Murder in Mongolia

by Fritz Galt

  He struggled to picture her in Mongolia. She was no fan of the cold, even mild Washington winters. Nor did she have any protection against the crazed Cal Frost. How would she ever survive there?

  He closed his eyes with relief when the plane started its taxi toward the runway. The Airbus A330 was new and smelled nice. The female flight attendant wore a bright red scarf with the winged hammer and sickle logo of Aeroflot. And the flight kit of sleep mask, slippers, hand lotion, and toothpaste reminded him that it would be a long flight…if American authorities didn’t order the plane back to the gate.

  He felt mildly safer once the wheels left the runway and the nose tilted up. How was it that flying to Russia could feel so liberating? Could he really expect to receive a friendly reception?

  For the moment, everyone was friendly in an effortlessly professional way. The captain in his message from the cockpit smoothly transitioned from Russian to English.

  The flight attendant treated him like a celebrity. “And, Mr. Jake, Captain Gabovitch has grant permissions to retaining firearm over Russian airspace. Enjoying your flight, Mr. Jake. Would you like cocktail please?”

  “Yup,” Jake said with a sigh. “Bourbon. Rocks. Make it a double.”

  Soon Jake was reclining in the dark, drink in hand. The screen in the seatback in front of him offered a wide variety of first-run movies and various internet access options, all for a fee. He was just preparing to check in on the latest news from Washington when the cabin lights turned up and the airline attendant tucked a napkin into his collar and a menu into his hand.

  The soup and salad were fine, but the beef with chestnut topping was tastefully presented and extraordinarily delicious. At first he resisted the dessert, but the gracefully beautiful attendant insisted that he try. How could he resist a warm smile from such perfectly shaped lips?

  Okay, the chocolate cake made a wonderful finale to the meal. He pushed his tray away with a feeling of satisfaction. This Russia hop was actually turning out to be quite pleasant.

  Then he checked the news.

  He typed in his credit card information and the WiFi meter started running. Since he was in airplane mode, he turned on WiFi separately and quickly scanned CNN national news.

  The top story read “Halloween Scare.” One Chinese diplomat was dead and another apprehended after a terrorist attack in a residential neighborhood of Washington, DC. Among the victims in the general public, two were dead and dozens injured, overwhelming nearby Georgetown Hospital. The suspects had wielded martial arts weapons that appeared to be their sole means of attack. Expert foreign analysts speculated that the attackers might be ethnic Uyghurs, as that was the only known form of Chinese terrorism.

  It was a short article and details remained sketchy.

  “C’mon, folks,” Jake whispered, and rubbed the sore spot on the back of his head where the nunchuck had struck. “You’ve got plenty of reporters in Washington. Piece the story together. Those two gorillas weren’t terrorists.”

  If the first news story wasn’t close enough, the second hit home.

  “FBI Faces Internal Crisis” read the headline. According to the story, a veteran FBI special agent broke with Bureau protocol to reveal sensitive information about an ongoing investigation. The agent had since gone into hiding and the FBI was seeking him on criminal and ethics charges.

  The article quoted an employee at the Federal Bureau of Investigation who was familiar with the case. Special Agent Jake Maguire from Washington Headquarters had been placed on administrative leave, the FBI’s Most Wanted List, and the Terrorist Screening Center’s No Fly List.

  Jake took a moment to catch his breath. The FBI had not only removed him from the Bill Frost case but also outed him to the public. And no sooner was his name in print than the FBI had joined the Chinese in hunting him down.

  He read on.

  Maguire was further considered armed and dangerous, and a manhunt in Washington as well as internationally was underway. An expert on international crime gave the fugitive days, if not hours, before being apprehended by law enforcement.

  “Whitney,” he growled. “You sold me out.”

  Was Director Hoffkeit aware of this? For a moment, Jake considered placing a call to the top floor of FBI headquarters. Then the awful truth set in. The FBI wouldn’t put one of their own special agents on the Most Wanted list and leak his name to the press without Werner Hoffkeit signing off on it. Hoffkeit also wanted him brought in from the cold.

