by Fritz Galt
While perusing the fascinating file, Jake received a phone call from Maryland.
“Emily?” he guessed.
As he had hoped, it was Emily Yun.
“Jake, it’s confirmed. Bill Frost is still alive.”
Coming from the NSA, and from someone who just the previous evening had believed news stories that Bill Frost had been buried, that simple declaration validated all Jake’s work so far. What he had deduced was true. Bill Frost had lived to fight another day.
Jake set the folder down. “How do you know?”
“As you requested, we tapped into Bill’s satellite phone. There have been a few calls from his phone over the past two weeks. The most recent was a few days ago, this past Saturday. We checked the voice against National Geographic’s voice samples. Jake, it’s Bill Frost.”
Okay. That was big news. Vindication for Jake’s work thus far. But big news for National Geographic, its fans, and the world at large.
“Should I alert the press?” she offered.
“No. I said that I would report it. Now, who did he call? What did he say?”
“His calls go back to Sunday, two weeks ago. He called the U.S. Embassy in Mongolia and told them he suspected someone would kill him soon.”
That was the phone call alluded to in the initial phone transcript, the transcript that had started everything rolling on Jake’s end. Werner Hoffkeit meeting him at the elevator. Whitney Baker calling him into her office.
“What other calls did he make?”
“Several days later, Bill called NPR and was referred to your friend Amber.”
Jake sat up straight. “Amber Jones?”
“Yes. That was Thursday of last week. He called her and told her that someone had tried to kill him.”
So that’s how she knew. She wasn’t abusing Jake’s trust. She was talking directly to Bill Frost. That’s how NPR could report the story that he was still alive.
“What exactly did they say?”
“It was pretty much a one-sided conversation. Maybe his battery was running low. All he told her was his name, that someone had tried to kill him, and that she needed to check out a story in the Gobi.”
So that was the basis for Amber up and leaving so abruptly.
“What was the substance of his call?” Jake asked. “Why the Gobi?”
“All he said was that lots of lives were being lost every day due to this, and that she’d get the scoop of the decade.”
Jake knew Amber well enough to know she would follow up on such a lead.
“Did he say how lives were being lost?”
“No.”
“Did he tell her where to go in the Gobi?”
“That might have been in the next call, the last one we have on record. Once Amber arrived in Mongolia, she phoned Frost. We didn’t get a recording of that conversation because it routed through overseas lines. But we did get the metadata on his satellite signal. Maybe that’s when they discussed where to go in the Gobi.”
“Any more satellite calls since then?”
“That was the last one.”
So if Bill Frost was still walking the earth, was he still in Mongolia?
“Did the metadata show where Bill Frost was when he made his last call?” he asked.
“The satellite data didn’t show his location.”
That was too bad. It would have helped Jake find the errant environmentalist.
Bill Frost had made his last call on Saturday, three days ago. Jake calculated when he had received the NSA push notification that Amber was in Mongolia. It would have been that Saturday. Later, waking up in the airplane over Russia on Sunday, he had gotten another notification that she was in the south of Mongolia.
“And how about Amber’s phone? On Sunday I heard she placed a call from the south of Mongolia.”
“That’s right,” Emily said. “It was her last call. I’m looking at the record right here. It was a brief attempt to call the United States, but it never went through.”
That sounded ominous. Jake didn’t want to contemplate the reasons.
“It could have been bad cell phone reception down in the Gobi,” she suggested.
“Let’s hope that’s all it was. Who did she try to reach?”
“You, Jake. She tried to reach you.”
He closed his eyes. His heart nearly stopped.
She was trying to connect with him from the desert. What did she want to tell him? Was it personal? Did she have a tip?
It was days ago, and the last call she attempted to make. Why had it been cut short? Did she need help?
If she needed help, she could have called the embassy or emergency services. Why did she choose him?
“Can you check her location tracker to tell where she phoned from?” he asked, trying to keep desperation out of his voice.
“She used Mobicom, a Mongolian cellular network. They don’t store GPS information.”
“Can you ping her phone?”
“We can’t triangulate cell phone towers in Mongolia.”
“Emily, I’m begging you. Please have the NSA do everything they can to find that information. I need to know where Amber is. You’ll have to work with the Mongolians, I know, but pull out all the stops.”
“This might require the help of other agencies.”
“I don’t care if the President of the United States has to pick up the phone.”
He tried to squeeze the tears out of his eyes.
“Please, Emily.”
“You bet. I’ll try.”
At least Bill Frost was alive, speaking via satellite phone to Amber three days ago. And Amber was still alive two days ago, trying to call Jake.
“Thanks for letting me know,” he said, unable to keep the quaver out of his voice.
“So Jake?” she said.
“Yeah?”
“I put a wiretap on Cal Frost’s phone.”
He sat up straight. “And?”
“He’s in Mongolia. And guess who he phoned.”
He couldn’t imagine. “Who?”
