Murder in Mongolia

by Fritz Galt

  Jake put the car in gear and took Amber home. He regretted having to return to headquarters to call the U.S. Embassy in Ulaanbaatar. The evening was late, but he needed to use a secure phone system.

  “Good night,” he told his dinner date. “I’m heading back to the office.”

  It was past 8:00 p.m. and she gave him a tired smile as she stepped out of the car.

  “You’ll find me snug in my bed downstairs,” she said.

  “I’ll stop by and wish you good night,” he said.

  “Just don’t do anything to wake me up.”

  “I can’t exactly promise that.”

  She looked him up and down with her languorous eyelids drooping ever so slightly.

  “Sorry about this,” he said. “I won’t make a habit of it.”

  He left with a cocky smile.

  Jake returned the car to the motor pool and headed through the darkened FBI headquarters, hall lights turning on automatically by motion detector.

  He liked the idea of conserving energy, even in the most powerful buildings in Washington.

  At his desk, he found the number of the embassy in Mongolia and plugged it into his smartphone for future use, then picked up his office phone and dialed the number on a secure line.

  The long wait for a reply made him think of all the miles being crossed. Even the whistle on the line sounded like cold wind.

  “American Embassy. Sain baina uu. How can I direct your call?”

  It was the chirpy, slightly accented voice of a young woman, perky at the start of her new day.

  “I’m calling from the FBI,” he said. “I need to talk with your regional security officer.” He pulled up the emailed transcript of the RSO’s conversation with the Ops Center at State two days before. There were no names on the transcript.

  “What is your name, sir?” the operator came back, screening calls like a receptionist.

  “I’m Jake Maguire calling from Washington.”

  “One moment, please.”

  Tchaikovsky played over the embassy phone. The mystical nature of the music came across more viscerally when it emanated from so near the Russian border.

  The operator came on again. “Please hold. I will connect you.”

  A moment later, “Hello?” It was a firm male voice. “This is RSO Chad Stubbs.”

  “Jake Maguire from the FBI. Are you free to talk?”

  “No. Let me get on a secure line and call you back.”

  Jake hung up and waited some more. Didn’t Mongolia realize how late it was in Washington?

  Finally his phone rang, and he grabbed it. This time, the whistle on the line was replaced by a crackling audio mess.

  Again they exchanged names. “State the reason for your call,” Chad Stubbs requested. All exterior sounds were muffled as if he was calling from a closet.

  “I’m working on the case of AmCit Bill Frost. Were you the officer who notified the Operations Center two days ago?”

  “Three.”

  “What?”

  “I notified the Ops Center three days ago. We’re a day ahead of you.”

  “What day is it today?”

  “Wednesday.”

  Jake checked his watch. It read “Tuesday.”

  “So that was you who called the Ops Center.”

  “That was me.”

  “Chad, tell me if I’m right. You suspect that Frost was murdered.”

  “No question about it.”

  “And you base that on what?”

  “Number one, Frost called the embassy just before heading out Sunday morning and told an officer here, Matthew Justice, that he feared for his life. Number two, he died in some sort of IED explosion shortly thereafter. And number three, the Russians are blaming the Chinese for the death.”

  “And what is your physical evidence?” Jake asked, pen poised over his notebook.

  “I’ve seen his remains, such as they are. Although the body is no longer recognizable, there is burnt flesh along with plenty of bone fragments.”

  “Hair?”

  “Bill Frost was bald.”

  Jake knew that. It was almost too late in the day to think straight.

  “Where are the remains now?”

  “We received FBI fiscal data to ship the remains to Quantico. I got the morgue to pack it and I put it together with all the effects from the scene of the incident and the victim’s hotel room and it’s heading over to you this morning. I believe the expeditor is currently at Chinggis Khan Airport.”

  “When do you expect it to arrive?” Jake could reasonably expect the remains to take several days to reach Washington.

  “Oh, three hours to Japan, a transfer in Tokyo, three hours layover there, and twelve hours to Dulles. I suspect you’ll receive the remains about this time tomorrow.”

  Jake made a note of the timing. He had his own evidence bag from McLean, Virginia, and could get the hair sample from the stubborn Cal Frost to the lab at Quantico by the same time tomorrow to compare DNA.

  “Now, who do you have as a suspect?” Jake asked.

  “I don’t know who might be involved, and I certainly don’t have anybody.”

  Jake knew that although Chad was a sworn federal Diplomatic Security Special Agent with law enforcement powers, he had no arrest authority in foreign jurisdictions.

  “What are the local police saying?” Jake asked.

  “That’s what’s so frustrating about this. Normally, I have great relations with the police. We hire from their forces, we send many of them to the U.S. for training. I’d say Mongolia is as cooperative as any country I’ve served in. But in this case, they’re adamant that the death was accidental.”

  “Are they still claiming it was a rockslide?”

  “Yes, despite clear evidence to the contrary. They processed the crime scene. They saw the charred remains.”

  “Why the big lie?”

  “I simply don’t know. I’m just an armchair analyst, but I will tell you in this country politics is run by personalities, not party platforms. And in such a system, loyalty is the coin of the realm.”

