Murder in Mongolia

by Fritz Galt

A blini and soda for him.

  But was his credit card still valid? He’d soon find out.

  He pointed to the picture of blini he wanted, the one with rice and mushrooms. Then he corralled two cans of Coke from the refrigerator. He handed over his credit card and waited to see what would happen.

  The female cashier took the card without a word and swiped it.

  He watched nervously for the transaction to go through. Time ticked by as she watched the cash register. Finally she turned around to grab the blini and wrap it up.

  Was this transaction going through or not?

  Then she handed him his credit card, but hung onto the food.

  More time passed.

  As he waited, Jake realized that as much as he enjoyed catching criminals, he would make one lousy thief. He should have taken the passport and run.

  Now all he wanted was that blini.

  The smell was working on him. If the financial transaction didn’t go through, he might never eat another meal.

  He was prepared to choke the woman to get his dinner.

  More time passed.

  Then the machine started to tick. He watched as it spat out a piece of paper.

  The woman ripped it off and read it. A frown crossed her face.

  She looked up at him, then down at the slip of paper.

  She appeared to be calculating something. Jake began calculating how long it would take to bolt for the exit.

  Finally, the woman cupped the slip of paper and turned away.

  What the—?

  When she turned back, she bore a smile. She handed him his meal and placed the receipt inside.

  He didn’t have to choke anybody, but he sure wanted to.

  He grabbed the warm package and cold Cokes and turned to leave.

  Just then someone brushed past, and Jake reflexively cocked an elbow.

  He noticed that the passerby wore a Washington Capitals jersey.

  The back of it read “OVECHKIN.”

  Jake could have kicked himself. That was what his Russian handler had been trying to tell him: the name of the Russian star on Jake’s NHL team.

  He sat in a corner and ate his blini.

  At the appointed hour, the couple walked past, and the young man told Jake, “Be careful. It’s brick outside.”

  Jake threw a friendly smile toward the dude. By the time he reached the border, he would have the guy’s travel papers.

  He walked outside and straight into a scene from Dr. Zhivago: a snowy train station with brakes hissing, Russian fur hats, snow squeaking underfoot, and the smell of coal in the air.

  A long trail of vapor escaped his lips. He was back in control.

  For now.

  Jake’s ticket was for a specific compartment in a specific car. To his chagrin, it was nowhere near the young American couple.

  He put a shoe on the first iron step of his Second Class car and watched the couple plod on to Third Class.

  Then Jake pulled himself on board.

  He opened the door to the heated part of the car. A husky woman stood there wearing an apron with a headscarf tied under her chin. She observed passengers carefully, with nothing but suspicion in her eyes. She must have been the Russian Railway’s equivalent of the secret police.

  He showed her his ticket and she snatched it out of his hand. She leaned over to study it, as if hoping to evict him from her train car.

  After microscopic scrutiny, she relented and returned it to him with a wave toward the far end of the car.

  The aisle had windows on one side and doors to seating compartments on the other. He counted down the numbers and finally reached his compartment. He twisted the brass handle and slid the door open.

  Inside, the compartment was hot, almost overheated. He seemed to have the red floral-patterned benches all to himself.

  He had no luggage for the overhead rack, but noted with approval that no other passengers had laid claim to the compartment. He removed his cap and gloves and stuffed them inside the sleeves of his coat, then shoved the whole wad onto the rack.

  He examined the highly decorated electric samovar on the small table that sat between the two facing benches, but broke out his remaining Coke instead.

  He was just studying how to lower one of the four beds for himself when he heard the conductress’s voice outside. She pulled open his door and three middle-aged local men with vodka on their breath bullied their way into the coupe.

  Jake stood up to defend his territory. “No. All of this is mine,” he said.

  The three men stopped and looked at him with curiosity.

  “What?” one of them said. “All of this for you?”

  The other two laughed. Apparently they all understood English.

  Jake took advantage of that fact to plead his case. “Look. I paid ten thousand rubles for this entire sleeping compartment.” He waved his ticket in the air.

  They ignored his ticket as they moved their suitcases onto the racks.

  Jake shot the conductress a look for support, but it was clear that she was in on the scheme. This was especially obvious as she counted out her bribe in front of him.

  He tried to protest, but she just pointed at the three unoccupied beds. She seemed to have the same take on capitalism running roughshod over the common man.

  “You are American?” the talkative one said.

  “Yes. I paid for all the beds.”

  Jake could quickly see that such selfish extravagance wasn’t going over well among these working men, who in their heart of hearts were probably very much Red.

  This was a loosing battle, and Jake moved to consolidate his belongings and claim his half-opened bed.

  “Ah. It is too early to sleep. Right?” the most talkative of the three told him and helped Jake collapse the bed back against the wall.

  The two other men took the bench opposite him, one of them breaking out an unlabeled bottle of clear liquid from under his coat. His companion set three shot glasses on the table next to his soda can. Jake was destined to spend the rest of the night with his new three best friends.

  The men began talking among themselves as if continuing a previous conversation. It was a serious discussion, punctuated with occasional glances at him. Clearly they owned the sleeping compartment now.

