by Fritz Galt
Speaking of officials, there was only one official who might be able to get the CIA off his back. It was time to play the card up his sleeve.
He took a deep breath. It was time to call Werner Hoffkeit.
The Director of the FBI, by definition, was a busy man. But when a phone call came from the FBI’s Most Wanted Man, the nation’s business was put on hold.
“Where in the world are you?” Hoffkeit asked without preliminaries.
“I’m sure you’re following all my credit card purchases. And you’ll probably track this call,” Jake said. “So I’ll make this quick. What I need is for you to call off your attack dogs.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Of course you do. I want you to tell the CIA and the Mongolian police to lay off. I’m simply doing my job.”
“Jake, I wanted you to investigate crimes, not instigate them.”
“I found Bill Frost. He’s alive and well.”
“Congratulations. I will notify National Geographic. Your work is done.”
“I’m still investigating a federal crime,” Jake insisted.
“Was an American killed?”
“No.”
“Were any crimes committed against Americans?”
“Yes. Attempted manslaughter.”
“Against who?”
“Against me.”
Hoffkeit hesitated. “Who tried to kill you?”
“A lobbyist.”
“A lobbyist? Are you kidding me?”
Jake wanted to tell the man that only female goats could kid. But he decided against it.
“Okay, Jake. It is a felony to target a federal official. And last I checked, you’re still on the payroll. I’ll approve your investigation. You can bring the lobbyist to justice. But I will throw the book at you if you break any law or violate any statute. I don’t care if you lie, cheat, or steal. If it’s a crime, you’re going to pay for it. Understood?”
Jake understood that his rule-breaking days were over. But he had broken no laws. And as long as he was still on the payroll, he was willing to face an ethics investigation at the Department of Justice. All those concerns were a world away. What mattered most at that juncture was for the U.S. to call off the rottweilers and allow him to continue his investigation. And Cal Frost was, first and foremost, the target of that investigation.
“So you’ll call the CIA and tell them to lay off me?”
If Werner Hoffkeit wasn’t used to being dictated to, he didn’t show it. “I’ll do what I can.”
Suddenly, police sirens began to wail nearby.
“Call them off now!”
Chapter 12
Late Wednesday
It was late evening in Mongolia as the eleven-passenger Hyundai van jolted and shook with every rock and gulley.
Jake longed to be back in his comfortable Glover Park rowhouse, drinking coffee in his bathrobe, and reading about the normal disfunction of American politics.
Instead, he was a world away in the dangerous cold, his work commute having been replaced by a risky, nighttime escape over snowy peaks in the Gobi.
Without seatbelts, his party of ten was flying around on seats that swiveled and collapsed with every bump.
But the grandfather was in control of the van.
He peered out over the blue lights of his dashboard and gunned the powerful engine over snow-covered terrain up a thirty-degree slope.
For all Jake knew as he sat in the passenger’s seat, there could be a drop-off on either side.
Yet with catlike night vision, the old guy maneuvered the vehicle out of town and high into the mountains to the west of the main valley that ran down to the mine.
With all the people in the van, the windshield quickly frosted on the inside. Jake pulled out a credit card and chipped away at the ice in front of the driver.
The old guy was too busy avoiding boulders to thank him.
Jake looked for headlights prowling the flatlands below, and saw none. Maybe the police hadn’t followed their tracks out of town.
At the top of the first pass, the driver gave three loud honks.
“Shh!” Jake said.
They drove around a wooden pole that was supported by a pile of rocks. It was wrapped in blue plastic, and the skeleton of an animal lay at its base.
“What’s this?” Jake asked.
“It’s an ovoo,” Eve said. “A shaman shrine to the mountain. You’re supposed to honk for good luck.”
Catholics preserved relics. Buddhists clanked bells. Shamanists worshiped mountains. People reached for whatever religion was available. Right then on that slippery slope, they needed all the religion they could get.
Grandpa continued driving in the dark with the lights off. Now the boulder-strewn mountain sloped steeply downward. He slowed to a crawl and edged uncertainly into the dark. They seemed to be entering an area where he had never been before.
“Does he know where he’s going?” Jake asked.
Nicole conveyed the question.
“He has never been here before.”
“By car or at all?”
“At all.”
Jake shaved off more ice.
As he leaned toward the dashboard, he noticed that the fuel indicator read empty.
“Are we out of gas?” he asked.
“No,” Nicole said, although she sounded tense. “The fuel gauge doesn’t work.”
“Then how do we know how much fuel is left?” he asked.
She replied without asking the driver. “My family calculates fuel by distance.”
“So how much farther can he go?”
She inquired of the driver.
The man spoke calmly in Mongolian, but didn’t take his eyes off the shifting shapes in the snow.
“He says he has thirty kilometers left.”
Then what? Were there gas stations in the desert?
Suddenly, Bam!
Jake flew forward and tried to duck as he smashed into the windshield. He heard something crack.
Behind him, bodies piled against his seat as the van came to an abrupt halt.
There were numerous expletives expressed, and some groans.