  Jake might have felt burned, but he refused to be bitter. His problem-solving mind was still hard at work.

  Why did the FBI knowingly promote the false story of Bill Frost’s death? What was Cal Frost up to, having flown to Nevada to kill him and then on to Mongolia? Why were the Chinese trying to rub him out in Glover Park? Why were the Russians so intent on bailing him out?

  And equally mystifying: why him, of all people? He had no special knowledge. He had no special skills.

  The only reason he could imagine was that he was guilty of doing his job. Still, he believed strongly in his calling, his institution, and his mission. Nothing would prevent him from following through.

  He switched to the CNN International’s news feed and checked the top stories. Along with water shortages in Cape Town and a virulent flu epidemic in Hong Kong, there was the steady drumbeat of Russia accusing China of killing Bill Frost, the world-renowned environmental evangelist. The Russian president even made a principled stand against China for murdering people on foreign soil. That seemed rich, considering his orders to kill Russian double-agents in London and Salisbury. But it would be in keeping with the North Korean leader brutally murdering his half-brother in Kuala Lumpur, the Saudi Crown Prince murdering a journalist in Istanbul, and the Turks trying to rendition their own citizens around the world.

  Had the former Cold War morphed into a low-level war of personal violence and intimidation? Had anyone and everyone become a target? Or was general fear the ultimate goal?

  He quietly disconnected from the internet and shut off his phone. Along with collecting metadata and listening in on phone conversations, the NSA could observe internet use. Were they tracing him, too?

  And what in the world were the Russians up to by zeroing in on him? They already knew his exact flight, row, and seat number. Had he become the next pawn in a Russian-American chess game?

  As if he could truly hide from the long arm of international law and spy agencies, he covered his eyes with the sleep mask and drew the staticky blanket over his sweaty frame. It had been one long day, beginning with a funeral in Virginia and ending in death and destruction in Washington. But he needed rest to prepare for whatever happened next.

  Then the flight attendant touched him gently on the shoulder.

  “Dobroy nochi,” she said. “Sweet dreams.”

  Part Three

  Russia

  Chapter 8

  Sunday

  It seemed like a short night in the womb-like airplane cabin. Clinking glass and silverware awoke Jake, and he removed his face mask.

  Sunlight streamed through cabin windows. He opened his shade and adjusted to the brightness. Between clouds, he saw further whiteness. Snow covered the landscape. Winter had already come to Russia.

  The same tall and slim attendant gave him a smile and handed him a wine list. Wasn’t it a little early for that?

  Then the food trays began to arrive.

  He was hoping for bacon and eggs, but the Russian idea of breakfast turned out to be a croissant, a bottle of yoghurt, and slices of papaya and pineapple.

  He was just licking the jelly off his fingers when the second course arrived.

  It was a fluffy brown Russian pancake filled with mushrooms and melted cheese. It didn’t last long.

  If the Russian president’s personal chef had sold those, the guy wouldn’t have needed to turn to internet trolling.

  By the time the plane landed in the icy-looking Moscow, Jake was on friendly terms with the flight at
tendant and almost sorry to give up his plush and roomy seat. But with the first cold gust of wind from the open doorway, he reached for his shopping bag and got ready to leave. He needed to put the excellent service out of mind and remain focused on the mission ahead. He pulled out the ticket to Ulaanbaatar. It was another international flight departing from SVO, the same airport in Moscow, so he wouldn’t need to go through immigration. There would be a two-hour layover in the transit lounge, followed by another long flight, this one across Asia.

  Once again, his concern about not having a passport took hold. Would Mongolia allow him into the country?

  He took a deep breath. Did he have a choice?

  He said, “Do svidaniya” to the flight attendant and stepped off the plane and onto Russian soil. Well, actually it was a Russian jetway, leading to a terminal that at first glance could have been any terminal in America. If it weren’t for the mixture of Russian and English signs, one could easily have been mistaken.