“The CIA, Jake. He phoned Langley.”
“Okay. Hold on.”
It took him a moment to process the news.
Cal was in league with the CIA? Why in the world would a lobbyist for the green tech industry have any connection with the nation’s premier spy agency?
Then he remembered Hank Frost, Cal’s son and a die-hard fan of his environmentalist uncle, voicing full-throated support for green technology. Hank was likely a spook. Were Cal and Hank professionally connected?
“What did they talk about?” he asked, pen poised to take notes.
“It’s the CIA. Their conversations are off limits.”
“No they’re not. I don’t care if it’s the pope. Nobody is above the law.”
“I’m sorry about that. I don’t write the laws.”
“So what happened to the recording of their conversation?”
“There was no recording. Anything going in and out of Langley is opaque to us.”
He suddenly realized that he was in full Edward Snowden mode. If everyone’s conversations were transparent, the spy agency’s should be, too. But where did that logic leave national security? What would be the point of a spy agency?
In the end, the law to protect CIA phone conversations was a law to protect him from accessing the kinds of information that he might act upon and expose the CIA’s hand, leak to the press, or sell to the enemy.
The law was meant to protect him from himself.
“Is this phone call being monitored?”
“Of course not. The NSA doesn’t spy on itself.”
He should thank Congress for that.
But that didn’t leave him in the clear. “Have other agencies asked the NSA to listen in on my phone calls?”
“You really want me to check?”
He considered her ethical dilemma. Emily might easily be able to access the information, but sharing it with him was another matter, considering his dubiou
s legal status.
“Please check.”
He heard a keyboard rattling on the other end.
“What agencies are they?”
There was a long pause, then, “You don’t want to know, Jake.”
His tears had long since dried. In their place was a clear-eyed view of the world. It was great to hear that Bill was still alive. But not so great to hear that the entire U.S. Government was monitoring his every move.
Now that he had WiFi, Jake switched his phone over to Matt’s router and finally checked his email.
What stood out, in addition to pictures of his mother’s birthday party in Orlando, was a message from the FBI Laboratory.
Wait! Jake had missed his mother’s birthday?
He checked his calendar and sure enough, time had slipped by and he had completely forgotten.
He dashed off a message that he hoped would imply that he was a busy man, but had time to squeeze in well wishes. It was a sad email, and unfortunately one he had written her all too often: “Sorry I missed your birthday. How can I make it up to you?”
For one thing, he could get out of Mongolia in one piece.
Now for the FBI email.
The message was sent by Supriya Rao at Quantico and she began with an apology. “Sorry it took so long to get information out of the cell phone sent us from Mongolia. We were able to extract it quickly by rescuing a memory chip and putting it into a new phone. The hang-up was finding a Mongolian with the security clearance to translate it.”
It sounded like they were having the same problem that Truman Christopher had finding a language teacher.
The message continued. “It appears that the phone belonged to the driver of Bill Frost’s car.”
Jake paused to absorb the information. Did that mean Bill’s driver was the poor fellow who died in the explosion on Bogd Khan Mountain, whose remains had been shipped to Quantico for autopsy, and who had been buried in Falls Church?
The message ended with, “One particular text message left on the phone was a description of the car so Bill could identify it. It is a white Russian UAZ-452. That’s a four-wheel-drive off-road van. License plate 0859 UNH.”
Jake couldn’t remember any mention of a car being left at the scene. There were no car keys found on the remains.
Had Bill Frost taken the keys and hightailed it out of there? Where would he go? Why was he even at Bogd Khan Mountain?
Jake just had to go there and see for himself. He was sure the mountain was the beginning of the trail that would lead to Bill Frost and Amber.
Then Matt Justice appeared in the doorway. “Nils and Tracy just walked over from the Shangri-La Hotel,” he said. “We’re taking their laboratory equipment to the embassy. Do you want to come with us?”
Jake had considered wading into the political and economic war raging over Russia and China. But he knew instinctively that Matt and the disease detectives needed time and space to deal with the emerging medical catastrophe.
He was about to bow out of the invitation when he heard the distant whoop-whoop-whoop of a police siren.
Then Eve stuck her head in.
“Detective Bold is at the front gate of the compound,” she said. “Should I let him in?”
“…Y pestis, which is borne by Mongolian gerbils,” Nils Andersson was saying.
“Yersina pestis?” Tracy Woolman clarified. “From Oriental rat fleas?”
“That’s right. They treated each patient on a case-by-case basis for about a year until they realized that a pattern was emerging.”
The Swedish epidemiologist and the CDC mammalogist were downstairs having a conversation that needed to end immediately.
“Police are approaching from the back gate, too,” Eve called from upstairs, where she was watching out a window.
“I think they’re trying to surround our compound,” Matt said.
“What’s going on?” Nils asked.
Jake wanted to know, too.
Matt partially pulled back the sheers to look out. “They don’t know which building we live in.”
