Murder in Mongolia

by Fritz Galt

  He liked the challenge of riddles, logic games, and conundrums. And this phone call from Mongolia had already started to turn the gears in his mind.

  By the time his long legs carried him into his small, windowless office and he shut the door behind him, his list of questions was beginning to overwhelm him.

  He logged in to the computer system and began to type a memo of questions to the file:

  Who was Bill Frost?

  Why was he in Mongolia?

  How had he really died?

  Who planted IEDs in Mongolia?

  Why had Frost anticipated his murder and phoned the embassy?

  Why didn’t he seek to protect himself?

  Who had it in for him?

  From what little Jake knew about Mongolia, it had a small population. Answers should be easy to find. Perhaps even by phone.

  He checked his wristwatch. It was 8:00 a.m. A quick Google search told him that in Mongolia, it was 8:00 p.m. One couldn’t get any further away than that. And it also meant that there was no overlap of office hours between the two countries. That would make timely communication a challenge. Would he have to spend the next few evenings up late?

  He stared at the list of questions that he had keyed into the computer. A feeling of uneasiness sunk in. He was basing all his questions on a single conversation transcribed from a late-night phone call between the regional security officer at the American Embassy in Ulaanbaatar and a low-level officer at State.

  He usually began investigating a new case by personally gathering facts, observing with an open mind, writing tidbits into his notebook, and then deriving questions.

  But today he was starting with only the slimmest basis in fact, facts that were twelve thousand miles away in the frozen northland. And that wouldn’t do.

  At that moment, Whitney Baker breezed past and stuck her heart-shaped face in his office. She was Jake’s new boss, and he found himself constantly confounded by her interest in him.

  What was it today?

  “Jake,” she said sharply. “Come to my office.”

  “Coming.”

  He followed her trim form that made the most of her business attire. Her blonde hair splashed loosely, even dangerously, from a clip. She was someone whose unconventional behavior risked a lot, but also got her places.

  “Close the door,” she said. She removed her Adidas and slipped into a pair of heels.

  Jake closed the solid wooden door and stood there.

  “Take a seat.”

  He lowered his tall frame into the closest chair. “What’s this all about?”

  He was thrown off by the change in routine. Normally, the day started with an office huddle where employees were given the game plan. Her holding a private meeting so early in the morning was out of character. But that was Supervisory Special Agent Whitney Baker. Nothing was in character except being out of character.

  “Jake,” she repeated his name even more curtly.

  What had he done wrong?

  “I assume you read the conversation between the security officer in Mongolia and the Ops Center at State?”

  “I’ve been puzzling over it all morning.”

  “I guessed you would,” she said. “The AmCit case in Mongolia is yours.”

  “So I was told.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “So here’s what I want to know. Did you go behind my back to get the assignment?”

  “What?”

  “I had another agent in mind for the case. A real rising star.”

  “I’m sorry. I just ran into the director. He told me to kick down doors on this one. I’m still unsure why he chose me.”

  She nodded knowingly. “Well, last night he called me, all hot and bothered for some reason, and demanded to know who was working on it. I had already received the transcript and phoned around. Our team in Beijing said they were understaffed and couldn’t handle a case in Mongolia. So I picked one of my protégés to handle it. It requires sensitivity and lots of experience, neither of which, I might add, describes you.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Stop apologizing. It’s over with. He asked for you by name, and I know you go way back. So that settles it. It’s your baby, Jake.”

  He didn’t know how to respond. “Who did you have in mind?”

  “Someone who’s dealt with the Russians before. Seems like our relations with Russia are coming apart at the seams.”

  “Never a good thing.”

  She leveled her gaze at him. “You should expect absolutely no cooperation from Russia.”

  He nodded. But he didn’t see what Russia had to do with the case. It was an American environmentalist killed in Mongolia. What was the tie?

  Nevertheless, he filed her point on Russia away for future reference.

  “Am I to understand that the Chinese aren’t willing partners either?”

  “That’s right, Jake. We’ve managed to screw up our relations with China as well. We can’t even get court records out of them.”

  “That bad, huh?”

  She nodded grimly. “So we’re stuck with you. As you pursue this alleged murder in Mongolia, I want you to use whatever embassy resources we have over there. But don’t come to me for help. You’re on your own, on the other side of the Great Wall.”

  Suddenly, with a Disney movie playing in the back of his mind, Mongolia took on a darker aspect, and China seemed the more welcoming place. With the movie Mulan as Jake’s guide, Mongolia seemed intimidating, if not outright hostile.

  “Ma’am, what do you know about Mongolia?” he asked.

  She had already turned away to her computer. “Mongolia? I don’t know the first thing.”

  Her unhelpful attitude and cold shoulder said he was dismissed.

  As he left her office, he heard a final word of warning.

  “All I know is this,” she said. “Mongolia is colder than Tom Brady’s deflated balls.”

  With that image in mind, he shut the door.

  He stood looking around the office. He was in the overseas services division, where agents were routinely sent abroad to track down diamonds in South Africa, drugs in Thailand, and weapons in Turkey. Who would like to help him out?

