by Fritz Galt
“I know your story,” Snowden said. “You’ve been trying to find out who killed Bill Frost.”
“But that’s the thing that nobody will accept. Bill Frost is not dead.”
Snowden paused sipping his soda and looked at him over the rim of his glasses. “Hmm. Is that true? Frost is still alive? The FBI says he died, and you’re made to suffer for it?”
“You’re darned right.”
“Maybe your boss doesn’t care about you,” Snowden said, clearly carrying a chip on his shoulder. “He’s probably just trying to cover his backside.”
“‘She,’” Jake corrected him.
“Or maybe she has more altruistic reasons and feels it’s in the best interest of the country.”
“But I’m exposing the truth,” Jake said.
“Sometimes the truth hurts.”
“I ask you,” Jake said, “how am I jeopardizing national security?”
“Judging from her reaction, and the overall response of law enforcement, you must be doing something wrong.”
That put him in an odd position. What helped America more: pursuing the truth about a murder, or covering it up?
He looked at Snowden with grudging respect. But the “grudging” dominated the “respect.”
“Now as for flying,” Snowden said. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a sheet of paper that he triumphantly waved in Jake’s face. “Join the club.”
“What’s that?”
“The Department of Justice has asked Interpol to issue a Red Notice for your arrest.”
So this was where the Russians put the screws to Jake and forced him to be the next Edward Snowden.
Snowden gestured at his well-built fan club. “You’ll be treated well in Russia, but elsewhere in the world, you’re toast.”
He took the notice and examined it. The charges read “1) Brandishing a firearm 2) Illegal wiretapping 3) Tampering with evidence 4) Making false statements 5) Assault in the first degree.” Where did they come up with those charges?
But the photos on the printout were of him, taken from official FBI files. The Red Notice looked like the genuine article, requiring the 200 countries of Interpol to cooperate and return one Jake Maguire to the United States to stand trial.
“How about Mongolia?” he asked, unsure if Mongolia was a member of Interpol.
“Mongolia may be friendly with the Russian regime,” Snowden said, “but even they can’t ignore international agreements.”
So Jake couldn’t fly to Mongolia.
“Then how can I get there?”
Snowden smiled ironically. “I’ve never seen someone so determined to go to Mongolia.”
“That isn’t an answer. And I’m not going to stay in Russia.”
Snowden blinked a few times behind his thick glasses. “There’s always the train.”
“As in ‘The Orient Express?’ How long would that take?”
“The Trans-Siberian Railway. That would take a week to reach Mongolia.”
“I don’t have a week to spare.”
“Well, I’m pretty familiar with this transit area. I can help you book a domestic flight across Russia to, say, Irkutsk. Then you can cross into Mongolia from there.”
Jake wasn’t excited about flying to Irkutsk. But compared to a dog sled through the tundra…
“Look,” he said. “I’m sorry to leave you stranded here, but I’ve got to find Bill Frost and put an end to this nonsense.”
Snowden gestured to the dour men with their Cokes. “They’re interested in your finding Bill Frost, too.”
Why in the world would those lowlifes be interested in a grouchy tree-hugger?
“I’m sorry,” Jake said. “This whole Russia-China thing has got me baffled. Why is Russia so invested in getting me to Mongolia?”
“I haven’t been briefed on what’s behind Russia’s intentions,” Snowden said. “But the point is, they’re desperate to get you there.”
Jake picked up his glass for the first time and stole a look at the fabulous FSB team, the cream of the former KGB. They didn’t seem “desperate” to do anything, save smash his liberal Western face. He lifted his glass to his lips. It smelled awful, but it was too late to stop the fizzy bursting bubbles from flowing into his mouth. What seeped in wasn’t Coca-Cola at all. It left a sour spot on his tongue. Suddenly he realized what the goon squad had been up to all along. He was drinking poison. Was it the same radioactive isotope that had slowly killed the Russian FSB defector in London? Or was it the toxin that threw the North Korean leader’s half-brother into sudden paroxysms of pain before his death? Or could it be what dissolved the poor Saudi journalist down to the bone?
