Murder in Mongolia

by Fritz Galt

  They crept slowly, searching the smattering of condos and hotels clustered near the summit.

  There were few vehicles, and they found no silver Ford Expedition.

  The place was peaceful and sleepy, with the bucolic sound of children playing in the aspen grove.

  “That’s Brian Head,” Bonnie said, and pointed at an intermediate ski slope. The summit sat profiled against the last, puffy pink clouds of the day.

  Jake glanced around the empty parking lot that was set up for skiers.

  “I don’t think he’s here,” he said. “My guess is he thought he had accomplished his mission in killing us and took off as fast as he could.”

  Bonnie got on the radio and reported that the suspect’s vehicle did not appear to be at the resort.

  “We’ve just set up roadblocks,” the sheriff said. “Let’s hope we aren’t too late.”

  “How far are those roadblocks from the resort?” Bonnie asked.

  “Only a few miles.”

  “It’s too late,” she whispered to Jake.

  She clicked on the mic.

  “Better widen the search,” she told the sheriff.

  “Working on it right now. But the roads start branching out quickly.”

  Bonnie set the radiophone back in its holder.

  “I need to make some calls,” Jake said. He had started to catalog the people he needed to reach.

  “Okay. I’ll head for the lodge.”

  The Grand Lodge was below a small muddy pond that was barely visible through trees.

  While Bonnie took photos of her damaged car to file an incident report, Jake marveled at how well the bulletproof doors and windows had protected them from the gunfire. Furthermore, they hadn’t broken an axle or blown a tire in rolling over. Nor had they suffered physical injury. But the shot-up, beat-up car screamed attempted murder and looked kind of sad next to the wedding limo they had parked beside.

  Jake had brought his overnight bag with him, and Bonnie had a tagalong.

  The two stepped into a high-ceilinged lobby, whose windows looked down the mountain.

  The bridal party was getting their keys, their luggage cart stuffed with suitcases.

  Jake looked around as he and Bonnie waited to check in. A jacuzzi bubbled away just off the lobby, giving a faint chlorine smell to the place. Elsewhere out of sight came the smells and clattering sounds of a restaurant. The ham sandwich he had eaten eight hours earlier could no longer stave off a powerful hunger.

  Bonnie had two rooms booked, and two flights of stairs took them to their floor. Down and around several halls and steps, they found their rooms. They were opposite each other in a very quiet hotel.

  “Keep your piece handy,” Jake suggested, “in case he finds us here.”

  She patted her hidden shoulder holster and gave him a reassuring smile.

  “Give me half an hour to make my calls,” he said. “Then I’ll fill you in over dinner.”

  She threw him a weary smile. And for the first time he saw carelines on her face. That afternoon had taken a toll on her.

  “My treat,” he said.

  “Your treat my ass,” she said. “This is government business.”

  “You’re right,” he conceded, and shot a parting look at her backside as she entered her room.

  “What are you looking at?” she said, accusingly.

  “Nothing,” he said.

  He entered his room breathing hard. Why was he so dizzy? Bonnie was statuesque, but he was sure it wasn’t her beauty that was getting to him. And walking up the stairs wasn’t so arduous.

  Was fear setting in?

  The room was full of wooden accents along with black iron fixtures, from shower head to doorstops. The rustic nature of the place reminded him of how far out of his element he was. Where law enforcement grew sparser, frontier justice took over. And as determined as he was to stick to the rules of his bureau, it had been made abundantly clear that afternoon that federal laws were superseded by natural laws. The first one being the law of survival.

  It was several hours past quitting time in Washington, but Jake needed to reach his boss. Fortunately he had her personal number pre-programmed.

  “There have been several dramatic developments in the case,” he began.

  “Tell me about it,” Whitney Baker said.

  How much did she already know? He launched in: “First of all, the American environmentalist Bill Frost was not killed in Mongolia.”

  “I know. I listen to NPR.”

  Jake rolled his eyes. It felt awful to get scooped.

  “But we still have a case,” he said.

  “How’s that?” she snapped back.

  “Because someone just tried to kill me.”

  She hesitated. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. The office car got bunged up and took some bullets.”

  He gave her the CliffsNotes version, complete with the car crash and Bonnie and him limping back on a logging road.

  “What are the chances the police will catch the perp?” she asked.

  “Slim at best,” he said. “The police out here are few and far between.”

  “Well, I want you to come home and write up a full report. Whatever you’re doing out there, you seem to be creating more problems than you’re solving.”

  He was confused. He thought this was progress. “Sure thing,” he said. “I have an interview in Salt Lake City, and I’m heading back to HQ.”

  “No, Jake. I want you to cut it short and return at once.”

  “Why the hurry?”

  “I’m taking you off the case.”

  Before he could react, she hung up the phone.

  He was stunned. Was she doing this to protect him? Or, as he suspected, had she already made up her mind?

  The voice of reason was telling him that Whitney Baker was right. He had managed to make himself part of the story, and as such would have to recuse himself from the investigation.

  He only hoped that Director Hoffkeit knew the latest turn of events and Whitney Baker wouldn’t end the investigation altogether.