  “Mongolia, huh?” said a passing agent, who was busy pursuing foreign election meddling in France. “Good luck with that.”

  Another agent, who had just invited Jake to join her rec soccer team, turned away without sympathy, much less an offer of help.

  “What is this?” Jake said.

  Somehow, the entire office had become consumed by work.

  He had been given the case that no one wanted.

  When he had begun work in the FBI’s overseas section of the Criminal Investigative Division, he had been given clear instructions on when to pursue cases overseas. Basically, there were only two conditions in which the FBI became involved with crimes against American citizens and interests overseas.

  First, U.S. criminal code gave the FBI authority to investigate crimes such as terrorism, homicide, kidnapping, and international family abduction anywhere in the world. Of course, the FBI could not go in uninvited, and needed to obtain permission from the host country to conduct an investigation there.

  Second, only local authorities had jurisdiction to handle crimes against Americans and American interests that didn’t fit into the above categories. However, the FBI was prepared to offer investigative or forensics assistance if asked.

  If the Mongolian police ruled the cause of death a homicide, Jake’s office would have authority to investigate under the first condition. And if Mongolia did not deem the case a homicide, the FBI could only offer assistance and only if invited.

  As he dug into the case, he’d have to clarify with the Mongolian authorities under whose jurisdiction the case fell, and try not to let sovereignty issues get in his way.

  He took one last look around the busy office. Many agents and their staff were working to prevent crimes. He was working to investigate a crime that had already been c
ommitted. He would start with the victim’s family.

  The Office for Victim Assistance was just a floor away, so he took the stairs down to establish contact with them.

  Joyce Fleming was an empathetic young professional, fresh out of college, who seemed more psychologist than FBI employee. A victim specialist, she kept the families of victims apprised of investigations, court appearances, verdicts, and final disposition of the accused, dispensing ID numbers and emotional support along the way. She had also graduated from the same high school as Jake, albeit fifteen years later.

  “Hi, Jake,” she said, standing up as soon as she saw him turn into her office. “What a pleasure.”

  Only Joyce, with her long, soft brown hair and cherubic face, could make a murder investigation a pleasure.

  “Mind if we talk?” he asked, and took a seat.

  “Of course, Jake. What’s on your mind?”

  “Okay, it isn’t me,” he began. “It’s the case I’ve been assigned.”

  She looked relieved. “What’s the EC number?”

  “The case hasn’t been officially started,” he said. “It involves the death of an American citizen in Mongolia.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “Don’t worry. I don’t know the victim. What I need to know from you is how to approach the victim’s family. I assume the State Department is notifying them, or has already done so. But I’d like to interview them.”

  “Do they know the FBI is involved?”

  “Not yet,” he said. “But will they have access to your services?”

  “If they’re in the United States, we have lots of field offices. If they’re overseas, our overseas offices also handle victim services.”

  “Great.”

  It took a load off his mind to know that he wouldn’t need to be handholding a family over the course of an investigation that might prove ugly.

  “When you need us to step in,” she said, “just give me a call.”

  She slipped him her business card.

  He looked into her sparkling blue eyes and felt better already.

  Before he returned to his tiny workspace, he was determined to resolve one question at the heart of the case.

  Why was an American environmentalist nosing around Mongolia?

  He knew that nobody in his office would be willing to help him with that question, should they get caught up in some sort of Arctic expedition, but someone in Washington had to know something about Mongolia.

  “Trisha,” he said, approaching the only person in his office who still gave him the time of day.

  She beamed a smile his way, her lips bright red and freshly glossed. “What can I do for you, Jake?”

  “I need a meeting with the State Department’s Mongolia desk,” he said. “Could be over lunch.”

  “I’ll get right on it.” She turned to consult a phone list, her professional efficiency taking over.

  “Thanks, Trisha.”

  As he passed through the elevator lobby to the coffee machine, he remembered his encounter with FBI Director Werner Hoffkeit first thing that morning. He recalled the day he had first met the Director of the FBI. The director had reviewed his service record carefully, then selected him for a special assignment that had panned out well, resulting in Jake’s promotion.

  Director Hoffkeit was an ace up Jake’s sleeve should he need it. After all, Hoffkeit had invited him to come to his office if he needed help.

  But no. Jake wouldn’t pull strings to get out of an assignment, or even to gain an unfair advantage over his fellow agents in the workplace. He would solve this Mongolia thing on his own.

  The phone rang, and Jake picked it up.

  It was Trisha. “You’ve got a lunch appointment with the State Department’s Mongolia desk officer.”

  He dropped the briefing papers on Mongolia that he had been reading and grabbed a pen. “Where?”

  “It’s at Sizzling Express in Foggy Bottom,” she said.

  “Who am I meeting?”

  “His name is Truman Christopher.”

  “What a name.”

  “I know, huh?”

  “What time?”

  “Noon.”

  “Got it. How will I identify him?”

  “He said he’d be the one at the sushi bar.”

  Jake hung up confused. A sushi bar at a place called Sizzling Express?