They had hit a hidden boulder with the underside of the van.
The engine died and the interior began to smell of gasoline.
“Wadda fff?” Jake slurred. His voice echoed around as if in an empty chamber.
Bill Frost seemed the most hurt. He had gotten a foot caught under the front seat as he lurched forward. He howled in pain.
“Can someone shut him up?” Jake said, finding his voice.
The driver tried to restart the engine, but the ignition died.
They had gotten stuck on a nameless mountain. They were past the point of no return and heading downhill into the black sea of the desert.
The driver jumped out to survey the damage. He circled the van, then opened the hood.
“Don’t worry,” Nicole said. “He installed the engine himself.”
“There’s a bad smell,” Eve said.
“Petrol,” Nils said, as he reached for his medical kit. “Nobody light a match.”
As Nils tended to Bill Frost’s sprained ankle and Courtney tried to soothe him, the driver returned and opened the engine compartment between his seat and Jake’s. The gasoline smell was even stronger and made Jake dizzy.
The old guy played with wires, then tried to restart the engine.
It didn’t work.
He played with the wires some more.
“Looks like the motor shifted forward when the van struck the rock,” Matt said. “That pulled out the fuel injection line.”
The driver retrieved a toolkit from the back of the Hyundai, and several passengers climbed out.
Putting on his gloves and Russian fur hat, Jake stepped outside for fresh air and, still dazed, staggered several feet away from the vehicle. Then his foot slipped and he lost balance.
Before he knew it, he had fallen and was bouncing off the side of t
he mountain. He flailed about and tried to grab at outcroppings as he slid on his back down the snowy cliff. He flew past rocks before he could grab them.
He tried to dig the heels of his boots into the snow, but failed. He was rapidly gathering speed.
Vaguely aware of which end was up, he fought to keep his feet below him, absorbing shock after shock.
Already dazed by his impact with the windshield, he was rapidly losing orientation.
“Jake!” Matt shouted from above.
Jake’s slick ultralight jacket functioned like a greased skid, and he accelerated.
The drop-off seemed to go on forever.
With great effort, Jake managed to turn himself around to face the mountainside. He shielded his face and grasped at objects, largely loose stones. Occasionally he caught hold of a branch to slow his descent.
“Are you okay?” Matt shouted.
Jake was using vocabulary he had never used before. At least hearing his own voice gave him confidence and kept him from going unconscious.
Afraid that the cliff would fall away completely, he made one last, desperate attempt to fling his body against the hillside. Now on his belly, he dug his toes and hands and jaw completely into the snow and rubble.
Friction increased and he began to slow down. Icy outcroppings ripped his clothes and battered his face.
He had to avoid flying off the cliff.
Amber needed him. The Mongolian people needed him.
He had to dig in harder.
His boots found resistance and his gloved hands landed on more solid rock. The speed of his descent reduced dramatically. He hugged the face of the mountain with its fluffy snow and chalky soil until his arms nearly pulled out of their sockets.
“Jake!”
A few more inches and he came to a halt, his chest heaving, his mind a blur, and his feet hanging over thin air.
“Still here,” he squeaked.
A mountain goat or snow leopard might know how to get out of such a fix, but he was paralyzed, afraid to move in any direction.
“Watch out for the cliff,” he yelled back.
“Yeah,” Matt said, forty feet above. “Got that.”
Jake’s fingers started to give out from supporting his weight.
He kicked around in search of a foothold. It appeared that nothing prevented him from falling to his death. And only a few inches of snow allowed him to cling to the cliff.
He blinked and stared around. All was darkness. The only thing he was sure of was that his head was still on his body and it was pointed upward. The rest of him was splayed out on a sixty-degree incline, with his knees and feet hanging free. If he tried to work his way uphill, was there enough to grab onto? As long as he didn’t slide further, he might survive. Reaching the others had become a distant dream.
“Does anyone have a rope?” he called.
A moment later, Nicole replied, “No rope.”
That sealed it. He would have to climb out of the abyss alone.
He paused and listened to his heart thud against the mountain. He was going to have to work with the hill, not against it.
The snow was loose, but held up under a tight grip. He sought higher ground with his boots, but found none. So he began the arduous task of pulling himself up with the barest of handholds.
He gained an inch. Two.
His position was awkward, and he was performing an exercise he had never tried in the gym. He had to rely on muscles he had never used before.
He was making progress. But any mistake would send him flying off the cliff.
He managed to climb a foot and paused. His heart was beating so loudly, it echoed off nearby rocks. His lungs heaved wildly out of control. He felt an onset of the nauseous delirium of Utah. With the high altitude of the Gobi and the thin air of the mountains, it was like waking up at Brian Head. Would he black out?
His shoulders and gloved hands were doing all the work to pull him upward. But his muscles were rapidly seizing up. He had to twist and find a toehold.
He lifted a knee slightly, and his body slid an inch.
He held his breath and lifted his knee higher. Deliberately. Carefully.
The toe of his boot struck something hard. The soil might crumble away, but at least he was fully on the mountain.