  Finally, the man who brought the vodka scooted the bottle Jake’s way. “Have a drink,” he said.

  Jake politely pointed to his Coca-Cola.

  The talkative Russian leaned close to Jake, his shoulder rubbing cozily against Jake’s. “You know, what you are drinking is bad for you.”

  As if vodka was good for them.

  “You can die from it,” the man persisted.

  “What? Coke?”

  It was clear the guy was trying to have fun with him. So, he took the bait. “I’m sure vodka is good for you, too.”

  “Of course,” the guy said, holding up his glass to the light, his hand trembling from his semi-drunken state. “It is known to stimulate the mind and improve general health.”

  “Where’d you get that?” Jake said.

  “I made it,” one man said proudly.

  “I mean, who told you that vodka is good for your health?”

  “Don’t you know that? Maybe that’s what’s wrong with Americans.”

  “Do you drink red wine?” the silent partner finally spoke up, facing Jake diagonally across the compartment.

  “Not if I can help it,” he said.

  “Ha. Red wine is very good for you. If you drink enough you can fight against radiation.”

  “Why are you fighting radiation?” Jake asked. Then he remembered. Chernobyl.

  The compartment was overheated, and the heat combined with the smell of vodka was beginning to overwhelm Jake.

  He took another swig of his Coke, searching his memory for any health-giving effects or disease mitigating effects it might possess. He couldn’t think of any.

  The men began reaching for their wallets. Their faces became more cherubic
as they shared pictures of their families. They passed Jake their wallets and he acted suitably impressed by the boys and enchanted by the girls, all the while wondering, where were pictures of their wives?

  “You have family?” Mr. Vodka asked, and motioned for Jake to produce his wallet.

  Jake had no family pictures, but the whole group was encouraging him to share his personal life.

  “I’m not married,” he protested.

  “Then show us pictures of your girlfriend.”

  The group edged closer. They couldn’t wait to drool over Jake’s catch.

  The drinks and camaraderie lubricated the conversation and lowered his guard. He did have a stunning shot of Amber taken in Delaware at the beach.

  He pulled out his wallet.

  He flipped it to the photo of Amber and handed it around. It was met with stony silence. The men looked troubled as they studied it. It was hardly the reaction Jake had expected.

  “We understand,” the talkative buddy beside him said. “We have our Jews. You have your blacks.”

  How was he supposed to react to a comment like that?

  He slipped his wallet back into his pocket, where it would firmly reside for the duration of his trip.

  “Did you hear joke about the tailor for the American President?” the talkative one said.

  Jake didn’t care to traffic in off-color jokes. To avoid the subject, he stood up to open the train window.

  It immediately brought in a gust from the half-open door. It also spawned an angry reaction.

  “Are you trying to kill us?”

  How could it be too cold for them? Jake was sure the vodka had taken care of that.

  The guy by the door instantly lurched for the door handle and shoved it closed.

  “What’s the problem?” Jake said, confused.

  “Skvoznyak!” was the reply from all three.

  The men pulled their collars up over the backs of their necks.

  “What does that mean?” Jake asked for an interpretation.

  “Cross-wind,” his seatmate said.

  The intellectual who sat kitty-corner from Jake launched into a medical explanation of draughts. “It is an evil breeze that can cause angina.”

  The man opposite him began to pat himself on the face, as if Jake had just paralyzed a facial nerve.

  “Believe me,” Jake’s seatmate said, taking a full swig from his shot glass. “I had an auntie who died from it. It was long and painful death.”

  “Please close that window,” the medical expert croaked.

  Jake complied. He sensed that it was an easy way to tease his Russian interlopers, but might result in someone not Russian waking up dead the next morning.

  “Are you from Alaska?” the loquacious one said.

  “What? Because of the cold?”

  That brought out hearty laughter.

  With the proximity of Alaska to Russia, at least the two countries had something in common.

  “To Alaska,” Jake said, raising his Coke can and they all toasted Alaska.

  “You know,” his seatmate said, in a conspiratorial tone. “We only leased Alaska to you.”

  Jake was vaguely aware of the history of the territory, then state. He thought Seward had purchased Alaska outright. “I thought we bought it.”

  “No, it was a lease. And term is up.”

  The guy accentuated his gibe with a serious look.

  How did these men know anything about Alaska, unless it was a sore point with them. He didn’t care to get into legalistic wrangling, which appeared to be the grounds upon which the Russian raiders wanted to argue.

  All Jake could say was, “That may well be true. But possession is nine-tenths of the law. So I invite you to come and try to take it back.”

  That was met with sullen silence.

  “Listen, comrades. This has been a hoot,” Jake lied. “But I’m tired and this is my compartment. You can talk, but I need my sleep.”

  Minutes later, he lowered his bunk and jumped in bed. He adjusted his shoulder holster to a comfortable position and lay down. He eventually fell asleep to the rocking of the train and the sound of a foot pedal-operated toilet that occasionally sucked things out of the water closet.

  Chapter 9

  Monday

  Jake woke up with a start. This time it wasn’t his own snoring that awoke him. It was the Russian calling hogs on the bunk below.