  The CIA’s publicly available World Factbook article on Mongolia was fascinating, and showed how little Jake knew about the place. Mongolia seemed like a forgotten land. Politically and geographically, it was little different from the many “Stans,” the nations that were still tucked under the wing of Russia despite having gained their independence after the breakup of the Soviet Union.

  Mongolia was geographically large and its population was infinitesimally small, making it the least densely populated nation in the world. It was mineral-rich with little means of transporting goods and resources out of the country. It was a parliamentary democracy with a market economy, both riddled with corruption. If all that wasn’t attractive enough, it boasted the coldest capital on Earth, with temperatures ranging from minus 40 degrees Celsius in winter to plus 40 degrees Celsius in summer. He wasn’t impressed, until a quick conversion on Google told him that annual temperatures ranged from minus 40 degrees Fahrenheit to 104 degrees Fahrenheit. That made the landlocked country even less attractive.

  After numerous misspellings from Ulanbaatar to Ulaanbatar, he found the current temperature of the capital city: 20 degrees Fahrenheit.

  That might be normal for Siberia, but it was cold for October in Washington.

  He had to imagine the scene behind Bogd Khan Mountain differently. The American who was blown up must have been bundled up and trudging through snow. Why was he on the mountain in the first place?

  Jake’s only hope was that Truman Christopher could shed light on the matter.

  It took ten minutes to hail a cab, and ten more to reach Foggy Bottom. Jake could have walked faster.

  Columbia Plaza was designed to look nondescript, and took the concept to a whole new level. Only Foggy Bottom could make the rest of Washington seem exciting.

  The day was overcast and people were in a hurry. He paused at the cold metal tables that sat empty in the courtyard. He shoved his hands into his pockets and scanned the storefronts. A grocery store and a coffee shop were there for the convenience of government workers. Across the courtyard was Sizzling Express in all its fluorescent-lit, cafeteria-style glory.

  Thankfully it was warm inside and the place smelled clean. People swarmed around buffet tables of salad and hot food.

  He checked his watch. It was already five past noon. His contact would be waiting by the sushi bar.

  Sure enough, a short man in shirtsleeves stood holding an empty clamshell box by the tuna and eel rolls. Buzzing around were two young Asian beauties, efficiently restocking trays of food. They talked to each other in low, guttural bursts that sounded like no language Jake had ever heard.

  “Are you Truman?” he asked.

  The man looked disturbed that Jake was distracting him. He held up a finger for Jake to wait.

  Finally the food service workers migrated away from them and Truman straightened up. He had a broad smile on his thin face.

  “Did you hear that?” he asked.

  “What? The two women?”

  Truman nodded enthusiastically. “That was Mongolian.”

  Jake whirled around. He had just been looking at two Mongolian women. They were the first Mongolians he had ever seen.

  “I’m trying to learn the language,” Truman explained.

  “Don’t you have teachers?”

  “Mongolian teachers?” Truman said, dismissively.

  Jake saw his point.

  “What were they saying?”

  “They talked about the fish,” he said. “Zagas. There’s lots of fish in Mongolia.”

  “Where? There’s no coastline.”

  “No, but ple
nty of rivers and freshwater lakes. Their glaciers are a major source of water for Russia’s Lake Baikal.”

  Jake was learning something already.

  “What else were they saying?”

  “As I suspected, they didn’t work in salads.”

  Jake turned from the chestnuts and arugula to the breaded fish and corned beef brisket that the women had laid out.

  “Interestingly, Mongolian has no words for vegetables, other than borrowed Chinese terms,” Truman said. “Historically, there were few fruits and vegetables in Mongolia, save for sea buckthorn, onions, and garlic. The Soviets encouraged root cellars, so now there are turnips, potatoes, and carrots. And I’m told there are fruit and vegetables in markets and in the more cosmopolitan restaurants. Most of that comes from oases in the Gobi or imports from China.”

  Strange. A culture without fruit or vegetables. Personally, Jake was an unapologetic carnivore, but how could Truman have survived there?

  “You go there often?” he asked the diplomat.

  Truman’s grin turned crooked. “Never been there. It’s too far away. And besides, the State Department has a ‘Do Not Travel’ advisory for Mongolia.”

  Which told Jake everything he needed to know about the place. Diplomats could become experts simply by reading books about Mongolia, and it was dangerous.

  The chance of his ever setting foot in that cold, forsaken place was nil.

  He stuck out his hand. “Hi. I’m Jake Maguire.”

  Sitting at a white metal table and surrounded by gabby bureaucrats sharing office gossip, Jake took the measure of his State Department contact.

  Truman’s pale, mature look hid the fact that he was barely twenty-five years old. An infant in the hallowed halls of Foggy Bottom. Which told Jake how little the nation’s leaders thought of Mongolia.

  “You keep calling it the Mongolia Desk,” Truman complained. “There’s no such thing. I’m the only one handling Mongolia.”

  Jake stopped chewing his beef tenderloin. The State Department was certainly leaner than he had imagined. One person handled an entire country?

  “And what can you tell me about the American citizen case?”

  Here, Truman showed obvious relief. “I’m so glad you guys are acting quickly on this one. I was afraid the FBI wouldn’t consider it high priority.”