He would have to climb higher before he could dig his boots in for support. It was back to the burning pressure of his weight on his arms and hands. He strained, with his knee braced against the mountain.
The snow was cold, but the exertion kept him warm.
“Any progress?” Matt called.
“Undetermined,” Jake said. His voice was weak, but carried well in the silence.
That gave him enormous confidence. He needed something to forestall his wooziness. He took a moment to concentrate on the fate of the van. “Give me a progress report.”
“Our driver is checking the engine,” Matt called. “Eve is praying.”
Jake climbed another two inches and had to stop. This was going to take years.
“Status report?” he called.
Matt came back with renewed confidence. “The grandfather is using an epoxy wet weld to reattach the connector.”
That sounded good. Now the race was on. Could he reach the car before it was ready?
Then he heard a low growl.
“There might be wolves around,” Tracy Woolman called.
The growl came from above him. Had he tumbled past a wolf? He couldn’t just climb past it.
The growl came again, this time with an angry snarl. It was a wolf defending its territory.
Jake wasn’t going to retreat or circle around. He would face the thing. And he was in a terrible mood.
He tightened his abdomen and, while he hoped to hold his place with his left hand, slid his right hand under his body. His gun was still there.
Carefully, he withdrew it and brought it over his head.
“Stand back,” he said. “There’s a wolf between us, and I may have to shoot it.”
“Everyone back in the car,” Matt said.
“No, wait.” It was Tracy. “I have a tranquilizer gun.”
He heard footsteps high above.
“Don’t hit me,” he cried.
Then there was a puff of air.
The growling animal gasped a single breath and crumpled to the snow.
“You may want to hurry,” Tracy called. “The tranquilizer lasts only thirty minutes.”
Now he had all the incentive he needed to reach the top. He put his gun away and redoubled his efforts. With his muscles rested, he made progress. Inches became feet. Feet became yards.
As long as he didn’t think about it, he was scaling a cliff.
He smelled the beast before he saw it. The fur smelled of wet dog.
When he reached the wolf, he realized that he was outside a tiny cave. He heard a litter of small pups jumping about inside.
“Easy, little guys,” he told the pups. “I’m just passing through.”
Tracy had given him thirty minutes. Could he pass the den and scale the snowy cliff in time?
He made the most of what the mountain had to offer.
After what seemed like an hour, he could hear the driver working with wires. He had nearly reached the top.
Just then, he felt warm droplets splatter on his head. They felt different from the snowflakes that danced about him. And they had a pungent, cheesy smell.
“Is someone peeing on me?” he called.
“Oh, sorry,” Matt said. “That was Eve.”
“What is she doing?” he said between heavy breaths.
“Ah, she’s flicking goat’s milk around.”
Jake didn’t understand that woman.
“Can somebody please lend me a hand?” he cried, afraid that the last five feet would kill him.
“I’m coming for you,” Matt said. “Reach out your hand.”
With a little aid from the science attaché, Jake felt himself half dragged up the rest of the inc
line.
“Boy, do I feel dumb,” he said, and sat with his head between his knees.
“Don’t worry about it,” Matt said. “Now we know where the cliff is.”
Jake didn’t want to think about it. He was hot and numb and not yet able to stand.
Matt hooked an arm around Jake and got him back to the van and into the passenger’s seat.
Inside, Courtney was tending to Bill Frost, who still clutched his ankle and sobbed like a child, while the others sat in a state of prayerful silence.
The grandfather climbed back inside and peeled the coating off a wire.
“Has he ever done this before?” Jake asked.
Nicole spoke with the guy, who chuckled and said something under his breath.
“What did he say?”
“It’s an expression,” Nicole said. “‘Life is rich.’”
The host grandfather closed the engine compartment between the front seats and blew on his hands.
Everybody watched him turn the ignition key.
The van coughed.
He pumped the gas.
With a roar, the engine sprang to life.
Amid cheers and chants of encouragement, he backed the van up and off the rock.
Soon they lurched forward. Plowing through snow, they began to rocket down the mountain.
“Use your headlights,” Jake told the driver.
The message was conveyed, and two feeble beams came on. They illuminated an obstacle course of ruts, ravines, and rocks. They also revealed something else.
Pairs of yellow eyes glanced their way. The van was being escorted by a pack of wolves.
Wet, hot, and sticky gasoline sprayed all over the interior of the van, splattering Jake and the driver.
“He’ll fix the engine more permanently in the morning,” Nicole explained.
Jake was happy just to be inside, rather than dealing with the cold and the hungry wolves.
Several times the Hyundai veered close to the drop-off that had nearly swallowed Jake up. He used all his body English to help the driver avoid steering off the cliff.
Meanwhile, as he stared through the spiderweb of cracks made by his skull against the windshield, he took stock of their situation.
Here they were in the roughest and most remote country imaginable, limping along with their last few drops of fuel, alone in the Gobi with broken ankles, bashed skulls, extreme cold, and gray wolves circling closer.