“Like it?” Snowden asked, and raised his glass to offer cheers.
“What the heck is this gut rot?”
“It’s called kvass. It’s the Russian national drink.”
“No, I mean what’s in it?”
“Nothing. It’s just fermented rye bread.”
“The national drink is fermented rye bread?”
“Za tvajo zdarovje!” Snowden raised his glass in cheers.
Jake set his drink down carefully and looked at Snowden with newfound respect. The guy had paid a high price for defecting to Russia.
By the time he left Moscow, Jake was feeling financially indebted, but not morally bound, to Edward Snowden and the Russian Government. Snowden had pulled out a Visa card and paid for the next leg of Jake’s journey, an Aeroflot flight to Irkutsk.
Jake stepped aboard the A330 anticipating another few hours of pampered bliss from lovely cabin attendants.
Things started to go awry when his seat number took him past Business Class straight to the last row of the plane. He squeezed around broad men in business suits, sinewy men in worn-out jackets, teens in synthetic sweats, and women still adjusting to the high heels they had purchased in the nation’s capital. A majority of the faces appeared Asian to Jake and he wondered if, as he had once read, much of that part of the world still had Genghis Khan’s genes.
The real let-down, however, came when a plump grandmother in an apron waddled up to him with a lipstick-heavy grin and reminded him to “buckle his seat.” When she came back later to offer him a drink, he remembered the slime that the weightlifting team had given him in “Blues,” and politely declined.
Once they were airborne, he had another rude awakening. A dinner covered in aluminum foil landed on his tray table. Business class, this was not. Based on the reeking odor of microwaved flesh, he was afraid to peel back the foil and take a look. But hunger was a powerful force and he succumbed to a peek. Steam escaped like blow-off from Chernobyl, and he found himself face-to-face with a fatty pork chop mushed together with vegetables, potatoes au gratin, and gravy, all the same beige color. He quickly covered it up, made an aborted attempt at the barf bag, but distracted himself with a long, soulful look out the window.
The afternoon light was disappearing quickly as the jet raced east into the heart of Siberia.
As cabin lights dimmed and the horizon turned to a fuzzy blue line, he reclined his seat as far as the lavatory and contemplated the impending cold. The Central Asian Steppe would be as cold as the temperature outside the airplane. He tried to cover himself with his pillow to keep warm.
He had no idea what awaited him on the ground in Irkutsk. Nor did he know how he would sneak into Mongolia. He prayed that his credit card hadn’t been blocked by the FBI or his credit union and would get him a hotel room, a train ticket, and all the food he needed until he reached the Free World, even if that meant the USG tracking all his expenses.
Maybe he would take up Matthew Justice and his wife on those dumplings after all.
But more foreboding questions encroached. Would the U.S. Government ever allow him to return? Would he have to live out the rest of his life in permanent exile? Could Central Asia ever feel like home?
His only escape from such a fate was to work the case and prove America wrong. In the meantime, he had t
o avoid immobilizing fear in the knowledge that his country was out to get him.
As he looked out the window, the gears slowly began to turn. Somewhere under those clouds lay Bogd Khan Mountain in all its mystery.
At the FBI Laboratory, Supriya Rao had a melted mobile phone in her possession. But where was Bill Frost’s satellite phone? And who had the Mongolia file? What information had led Amber into the Gobi Desert? And finally, where in the world was Bill Frost?
It seemed like the more he delved into the case, the less it made sense. He couldn’t begin to explain the strange behavior of Cal Frost, the FBI, the Russians, or the Chinese. He only hoped that the hidden land beneath the clouds would reveal more than he had gleaned from the past frustrating week of investigating from afar.
