathing hard as he struggled up the steep slope in the high altitude of Mongolia, he was determined to outrun his pursuers.
An experienced outdoorsman, he nevertheless felt bewildered by the combination of nature and manmade ruins around him. The yellow granite boulders that were strewn across the mountain had been collected and sculpted into two dozen temples that now remained only as a framed doorway here and a foundation there.
He could look back, but didn’t dare. They could be anywhere now. They could have him in their crosshairs.
Instead, he concentrated on where to place each step, careful not to create a rockslide that would give him away.
That frigid morning on a sunny mountainside in a land far removed from the frenetic world and its teeming cities, there was an explosion. It was not a nuclear detonation, but it had enormous force. The smell of high explosives and blasted granite shot into the neighboring steppe. One could smell it in a nearby national park where rangers were trying to introduce horses back into the wild. One could hear it as far away as the coal-fired power plants where engineers produced electricity and steam for the national capital. Herders gathering their horses with long lasso poles paused to take note of it. It was a singular explosion that told of the destruction of land and obliteration of life. And it had no place in that world. It must have come from a different world that intruded on the delicate balance of man and nature. And in all the people and animals who witnessed it, the unexpected blast awakened a terrifying fear of the unknown.
Even with the best technology in the world, news trickled in slowly from overseas, and details were hard to come by.
FBI Special Agent Jake Maguire was reminded of that fact as he rolled over in bed and scanned a message sent for his eyes only from FBI Headquarters. In mid-career with nothing spectacular to show for it, he wondered why the Bureau had singled him out for this case. Bathed in the blue light of his smartphone, he concentrated on the transcript of a conversation between a security officer at the distant U.S. Embassy in Mongolia and an official answering the phone at the State Department’s 24-hour Operations Center in Washington.
The people and places that the security officer described were unknown to him, but the tragedy of death was all too familiar. Jake’s career had been devoted to investigating fatalities of all sorts. But what made this a crime?
He straightened out his sheets and plumped up his pillow. In the early hours of the morning, he rested his phone against his knees and began to read.
“Where did the death occur?” the junior officer at the Ops Center had begun by asking.
“On the back side of Bogd Khan Mountain,” the security officer had reported. “Just outside of the capital city.”
“Remind me the name of the capital?”
“Ulaanbaatar.”
“Okay, where is that again?”
“It’s Mongolia.”
“Okay. Have you identified the citizen?”
“Not officially. It’s kind of hard to identify him.”
“Well, where is his body?”
“I’m told it’s all over the place.”
There was a pause. “What do you mean?”
“It looks like there was an explosion, like an IED, and he ended up scattered over a radius of a quarter mile.”
“So how do you know it’s an American?”
“The embassy received a phone call a few hours before the blast occurred. The citizen was known to the embassy and sounded concerned. He said that he feared for his life and that he was heading out to the countryside.”
“Were there any witnesses to the death?”
“Yes. A monk and his girlfriend were returning from a hike on the mountain and sustained minor injuries. They reported seeing an American shortly before the explosion.”
“Who did they report this to?”
“To the local precinct.”
“I see. Are the police collecting evidence?”
“Yes. It was a detective who called to inform me.”
“So how did the monk know that it was an American?”
“The monk talked with the victim on the mountain a few minutes before the incident and identified him to the police as such.”
“Got it. Well, cable us the Consular Report of Death.”
“We will,” the security officer at the embassy had said. “But I think this requires more attention. We’ll need the FBI to look into it.”
“Why’s that?”
“First, this appears to be a homicide given that the victim felt under threat. Second, the Mongolians have ignored obvious signs of an explosion and ruled it an accident caused by a rockslide. And third is the victim’s public profile. He’s a well-known environmentalist, and his death is already in the news.”
“Okay. I’ll inform the FBI and explain the situation to them.”
“Maybe they can send someone up from Beijing.”
“We’ll look into the matter right away and have someone get back to you.”
Jake closed the encrypted app, put his smartphone back on his nightstand, and tried to finish his night’s sleep.
Winter was at the doorstep in Washington, DC, and Mongolia was probably in deep freeze half a world away. He wouldn’t wish that case on anyone.
Why had the Bureau chosen him?