  Jake had been pacing back and forth while talking and now sat on the edge of his hotel bed feeling winded. The throbbing in his temples had grown audible. He felt his pulse and checked his watch. He would survive.

  Now that he was looking at the hour, he realized he still had time for one last call before he and Bonnie drowned their sorrows in beer.

  If Director Werner Hoffkeit was Jake’s ace in the hole at the FBI, Todd Williams was Jake’s in with the National Security Council.

  Todd worked as an assistant to the National Security Advisor at the White House, and in the past Jake had relied on Todd to open doors in Washington.

  A friend since college, Todd had been a rising star long before graduation, and had lately written speeches for the president. Meanwhile Jake had been privileged to make the grade at the FBI and had enthusiastically thrown himself into a career that was going nowhere fast. One of fifteen thousand FBI special agents, Jake was a small fish in a big pond, whereas Todd was a small fish in a small pond.

  Which is probably why the two enjoyed box lunches every so often from the Kimchi Taco Truck that circled downtown DC.

  Todd’s personal phone fizzled after a few rings, telling Jake that he was still at work in a White House, whose massive structure effectively blocked all cell phone signals.

  What was going on in DC that kept the NSC staff late? He was curious, but wouldn’t ask.

  He searched for Todd’s office telephone number, dialed it, and got through on the first ring.

  “Jake,” the young, excited voice answered before Jake could identify himself. “I was thinking about you.”

  It appeared that either the White House phone system had upgraded to caller ID, or the White House had just been discussing his case.

  Which he wasn’t so sure was a good thing.

  “Why were you thinking about me?” Jake asked, suspicious.

  “Becaus
e your little investigation has grown into my nightmare.”

  Jake was confused. Did the NSC already know about the shooting on Brian Head?

  “What nightmare?” Jake asked.

  “The Russians have demanded to know what happened to our environmental scientist.”

  Jake remembered Bill Frost’s lengthy Russia file. “Since when are they concerned about the environment, much less about American citizens?”

  “The Russians think they’ve got something on the Chinese,” Todd said.

  “So they were only looking for an excuse? I thought their two leaders had just held a friendly meeting.”

  “That’s how it seemed to us,” Todd said. “But this little kerfuffle seems to have made them go ballistic.”

  “Like how ballistic?” Jake held his breath.

  “Like the Russian Foreign Ministry calling the American and Chinese ambassadors on the carpet. Moscow is fuming over this, and we need to put an end to it.”

  “Well here’s how to put an end to it,” Jake said. “The FBI Laboratory checked the DNA of the body against the victim’s brother and against evidence we found in the victim’s house here in Utah. And they determined that the body is not that of Bill Frost. As far as we know, Bill Frost is still alive.”

  “Interesting,” Todd said. “But how does that put an end to the diplomatic crisis?”

  “The Russians have nothing to complain about.”

  “Jake, like you said, do you really think the Russians are worried about an American citizen? In fact, if Bill Frost was actually found dead, that would put an end to our problem.”

  “How so?”

  “It would give us some clarity. Your boys would figure out how he died, who killed him, etc. There would be a cut-and-dried story. The way it stands now is untenable, and the air is filled with innuendo.”

  Jake couldn’t see the logic of that. Maybe the NSC knew more than he did. Hell, everyone seemed to know more than he did.

  “Where did you say you are?” Todd asked, mystified.

  “Utah.”

  “And remind me why you’re there?”

  “I went to investigate Bill Frost’s house. It turned into a shootout. And I still have a mining exec to interview.”

  “What did you unearth so far?”

  “Basically seems like mining people are trying to cover up an adversarial relationship with Bill Frost. Then this morning, someone stole the China file out of his house.”

  “But he died in Mongolia.”

  “He was in Mongolia, but who says he died?”

  “The Russians. And they’re blaming the Chinese.”

  Jake bent over, holding his head. “It doesn’t make sense. Does it.”

  “No, it doesn’t,” Todd said. “But bottom line, international peace is on life support right now, and we’re working to defuse the situation diplomatically. I’m afraid the more you look into this, and I know you’re as good as they come at the Bureau, the more this could blow up in everyone’s face. The president has asked me to calm the waters. And I’m afraid that means cooling it on your end.”

  Jake closed his eyes. A second blow-off in one evening. But this one stung. This wasn’t just his boss. This was his buddy telling him to back off. When every fiber of his being told him to pursue the leads, the guy in the White House thought he knew better.

  Was this a case of the field knowing more than the minders in Washington?

  For the first time since he moved into the District, Jake felt that Washington could learn a thing or two by listening to those outside the Beltway. Sure, the National Security Council had greater visibility on global matters. It was connected to all parts of the intelligence-gathering nervous system of the U.S. Government. However, something was rotten in Utah, and whatever the bee was in the Russian bonnet might not go away so easily.

  Especially if that bee was Bill Frost.

  Jake ended up accepting thanks from Todd Williams for his help, along with his “no thanks” to continue. And the White House cut him loose from all responsibility in the case.