Several hours later, the pilot came on the PA and spoke in Russian. Jake caught the word “Irkutsk.” He was grateful that the man, who was obviously a skillful aviator, had been trained on the equipment and was willing to take him to the frozen northland.
As they broke through the low cloud cover, he looked at the dark landscape for streetlights. He finally saw a yellow tentacle that gradually turned to more roads and more lights sprinkled across the flat landscape.
The roar of the air increased as they approached the ground and the jolt of the wheels had never been more of a relief. By the time they rolled up to the friendly lights of a terminal, Jake felt ready to raise a glass to the proletariat.
Somehow, designers of the airport in the capital of Siberia had neglected to take into account one factor. The weather.
There was no airbridge welcoming passengers off their flight into a heated terminal. Instead, icy metal steps led down to packed snow where baggage handlers lined up suitcases.
A biting wind cut straight through Jake. He had his cap and coat on by the time he reached the bottom step.
Bathed in the yellow glow of arc lights, the apron was graced by numerous airplanes and swarmed with frozen passengers waiting for their luggage.
Jake had no checked bags, so he looked around for the passenger terminal to exit the airport. There were two obvious candidates, one an imposing, curved-glass structure, and the other a concrete example of Stalinist architecture.
Between the two buildings, he could see a parking lot with sleek cars idling in the snow. That was his way out.
He headed for the parking lot in search of a cab and a warm hotel.
“Gospodin Maguayr?”
His ears were already frozen from the brittle cold, but was someone trying to say his name?
He turned around to see a huge hatless man in an open parka looking at him with a warm smile.
“Yes?”
The giant of a man motioned for him to follow. “Where to?” Jake wanted to ask, but lacked the correct vocabulary.
It appeared that the guy was heading for a parked car, and Jake momentarily resisted, aware of the many problems associated with taxi touts.
If the guy wanted to rip him off, Jake had no rubles. If the man was taking him to the gulag, what choice did Jake have? If he was FSB, he might even be a good guy. After all, the Russians could have nabbed him in Moscow if they wanted to save themselves the airfare to Irkutsk. Wasn’t Jake a friend of the state, a Western whistleblower like Edward Snowden? In the end, the man knew his name and that was enough for him.
He prepared to slug down vodkas with his newfound comrade. Anything to ward off the cold.
He was following the crunching footsteps when the man suddenly turned to look him in the eye.
“Ovechkin.”
“Huh?”
Was the guy trying to shake him down?
“Ovechkin,” the man repeated, an encouraging smile on his lips.
Jake wasn’t getting it.
“Ha!” the man cried, and threw an arm around Jake to steer him into the night.
They approached a black sedan that sat in a cloud of its own exhaust. A hefty driver stubbed out a cigarette as the Russian piled in front. Jake shrewdly chose the back seat.
Inside reeked of dank cigarette smoke. Jake saw the resale value of his new coat shrink accordingly. But how could he object?
And who did the Russians think he was, anyway?
He decided to maintain his cool, urbane exterior while trying to stuff the insanely fluffy mad bomber cap into his pocket.
“Spasibo,” he said, then immediately wondered if he had just said “hello” or “thanks.”
The two men didn’t bother to respond, and he decided to keep his trap shut. He was no spy, and there was no use trying to act like one. As far as the men were concerned, he was merely a package to deliver.
So he sat looking out the tinted windows at headlights that reflected on the wide, snowy streets. Trams rumbled past, their windows coated with frost. Widely separated buildings looked European, solid, and built for the cold, while the open night sky and occasional trees promised beauty in the summer.
It wouldn’t be a bad place to be exiled.
As a low bridge carried them over a frozen river, Jake’s handler from the airport turned around in his seat and said unprompted, “Paris of Siberia.”
So Jake was getting the guided tour. He wondered if Parisians crossing the Seine thought of their city as the “Irkutsk of Europe.”
Jake had taken beginning Russian lessons during counterintelligence training, and the Cyrillic was coming back to him as he tried to make out various signs. They passed hotels on Soviet Street and large government buildings on a public square. Soon their destination became apparent.