“What makes you think they’re after us?” Jake asked.
“Chad just called. He said that Boldbaatar was ordering you to come out with your hands up.”
“Detective Bold?” Jake said, remembering his conversation with the uncooperative Mongolian police officer who had earned his degree from UNC Chapel Hill.
Everybody looked at Jake. What had he done wrong?
“I have no idea what’s going on,” he said. He did have an international warrant out for his arrest, but how would the Mongolian authorities know that he was in the compound? Unless the American agencies monitoring his calls tipped off Detective Bold and the Mongolian police.
“He’s also ordering the two scientists to surrender themselves.”
They looked at Nils and Tracy. What had they done wrong?
“The school bus is loading children by the tennis court,” Eve said.
“Grab your coats, everybody,” Matt said, and raced for the coatrack. “We’re going to school.”
Jake yanked on his Mongolian cowboy boots. He slipped his phone into his pocket and threw his jacket and the Mongolia file under one arm.
“And bring your test equipment and medical kits just in case,” Matt said.
Each researcher had two large, white boxes labeled “MEDICAL.” It looked like enough equipment to create a small scientific field lab, along with treating an entire regiment for battle wounds. They threw the straps over their shoulders.
“Out the back door,” Matt ordered, and the two scientists, the diplomat, and Jake tromped across the clean beige carpet.
“Sorry about that,” Jake told Eve as she stared in horror at their dirty footprints.
Jake jumped onto the back patio whose steps led down to a snow-covered playground. Now that the day was breaking, he had a better view of the diplomatic housing. Several townhouse blocks surrounded a playground, ice rink, and tennis court. Just across the rink and by the tennis court, a small van was loading children on their way to school. Meanwhile, he saw flashing police lights beyond the compound gate to the rear of the complex where the van was headed.
How cowardly was it to embed themselves among school children? He would figure out the ethics later, if it didn’t work.
He landed on the crusty snow, and icy granules crunched underfoot as he ran.
Hunched low to appear smaller than they were, the foursome joined the back of the line.
“Wait for me!”
It was Eve in slippers and a light jacket sliding across the ice to get to them.
Make that a fivesome.
Parents watched in surprise as the adults piled into the van. Not all their comments were positive.
But nobody stopped them.
Maybe they assumed it was professional day at school.
Naturally, there weren’t enough seats in the van, and a tuba in the front row blocked the aisle. The handsome high schooler was lifting smaller kids over his instrument with a good-natured smile.
“Don’t worry about us,” Matt told him. “We can step over it.”
Matt and Eve, the scientists, and Jake all stepped as deftly as they could while carrying boxes of equipment and wads of winter clothing.
The adults put the smallest children on their laps, and the sleepy kids didn’t mind being manhandled that way. It was probably par for the course on a school bus that transported the full range of students from preschool through high school.
Jake wiped away the frost forming on his window. Compound guards had spread out and were running from door to door.
Meanwhile, the local driver put the van in gear and lurched forward. Only to find the rear gate, a sliding metal wall, closed tight.
There was a guard in a heavy overcoat holding a two-way radio to his ear. He signaled for the van to wait.
The driver opened his window and pleaded his case.
The guard wasn’t going to open the gate.
Jak
e felt like a prisoner on the verge of a jailbreak, with flashing lights reflecting off buildings on the far side of the wall.
At that point, Eve took control. She marched to the front of the van and climbed over the tuba case. She knocked on the door for the driver to let her out, and he complied.
Jake could hear the loud words from his seat in the middle of the van.
“We are children,” the diminutive woman told the guard. “We are going to school. Open that door!”
The response came back in mumbled Mongolian.
“Give me that,” she said, and took the radio out of the guard’s hand.
What followed was a torrent of Chinese demands that threatened to cause a diplomatic incident. Jake doubted that the other end of the conversation understood a word she said, but it seemed to work.
She handed the device back to the guard and reboarded the school van.
The guard listened to his instructions, then fastened the two-way radio to his belt and leaned into the gate. The massive barrier opened slowly, revealing a line of cop cars waiting to enter.
“What did you tell him?” Jake asked Eve as she took her seat.
She was still angry and didn’t want to say.
“I think she was quoting Mao,” Matt said.
The van’s wheels rumbled and the springs creaked as they crawled out of the icy compound onto a back alley. Solemnly, they passed the sleek, black cars that had “POLICE” painted in huge letters on their sides.
Once the way was clear for them to enter, the cops went to full lights and sirens and stormed the compound.
Jake didn’t know the normal routine for the inhabitants of the compound, but this morning must have felt different.
The van bounced down the alley and headed for open road. On one side of the alley sat an unfinished high rise like a hulking skeleton, clearly abandoned mid construction. On the other side was a makeshift fence, a combination of sheets of metal and abandoned billboards. It wasn’t the scenic route, but to Jake it meant freedom from the long arm of the law.