  He looked around to orient himself. Water had condensed on the window of the steaming hot train car. Beyond that, the night was still dark. He checked his phone for the time. It had automatically adjusted to Irkutsk time and read 8:34 a.m. That seemed late. Would the sun ever rise?

  Then he remembered the true question before him. The train would reach the border by the end of the hour. He needed to find an American passport before then.

  He rolled off the bunk to go in search of the Americans from Brooklyn.

  A minute later, he entered the dining car. The fluorescent light hurt his eyes, but the smell of coffee, tea, and food was appealing. Although the Brooklyn kid’s passport would be perfect, the young pair wasn’t there. Still, the presence of many passengers gave him hope that he could find what he needed among them. He had only to ingratiate himself with someone who was preferably half asleep and relieve him of his passport in the next thirty minutes. Any victim would do.

  All bench seats were occupied, and everyone was wide awake as if they’d never gone to sleep. Some were still drinking beer while others had transitioned to coffee and breakfast. All were engaged in animated conversation. Travelling across Siberia was a once-in-a-lifetime trip for many, so people were making the most of it.

  Jake sidled up to the table with the most Americans, a group of middle-aged men in trucker hats.

  “Mind if I squeeze in?” he asked.

  “No problem.”

  They stared at him as if he should be familiar, and he instantly wondered if joining them was a mistake. Maybe they had seen his mugshot on the news.

  “Did you just get on the train?” one asked.

  Jake faced him squarely. “Why? Have you been on since Moscow?”

  “Damn right we have.”

  That was a relief. It meant they probably hadn’t seen a television in days. Still, they were clearly proud of their long journey and might reject him as a greenhorn.

  “I jumped on board in Irkutsk,” he said. He wondered if his materializing in the middle of Siberia might give him some mystique. He let them imagine that he was a great arctic explorer.

  “How can you scrounge up eggs around here?” he asked, eyeing their empty plates.

  “Grab her,” one fellow said, lank hair falling over his eyes.

  Jake nabbed the waitress and pointed to one of the plates on their table. She understood and left.

  The coffee, fresh omelet, and hash brown potatoes hit the spot. While he ate, he learned about rail gauges and soon realized that he was among train buffs.

  The big discussion was whether the train had to resize its axles at the border to Mongolia or the border to China. No one seemed to know, but they’d be out there observing the process.

  Unfortunately, Jake had yet to spot a stray passport at his table or anywhere in the car. He would have to ride it out and see if the New Yorkers happened by.

  The waitress dropped off a second coffee with dry creamer, and Jake drained his cup in seconds.

  “What’s your story?” one of the men finally asked him.

  He was prepared for that. He had put time into preparing an identity during the training academy in case he ever had to work undercover. Back then, he had spent a couple of months researching jobs, company names, and high schools and meeting people who would vouch for knowing him, etc.

  His go-to persona was a stud named Danny O’Brien, a high school football star turned national reporter from Georgia. Jake used an uncle’s accent to great effect and could lay it on as thick as molasses.

  So he was Danny O’Brien, a reporter cur
rently based in Moscow.

  “Doing a story right now?” one man asked, impressed.

  “I’m filing reports all the time.”

  The guy lifted his paper cup of beer in toast to his fellow working man.

  “What are you here for?” Jake asked.

  “This is personal travel. We’re engineers.”

  “Railway engineers?”

  “No. Mining.”

  That got his attention. “What company do you work for?”

  “We’re all contractors for an outfit in Utah.”

  “Kingston-Maes?” he asked.

  “That’s us,” one said. “Working on a big project in Erdenet.”

  Jake didn’t know the place but didn’t want to show his ignorance. “What sort of mining are we talking about?”

  “Copper. Fourth largest copper mine in the world.”

  “Why do they need Americans?” he asked.

  “The Mongolians don’t know squat, so Russians do all the work.”

  From that, Jake inferred that the mine was in Mongolia. “So what’s your role?”

  “We do all the refining.”

  “For copper?”

  The men looked at each other. “And other stuff.”

  “Such as?”

  At that point, the veteran in the group put a stop to the conversation. “Reporters!”

  And the others laughed.

  “Hope you don’t work for The New York Times.”

  Jake tried to laugh it off. He had played his role well. Maybe too well.

  “So mining is big in Mongolia?” he asked.

  “God yes. They don’t call it Minegolia for nothing. Huge reserves. Huge reserves.”

  “Of what?”

  “Oh, ten percent of the world’s coal. They’ve got the world’s second largest ore reserves down in the Gobi. There’s tons of gold, silver, molybdenum, and scads of uranium. And we’ve only scratched the surface.”

  “Literally,” Jake said.

  The men laughed.

  “But I’m told it’s hard to get stuff out of Mongolia,” he said.

  “Ain’t that the truth,” the veteran engineer replied. “That’s why they dig near the border. The two biggest mines are just fifty miles from China. And of the three paved roads out of Mongolia, two of them lead from those mines to China. But that’s going to change. Russia is building a six-hundred-mile train line down there. Pretty soon you’ll see the Trans-Siberian Railway carrying Mongolian coal out to Japan and Korea.”