The railway station was a domed architectural gem with rows of arched windows. It took little effort to make out the sign above it. It announced “IRKUTSK,” as if people needed to be reminded of where they were.
The car stopped between the building’s two giant domes and it appeared to be time to jump out.
Snow was falling when Jake’s Bolshevik buddy trundled him into the building and straight to a ticket booth.
After some tough negotiating between Jake’s party and the station, the man in the ticket booth turned to Jake. “Sorry. No single first-class coupe available.”
The hulking handler looked displeased.
They negotiated some more, with Jake’s companion applying most of the pressure.
Finally an agreement was reached.
The ticket-seller explained to Jake in most apologetic terms, “Sorry. We have no first-class available. We have second-class available. You have entire coupe. It is just as good. You will love it.”
Jake wasn’t sure about loving anything. Just getting to Mongolia was the goal. So he accepted the second-class ticket handed to him and he watched the Russian negotiator fork over ten thousand rubles.
“You buy four beds. Entire sleeping coupe is yours to enjoy,” the railroad employee repeated, as if Jake was getting the deal of a lifetime.
At last, Jake had a ticket in hand. The man took him to the departure board and pointed out the city “PEKIN.” The time of departure was 21:35. It would be Track 5.
The guy slapped Jake on the back. “Ovechkin,” he said one more time.
Jake just looked at him.
The big bear of a man sighed and took off, presumably to go home to a warm meal, his work done for the day.
Jake sucked in his breath and checked the station clock. He would be heading south in an hour. Some indefinite time after that, the train would cross the border into Mongolia on its way to Beijing.
There was only one remaining problem. He had no passport.
While he waited, he saw Russians critically examining souvenirs in a store. Meanwhile a small throng of Western and Asian backpackers lined up at a restaurant counter. The oasis of familiar voices, along with the smell of frying food, attracted him. Acting as naturally as possible, he sidled up to the line.
They were talking about buying “blini,” which made him curious.
The young couple ahead of him had New York accents. They carried overloaded backpacks with ease. An
d a passport and train ticket poked out of the young man’s pack.
“Excuse me,” Jake said. “Are you taking the Trans-Siberian Railway?”
“You bet,” the young man said, then turned around. He had a dark, weeklong growth of beard to prove that he was making the long trek. “How about you?”
Jake nodded.
“I haven’t seen you on the train,” the young woman said, not the least bit suspicious. “Which way are you headed?”
“To Mongolia.”
“You mean to China,” she said.
Jake corrected himself. “I mean to China. Isn’t Mongolia on the way?”
“You bet,” the young man said again. “We’ll reach it tomorrow morning.”
Jake eyed the passport sticking out of the kid’s backpack. It was blue like an American passport, but he couldn’t see the eagle. Jake was built like the guy, with similar height, weight, and facial features. Only their age was different. All in all, the young tourist made a good match for him.
“Where are you guys from?” Jake asked.
“Brooklyn,” the young man said, and turned away to place his order.
Jake took another look at the guy’s passport. Could it get him through Mongolian border control?
It would be so easy to steal.
He leaned between the two. “What are you buying there?” he asked.
The young woman explained. “They make these really mad crepes called ‘blini.’ Did you ever have one?”
Jake saw what they were talking about. It was the filled pancake delight that he had enjoyed on his flight to Moscow.
The young man showed him the steaming meat and cheese version that he had just bought.
Jake reached for the inner pocket of his coat, the back of his hand grazing the New Yorker’s passport.
The passport was within his grasp. It meant freedom to travel in order to hunt down Cal Frost, rescue Amber, and clear his name.
But Jake had time. He had his own train ticket. And the border was hours away. There would be plenty of time to befriend the fellow and work out a way to cross into Mongolia.
He just had to wait for the right moment.
He passed up the opportunity and dove into his pocket for his wallet.