  The first thing he checked were departure monitors. Indeed, there was an Aeroflot flight departing for “ULAN BATOR” in just under two hours, well before noon.

  He stared out the tall windows at the pearl-gray overcast sky tinged by the yellow of a distant sun. Snowplows had been deployed, but the snowbanks they created already had the dirty appearance of late winter.

  Standing by the window, he pulled out his phone. The big question was, should he turn it on?

  Was the NSA still sending him notifications? If they hadn’t cut him off, did that mean they were following him? Or would they try to send him false information? He momentarily considered burning his phone. He didn’t want the U.S. Government tracking his movements. But overriding that concern, he wanted to be plugged in. He needed those alerts.

  So he turned his phone on and connected to the airport’s WiFi network.

  Stuff had been happening while he was asleep. There was another push notification from the NSA.

  Amber was traveling toward the Gobi Desert. As Jake recalled from the World Factbook, the capital city of Ulaanbaatar was in the north of Mongolia and the Gobi straddled Mongolia’s border with China to the south.

  Boy, she moved fast. What was she looking for in the desert? Did she know that Bill Frost was likely alive?

  On his news feed, another story jumped out at him. The FBI had searched the Washington, DC, home of the absconding FBI agent and found his passport. Based on that information, sources within the FBI speculated that the agent, Jake Maguire, had not fled the country. Law enforcement sources at Dulles International Airport claimed that Maguire had unsuccessfully attempted to board a flight to Tokyo. FBI field offices, state police, and local police forces were put on high alert. And foreign governments were asked to be vigilant.

  Jake looked for Russian police uniforms and saw only the drab monotones of business travelers. Clearly the Russians knew that he was in their country. Were they keeping an eye on him, hoping that he would simply transit and not involve them with his global search for Bill Frost?

  He would be okay with that.

  But he would not be so lucky.

  He was just debating whether to head for his Mongolia gate or purchase another one of those Russian pancakes when one of his fellow travelers accosted him, followed by a group of powerlifters in business suits.

  The fluorescent lighting reflected off the tall young man’s large glasses, and Jake had a fleeting impression that he knew the guy.

  The friendly, open expression on the man’s face made him hard to ignore, and the man thrust out a hand.

  “Hi, Jake. I’m Ed.”

  Jake shook the hand, disarmed by the all-American accent but suddenly concerned about what nerve agent might be administered to him by the handshake.

  So this was when the Russians demanded something in return for rescuing him from the Chinese terrorists and his own Bureau.

  “Did you say ‘Ed?’” Images of the fugitive NSA contractor who had fled America after dumping government secrets flashed through his mind. He finally put two and two together. “Edward Snowden?”

  Suddenly a huge roadblock loomed up before Jake.

  “In the flesh,” Snowden replied.

  For Jake, seeing the internationally wanted outlaw in Moscow’s transit area dredged up memories of the sorry past. Hadn’t Snowden lived in that area for weeks until the Russians gave him asylum as he tried to escape the clutches of the American government? Wasn’t Jake shaking the hand of a traitor who had sold out the NSA? He quickly withdrew his hand, but it was too late. One of the goons that accompanied Snowden had already snapped a picture with his phone. So that was what this was all about? It was for kompromat? Did the Russians want to blackmail him? Well, they had the perfect picture for it. But he suspected the Russians had more in mind. He wouldn’t be surprised if the picture of him shaking hands with America’s Public Enemy Number One in Moscow went viral. It would appear on the front page of Pravda as well as flash across America’s television screens from bars in Pennsylvania to hair salons in California. He was just one more propaganda coup for the Evil Empire.

  Which made him take a closer look at his interlocutor. What had life been like for Mr. Snowden out in the cold, on the gray streets of Moscow? What had that done to the fragile psyche of a computer hacker?

  The ruddy complexion and mischievous smile told a different story. And the trendy leather jacket and designer glasses said it all. Snowden had achieved rock star status, and he was thriving.