  “Sounds like Washington these days.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Jake had to stop and consider how little he knew the RSO. It sounded like Chad was either a by-the-book public servant or a political firebrand.

  Jake wasn’t sure which, and he didn’t want to find out.

  He frowned. “Who could tell me about political pressure put on the police? I need to know who would make them lie about the murder of Bill Frost.”

  “I’d say, talk to either our political team or Matthew, who knows the environmental angle.”

  “Matthew Justice?” Jake asked, referring to the person who Bill Frost had alerted about the impending attack and who was mentioned by Hank Frost in McLean.

  “Yes, Matthew would be your man.”

  “Before I talk to him, there’s another inconsistency that I’d like to clear up.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I talked with Consular Affairs in DC, and they told me the death cable your embassy sent them categorized the death as an accident. How can you explain that?”

  “I don’t handle consular affairs.” The curt response seemed at odds with the previous open flow of information.

  “But did you share your suspicions with consular affairs?”

  “Of course I did. But the police here won’t back me up.”

  “Why would your consular officers believe the police over you?”

  “Ask them.” Again the reply was terse, and Jake sensed that Chad had gotten pushback from within the embassy. It wasn’t clear why. Maybe others thought Chad Stubbs was a loose cannon or they simply didn’t want to deal with a criminal case. Whatever the reason they froze Chad out, it was obvious to Jake that talking with Chad wouldn’t give him any insight into embassy dynamics.

  “Thanks for your help and honesty,” Jake said. “And just out of curiosity, I don’t know exactly how embassies work, but is
n’t liaising with the police part of your job description?”

  “It is.”

  “Then shouldn’t the embassy rely on you for information on a criminal case involving the death of an American citizen?”

  “You would think so. My job is primarily to keep the ambassador, visiting dignitaries, and embassy staff safe. And yes, we have Marines, but they’re here to protect the facilities and classified material. It’s the job of American Citizen Services to support American citizens, whether it’s getting them ballots, replacing lost passports, visiting them in jail, or getting them medical attention. I get involved with American citizens only if the ambassador calls on me. Then, it’s usually terrorism related or aiding local police in the investigation of a crime committed against an American.”

  “And the ambassador didn’t…?”

  “You must know that it’s easy to overlook some of the details when we’re understaffed.”

  “Are you small, or just short-handed?”

  “Like I said, ‘when we’re understaffed.’”

  That left Jake wondering. How big was the embassy after all? How many diplomats volunteered to move their lives and families to Mongolia to rescue fellow Americans on the frozen steppe? Or, more darkly, how underfunded or short-handed was the State Department in general?

  “One last question. How should I approach the Mongolians?” Jake was thinking about the rules that restricted when the FBI could help overseas partners. “We have no mutual law enforcement agreement. This will have to work on a personal basis. Do you think I can get them to request our cooperation?”

  “Frankly,” Chad said, “the way this country operates, the police won’t want to ruffle feathers. Like I said, it’s a small place and everything works on connections. Especially the police.”

  “Well, give me the name of the police chief in Ulaanbaatar. I’ll call him and let him know I need more details.”

  “I don’t have the chief’s number, but the detective working the case is named Boldbaatar.”

  “And the last name?”

  “Mongolians don’t usually use last names.”

  “Say what?”

  “His name literally means ‘Strong Hero’ or ‘Man of Steel.’”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “No. It’s Superman himself.”

  “I guess with a name like that, who needs a last name?”

  “Just call him Detective Bold.”

  Jake wrote the name down.

  Then Chad read off Detective Bold’s phone number. It consisted of a country code, a city code, and six more digits.

  “You’re missing a digit.”

  “That’s how Mongolia’s land lines work. They need only six digits.”

  That was another new one.

  “Thanks for the help,” Jake said. “You have my number if any new information comes to light. Now, can you transfer me over to Matthew Justice?”

  “I’ll call him over here.”

  The receiver clunked down on a wooden table and a door opened and closed, leaving Jake listening to a staticky line.

  Jake checked the green dial of his luminescent watch. It was 9:30 p.m. on the East Coast, and the sun must be rising over Ulaanbaatar.

  On the line, he heard a door open and shut, then someone picking up the telephone receiver.

  “This is Matt,” came a young voice.

  And with that, Jake was talking directly with the environment, science, technology, and health officer at the American Embassy in Ulaanbaatar.

  “This is Jake Maguire with the FBI in Washington. Thank you for taking my call. I was given your name by a man named Hank Frost in Virginia. He told me that you might be able to help me solve the puzzle of the death of American citizen Bill Frost. Are you aware of his case?”

  “Hi, Jake,” the easygoing Midwestern voice crackled over the line. “I got a message from Hank a few hours ago. He said you might call.”

  Jake was pleased by the friendly response.

  “The FBI is investigating whether Frost’s death was a homicide. Do you have any thoughts on the matter?”

  “Thoughts? Sure, I’ve got thoughts, along with plenty of anger and concern and a personal stake.”