Chapter 2
Monday
At his breakfast table, still in his bathrobe, and over a mug of coffee, FBI Special Agent Jake Maguire tried to figure out who had assigned him the Mongolia case and why. He stared at his phone and re-read the transcript of the conversation from the night before.
The request from the embassy security officer in Mongolia to the Operations Center at the Department of State made little, if no, sense. And though his job was to assist overseas legal attachés, he was hardly prepared to step into their shoes. He had no foreign language skil
ls, minimal overseas experience, and certainly no working knowledge of Mongolia.
After nailing his last case at substantial risk to his life, he had been elevated from a lowly satellite office in Virginia to the FBI’s main headquarters on Pennsylvania Avenue.
No sooner had he moved to the District, signed a lease, bought a pumpkin for his front porch, and settled into his job, than he was handed this assignment on the other side of the world.
College-educated and fully FBI academy-trained, he had bristled at handling small-time cases in Arlington, Virginia, for the first fifteen years of his career. But this kind of case was usually handled by FBI special agents who spent their careers working out of American embassies worldwide. The leap to being assigned an international case and working with foreign partners was a big one.
Then his cat walked across the newspaper that sat on his kitchen table. He picked up the tabby and set her on all fours, back where she belonged. Underfoot.
He wouldn’t let others walk all over him.
Despite his lack of international experience, he felt he had the skills to solve the case. No matter how confusing the initial message was, he would figure out who the culprit or culprits were, find them, and bring them to justice. And however low-profile the case might be, solving it could gain him some much-needed respect.
With his attention momentarily drawn to that morning’s newspaper, he gave the headlines a quick scan, focusing more than his usual attention on foreign affairs. Like most red-blooded Americans, he had primarily concentrated on the fast-approaching elections, and political campaigns around America were focusing on pocketbook issues. Nobody was talking international relations, which left him wondering, who was minding the store? He had to trust that the departments of State and Defense and the Central Intelligence Agency were hard at work keeping their eye on the rest of the world.
He picked up the paper and opened it to the international section. He was surprised to see the headline: “Frost Dead at 59. Dateline: Ulaanbaatar.” The story reported the tragic death in Mongolia of Bill Frost, a supposedly famous American environmentalist and television personality. Jake absorbed every detail in the article. The reporter didn’t know why Bill Frost was in Mongolia or what issue Frost was working on. The only established fact was that the environmentalist had been there for little over a week. The Mongolian authorities were still ruling it an accidental death by rockslide. That contradicted the embassy account on Jake’s phone of possible homicide caused by an explosion that had scattered the remains across a hillside.
He took a long sip from his mug. He had a mystery on his hands.
Finally he folded up the newspaper, put away his phone, and took his last swig of Folgers.
He had a bus to catch and people to call. He had his work cut out for him that day.
Mongolia.
Where exactly was Mongolia?
Along with the promotion to headquarters came the inconvenience of working downtown. He had a small but mighty Kia parked out back of his Glover Park rowhouse. But there was simply no place to park at work, and Jake had to take the D2 bus.
At least he was no longer sweating in the soupy summer heat. Late October had brought a bracing freshness that made him feel almost uncomfortable without a coat.
A waxing moon hung on the western horizon like a giant white globe. And the sun was just rising over the Naval Observatory where the national anthem played at the flag-raising ceremony. His well-lit bus appeared out of the dark and he boarded it. He swiped his monthly pass and swung into one of the many open seats.
In his window, he saw more reflection of himself than what was outside. Although he was still handsome at forty, in trim form, and his hair still dark brown, the years were catching up. In her weekly calls from Florida, his mom dwelled constantly on his null marital status, unacceptable to any Irish-American parent. He had time, if he wanted to put in the effort. He had many good years ahead.
And there was Amber Jones. She was moving in. Kind of.
Over the weekend she had begun to transfer her stuff from Arlington, where they had met. She had lived in the apartment across the hall from him, and now she was moving downstairs in his rowhouse. And paying him rent. A separate apartment divided by a spooky stairwell and a glass door, her new digs were close to him, but not uncomfortably so. She had her own life, a budding career as a fact-checker for National Public Radio, and she could watch his cat when he was away.
Although they kept separate schedules, with their new housing arrangement, they could leave the door unlocked between them.
That was a commitment. Kind of.