  In an instant, Jake saw clearly what lay in store for himself. He saw Russians treating him as another Snowden bringing vital information to Mother Russia.

  “Can we talk?” Snowden suggested, all business.

  Jake made a show of checking his watch, which was off by eight hours.

  “Come on,” Snowden said. “You’ve got time. Do you prefer blues or jazz?”

  “What?”

  “We have two lounges here, one named ‘Blues’ and the other named ‘Jazz.’”

  Jake really had no preference, and was struck by Snowden’s use of the word “we.”

  “So you’re one of them now,” he said.

  Snowden smiled. “As are you.”

  Jake was on the verge of doing something crazy. He hadn’t asked for this treatment. He didn’t want to abandon the United States. Who cared that the Russians gave him a free flight? He got free stuff in the mail every day.

  He looked back to see if he could reclaim his seat on the return flight to DC.

  “Relax,” Snowden said.

  Jake took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He had to remain practical and keep his dignity at all costs.

  “Now,” Snowden said. “I prefer ‘Blues.’”

  That made sense.

  Jake held his head high as he followed Snowden, prodded from behind by the Russian men’s weightlifting team.

  They entered the cramped Aeroflot business class lounge, and Jake was slightly thrown. The only thing bluesy about the place was ugly blue lighting against wood paneling.

  The room offered hot and cold food, lots of drinks, Russian newspapers, computer terminals, and a few reclining armchairs. There was no trace of music.

  Was this what Snowden called home for that long summer stuck in the airport as a stateless man?

  Snowden directed him to a table, and one of the bodyguards brought over a couple of glasses of what looked like Coke.

  Reluctant, Jake took a seat across from Snowden like a suspect in an interrogation.

  But he was determined to ask the questions. “Are you letting me go to Mongolia or not?”

  “Sure.” Snowden gestured to the Olympic squad, who hefted Cokes in response. “They won’t stop you.”

  “So when are you returning to America to face the music?” Jake asked.

  “In a court of law?” Snowden asked, and answered in the same sentence.

  Jake shrugged. “Maybe they’ll be lenient. Reduce the sentence a couple of decades.”

  “I’ve got a large
r message that goes way beyond my personal wellbeing.”

  “Yeah,” Jake said. “You’re anti-NSA. You exposed their whole program.”

  “They were eavesdropping on everybody.”

  “Listen,” Jake said, thinking of Emily Yun, his contact at the NSA who had approved his wiretapping. “If it weren’t for the NSA, I’d have no idea where my girlfriend is right now.”

  “Double-edged sword,” Snowden said. “I simply wanted the public to know that these programs existed. The law called for FISA courts to issue warrants for eavesdropping and wiretapping on Americans. And the NSA wasn’t asking for those warrants. They were collecting and storing every last phone call and internet connection, both the metadata and the content. The American public needed to know that they were being wiretapped and their machines had been hacked.”

  “That’s fine to claim,” Jake said, “but you went much further. You gave away how we intercepted terrorist communications, revealed the identities and activities of our spies and the spies of our partners, and you divulged U.S. military operations and tactics.”

  “I downloaded more than I needed,” Snowden conceded with a shrug. “The Russians demanded to have everything that I took.”

  “Now the United States can’t use those techniques again.”

  Snowden smiled, slightly abashed. “I may have gone overboard.”

  But Jake had a larger issue with Snowden, that of the bad precedent he had set by his abuse of a security clearance.

  “I agree that the NSA had to be called to account,” Jake said. “But if everybody leaked national secrets, it would seriously jeopardize our national security.”

  “Even the government purposely leaks information,” Edward said. “The FBI leaked yours.”

  It was true that someone had leaked Jake’s name and his investigation. He wasn’t so sure that the FBI wasn’t behind it. Whitney Baker had been trying to hamper the investigation from the start.

  “I will say,” he said for the record, “my boss has been undermining me every step of the way.”