  Jake was taken aback by the strong emotions. And if it weren’t official communication, he was sure there might be a few expletives included.

  “Okay, let’s break this down,” Jake said, pen poised over his notebook. “First, were you the one that Bill Frost contacted shortly before his death?”

  “Yes. He called me at seven o’clock Sunday morning. He sounded both concerned and frustrated. Yet he was clear and succinct as always. His words were ‘Somebody is after me. I don’t think I’ll get out of this country alive.’”

  “Did he say who that ‘somebody’ was?”

  “No. But he had called me on several occasions over the previous week, and I had to bail him out. I guess he tends to stir up hornet nests. It wasn’t clear to me who was after him, but it could have been any number of people.”

  “Hornet nests?”

  “You have to understand. Bill Frost was that kind of guy. He stirred up trouble wherever he went.”

  “What kind of trouble, specifically?”

  “All kinds of trouble. Money trouble, passport trouble, girl trouble, political trouble.”

  Jake was scribbling as fast as he could. “So it wasn’t clear to you what kind of trouble was coming after him.”

  “I asked him, but he sounded afraid to give me a name over the phone. I arranged to meet with him later in the day after he completed a scouting trip up the back side of Bogd Khan Mountain.”

  That triggered a thought. How secure were phone lines in Mongolia? “He told you where he was going over the phone?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How many people knew about his planned outing?”

  “Not many, I’m sure. He had probably hired a car and driver for the week, so the driver would have known. Maybe his production team knew, but they still hadn’t arrived in country. Then there was me.”

  “…and whoever was listening in on your phone conversation.”

  “Yes. You’ll find lots of mobile phones in this country, and lots of government and embassy listening posts.”

  That brought to mind images of the foreign embassies in Washington, as well as Cold War-era eavesdropping around the world. “Does the government spy on its own people?”

  “There isn’t much of that going on. This is a pretty loosey-goosey place,” Matt said. “But that means pretty loose with people’s privacy, too.”

  Jake made a note of that.

  “You’ve been very helpful. But I can see there are various leads to follow. Do you have a hunch on where I might start?”

  “Maybe it’s just the environment officer speaking here,” Matt said, “but it could have to do with the mining industry. They’re the real money in town. And Bill was leaning heavily into those issues.”

  “What do you mean? Are the mining operations big polluters?”

  “Of course. But there are lots of forces for and against them. And with commodity prices so low these days, they’re struggling just to stay open.”

  “How would it affect the economy if they shut down?”

  “This is like any resource-rich country. If the mines shut down, everything falls apart.”

  “So there’s a political dimension to this?”

  “You bet there is. It made Bill Frost the proverbial bull in the china shop.”

  Jake wrote down “mines = economy = politics.”

  “So where does the embassy stand in this conflict?”

  “We have stood for economic diversification and environmental cleanup, but we’re not opposed to mining per se. After all, many mines are American interests.”

  Jake sat back. He was only now beginning to understand the internal conflict at play within the U.S. Government over Mongolia policy.

  “Matt,” he finally said. “I’d like to keep this strictly a l
aw enforcement matter. Tomorrow the FBI lab will receive the body for autopsy and the personal effects for forensic analysis. But there’s only so much I can do on this end. Do you have any suggestions?”

  “Come to Mongolia.”

  It wasn’t exactly what Jake had in mind. “Are you serious?”

  “We do have a Level 4 travel advisory. There’s a major health crisis we’re working on. But you have to see this place for yourself if you have any hope of catching the culprit.”

  It sounded so obvious, and yet he resisted. “What kind of health crisis?”

  “We haven’t pinned it down. But if you’re careful, you’ll be fine.”

  “Is it contagious?”

  “Doesn’t seem to be.”

  “Isn’t it already winter there?”

  “Hey, Mongolia is wonderful in wintertime. You’ll love it here.”

  That was a refreshing attitude. And probably what enabled Matt to endure the long, cold months there. But Jake wasn’t into winter sports or arctic expeditions.

  “I’ll have you over. My wife and I can cook buuz for you.”

  “Booze?”

  “No, buuz, the local steamed dumplings.”

  Now Matt was sounding desperate for company.

  “I’ll consider it,” Jake said.

  “Consider it seriously,” Matt said. “Bill’s death is the manifestation of several festering boils that this country needs to lance.”

  “There went my appetite.”

  “Jake, we don’t need a peacemaker, a negotiator, or a conflict resolution expert. We just need a normal investigation by the federal government.”

  “I’ve been authorized by Bill Frost’s family,” Jake said. “They want his death to be fully explained so he can rest in peace.”

  “So does that mean you’ll come here and sort things out?”

  “Maybe,” Jake said, moving swiftly to terminate the conversation.

  Nobody liked to take advice from others, and it was even harder for Washington to take advice from the field, especially from someone so far removed from policy-making circles. Jake was aware of the gravitational pull of the nation’s capital telling him to discount outside voices and to listen to his inner voice. Washington had the experience, the expertise, the laboratories. If you couldn’t solve a problem there, it probably wasn’t solvable.