First let Amber move to Glover Park. Today she would spend her first night in her new apartment. He’d see how things developed from there.
The bus had reached an intersection with busy Wisconsin Avenue where commuters were already driving into Georgetown, some crossing Key Bridge into Virginia. He glanced south over the Potomac River. He had grown up in progressive but military-friendly Northern Virginia, gone to college in Charlottesville, and attended the FBI Academy at Quantico. His whole life had taken place in the Old Dominion, but now from across the Potomac, he had a different perspective on the place. Virginia was only one of fifty states. And now he was covering the world.
His previous supervisor, still stuck in Arlington, was part of his past. With promotion, Jake had been able to say good-bye to the overbearing boss, and his rookie status. Jake was one of the big boys now.
When the bus paused at M Street, he saw a flag that he had never noticed before. It had a sun, a moon, and a yin-yang symbol. it hung from what looked like a former drive-through bank.
The sign read “Embassy of Mongolia.”
Hmm. He had been commuting past Mongolia for the past three months and never realized it.
Walking down the broad sidewalk toward the J. Edgar Hoover Building at 935 Pennsylvania Avenue, a one-minute walk from the White House, reminded Jake of his newly gained status and the responsibility that came with it.
The FBI building may have looked modern in 1975 when it was built, but now was covered with netting to protect pedestrians from chunks of concrete that randomly fell off the façade. Jake reflexively covered his head as he entered.
His ride up the elevator had yet to seem routine to him. As the top federal investigators in the land, the highly trained special agents of the FBI had recently become key to maintaining the balance of power between the Executive, Legislative, and Judicial Branches. With such outsized responsibility, his fellow travelers on the elevator might well hold evidence that could bring down the administration.
The elevator door opened and Jake stepped out on his floor.
“Special Agent Maguire,” came a deep voice.
He looked up and saw none other than the tall, fit form of Werner Hoffkeit, Director of the FBI.
“Hello, Mr. Director.”
“It’s Werner to you,” the high-profile career man corrected him. “Are you settling into your new office?”
Jake had worked closely with the director on a previous case that had led to Jake’s latest promotion and move to headquarters. But he didn’t expect the director to maintain such personal interest in him.
“It’s going well, sir,” Jake replied blandly. “An interesting case just came up.”
“I know,” Hoffkeit said. “I’m glad you’re on it.”
Jake stared at the man to see if he was joking. What did he know, or care, about a dead American in Mongolia? The big man’s deep gray eyes were deadly serious.
“I got a call from my friend, the CEO of National Geographic. He told me this was important.”
Jake wasn’t sure what National Geographic had to do with the case.
“I want you to kick down doors and break rules if necessary to get to the truth,” Hoffkeit said.
Jake had heard those exact words from the director before.
“And come up and see me if you run into trouble. Got it?”
“Yes.” Jake couldn’
t bring himself to address the director by his first name. “Sir.”
An aide pushed the elevator button and the door reopened.
“You know where my office is,” Hoffkeit said, then disappeared into the elevator.
Jake couldn’t shake the feeling that the seemingly spontaneous meeting had been planned. It certainly was memorable for any agent to have the attention of the director. Jake would love to think that it was due to his superior investigative skills, but knew better. There were many good men and women at the Bureau.
He turned toward his office, a hybrid of different divisions that dealt with international crime. It would take him a minute to recover from the presence of Werner Hoffkeit on his floor.
“Hi, Jake,” came a squeaky little voice. It was Trisha, the department receptionist. Young and dressed with abandon, she stood up to greet him. “What’s up, Jake?”
Why was she repeating his name? He straightened his thin tie and grinned uncomfortably. He suspected that she was waiting for a clean-cut agent to lean over her desk one day and say, “What’s up? Let’s find out!”
Instead he said, “What was the director doing on our floor?”
“He came to see you,” she said.
He stared at her. Was she teasing him?
“No, really. He asked for you by name,” she said. “You must be a hot shot.”
“I wish.” He turned toward his office.
“Why the hurry?” she asked.
“Busy day.” He shot her a grin that she could interpret any way she wanted.
She eased gracefully back into her seat with a neat little possessive smile.
In truth, Jake’s mind was already at work. It had started on the bus ride up Pennsylvania and wouldn’t stop until his head hit the pillow that night.