  It should have felt good to be released, but special agents never wanted to be relieved of a case. Maybe it was the historical independence of the Justice Department that told him he shouldn’t let go of the investigation, but even his boss wanted him home.

  Were the Russians pushing her around, too?

  Bonnie lifted her mug of Golden Spike Beer. Her flaxen hair was out of its ponytail and her eyes were steady on his. “So clue me in,” she said.

  Jake felt like telling her that the case was officially closed. But the two of them were still rattled by the gunshots fired at them and the huge grill of the SUV forcing them off the cliff. It wasn’t closed to them.

  At the very least, he owed her an explanation. He would fill her in on the state of the investigation. But, as one FBI agent to another, he mentioned only the proven facts of the case.

  “Seems that old Bill Frost stirred up trouble in Mongolia,” he began. “He phoned the embassy shortly before he disappeared, and told them that someone was trying to kill him. Later that day, human remains were discovered on a nearby mountain. And a monk had just passed an American climbing to that spot. The Mongolians claim the victim was Bill Frost and the death was an accident due to a rockslide, but the remains they shipped us were not those of Bill Frost and there’s clear evidence of an explosion, not a rockslide. It’s based on these discrepancies and the fact that Bill Frost had anticipated his death that the FBI opened the investigation.”

  She drew in her breath, and Jake took the opportunity to take a drink. Unlike in DC, Utah’s pilsner season was not yet over, and he was able to enjoy a double-sized mug of a local Squatters Sasquatch Hoppy Pilsner.

  The lodge was a relaxing, healing place. And it felt liberating to get the case off his chest.

  Bonnie was eyeing him closely as she took another long pull on her beer. “Let’s review why Tom Weaver robbed Frost’s house.”

  “According to Weaver, the mining company he works for sent him to destroy evidence that Frost was looking into their activities.”

  “I wouldn’t put it past a mining company,” she said.

  “Then someone else called Weaver and told him to take the China file.”

  “Which makes no sense. It was an anonymous caller.”

  “But his company okayed the second B&E.”

  “Why would the mining firm be worried about what Frost found on China?”

  “Got me.”

  She tossed back her hair. “We gotta talk to the mining firm.”

  He raised his glass to her and they took another drink.

  Her trout arrived still sizzling, and his burger was placed before him.

  “Anything else I can get for you?” asked the waiter, a fit-looking man in his thirties.

  They handed him their empty mugs.

  As Jake removed the onions, Bonnie kept up the questions. “So why the friendly warning this afternoon?”

  “Uh, that was more than a friendly warning,” Jake said. “And I don’t know who was driving that car. But you said he followed us all the way from Hurricane?”

  She nodded.

  “Then maybe our attacker was worried about what Weaver might have told us.”

  She smiled. “And wanted us to take it with us to the grave?”

  Jake tried to shake off the shock of the car crash. That they got out of the scrape was a miracle. “Have you been monitoring the police scanner?”

  “Lots of chatter. I called the sheriff just before coming to dinner. He said witnesses saw a damaged silver SUV heading toward the border.”

  “What border? There are four state borders and Mexico south of that.”

  “I know. It could make things tricky. Still, we seem to be out of the woods for now.”

  Jake looked around the wooden lodge. “Or rather, we are in the woods, and he is not.”

  The refills arrived, and not a moment too soon. The horseradish on the burger was killing him.


  “And what’s your next move?” Bonnie asked.

  Jake coughed several times to clear his throat. “I’m supposed to drop the case.”

  “The hell you are.”

  “Word came from on high.”

  “Well, it isn’t over for me,” she said, a fierce glare in her eyes.

  He liked her that way. And couldn’t agree more. “I’m with you on that.”

  Nobody pushed them around, whether it be a creep in a car or a bureaucrat in Washington. He was beginning to sense the need for frontier justice.

  “So where do we start?” she asked, and jabbed a piece of fish into her mouth.

  “How about we relax a little. Regroup. Then head up to Salt Lake City for a little chat with Oscar Schultz at Kingston-Maes.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  “That will be my final stab at this case,” he said. “After that, it’s back to headquarters.”

  She nodded reluctantly. “But before all that, how about a dunk in the hot tub?”

  “I didn’t bring my swimsuit,” he said.

  “So?”

  Chapter 6

  Friday

  The next morning, Jake staggered out of Bonnie’s hotel room with a headache built for a horse.

  “What was in that beer last night?” he wondered aloud.

  For her part, Bonnie looked fresh as a daisy.

  “Let’s clear your head before the ride back,” she suggested.

  She took him by the arm and helped him onto a small path that led into the woods.

  Jake was sucking in air, but it didn’t clear his head.

  Soon they were circling the alpine pond and observed the final frogs of summer jumping into the water in front of them.

  Bonnie guided him up a slight slope, and soon he was pausing for breath.

  He leaned on his knees and glanced up at the sunny sky. Clouds hovered around the nearest peak. And grass hugged the ground.

  “I honestly think I’ve been drugged,” he said.

  “Oh come on. It’s just the altitude,” she said, fixing her ponytail as she waited.

  “What altitude?”