Murder in Mongolia

by Fritz Galt

  He flexed his fingers. His hands would have to be strong enough to hold the weight of two people.

  Trying to absorb the vibrations of the rock underfoot, he concentrated on a bar just below the catwalk. A two-inch-thick pipe, it extended the full width of the conveyor. With luck, they could slide out of the area where the rocks were flying into the crusher and climb onto another walkway that rimmed the interior of the building.

  Jake resorted to counting down the final seconds before he reached out and tossed the rope over their last chance of survival.

  Ten seconds.

  The yellow funnel below them was scratched with numerous streaks from falling boulders.

  Five seconds.

  He didn’t want to look into the dark hole where rocks disappeared at a steady rate.

  “For Amber,” he muttered under his breath.

  He concentrated on that silver pipe with a clearance of a foot above it. It had to be an accurate toss.

  He felt Saran grasp the tails of his deel.

  One last swing of the rope. He stood on his toes and reached out over the final segment of the conveyor belt.

  The boulder suddenly tipped underfoot.

  He tossed the balled end of the rope with the full extension of his hand. He willed the end to fly over the pipe. He needed it to emerge on the other side.

  Underfoot he felt the rock slide over the edge.

  The rope was floating through the air. It cleared the pipe.

  Saran clung tighter, pulling his deel against his shoulders.

  The rope hung tantalizingly mid air.

  He gave a giant leap forward. It was a heart-stopping moment when his boots lost contact with the solid surface.

  The rope started to drop toward him just as he began falling. He stretched out over space to grab the rope. He felt it slide through his gloves. He clenched both hands around it. His fists slid down to the knotted end.

  The whole world seemed to tug at him.

  Saran swung out under him, high above the crusher.

  He saw the rock plummet toward the gnawing machine.

  Then he felt a bolt of pain strike his arms and back. He held on despite the pain. The balled knot wedged up under his fists. Above him, the rope stretched taut. Behind him, it dug into his back.

  He looked only at his hands. He needed all the arm and hand strength he could muster just to hold onto the rope. They were swinging over space, rocks hurtling at them, then dropping away. The building wall seemed too far away.

  Why was Saran swinging so wildly?

  Was she trying to avoid the falling rocks?

  He took a moment to observe what she was doing. She was swinging perpendicular to the conveyor belt.

  The enormous rocks came at her as close as ever.

  But she seemed to know what she was doing as she kicked outward with each swing.

  After four enormous swings in which he felt his strength inexorably ebb away, she struck something solid.

  They swung back and forth one more time, and for a brief moment he felt relief from the tug on his arms.

  Then they were back to swinging again, the rope slipping further through his fingers.

  He looked closer to see what she was doing.

  High above the falling rock that crashed with a resounding metal clang into the machine, she had found a series of pipes that angled from the conveyor to the wall. They appeared to be there to position the conveyor belt over the crusher.

  If they swung far enough to the side, she might be able to snag one of those pipes and anchor the two of them.

  So on the next swing, he desperately gave her help to reach that spot, bending his legs outward for an assist.

  There was a distant clang as her boots hit the pipes and stuck there.

  Instantly, he felt relief from her weight.

  From the corner of his eye, he saw her swing a leg over another pipe and thereby attach herself more securely. She quickly transferred her grip from his coat to his legs. She could partially support his weight, but still clung to him for balance. She was in no position to grab a pipe. She was very much reliant on him to keep her upright.

  It was up to him to slide the rope in her direction.

  With her strong legs providing short bursts of energy, he managed a few small hops with his back tightening and his arms taut, then relaxing as he slid the rope a few inches.

  They were going nowhere fast, and he had to fight off the panic that he would run out of strength long before he reached the building wall.

  His only reassurance was that Saran was down there helping.

  He took another hop. Then another.

  He eventually worked out a rhythm with the acrobatic Mongolian below.

  Soon Saran was no longer a drag on him.

  Hop. Hop.

  He inched closer to the wall.

  She supported more of his weight.

  His neck was aching. He looked down.

  She had grabbed a pipe with one hand. She might be safe, but worked hard to bring him in.

  He was three feet from the wall.

  She helped him edge the rope closer.

  His fingers were crushed against the knot and his arms trembled. Only his back had muscle left to move him.

  Rock after rock vaulted past him and slammed into the giant urn. There were deep popping sounds as the crusher disassembled the earth that had taken millennia to form. More than his life depended on the successful bridging of those last few feet.

  As Jake slid the rope closer to the wall, he was approaching the walkway that circled the interior of the building.

  All he needed was to get close enough to let go of the rope. He would land a yard later, and he would be safe.

  “A little more,” Saran encouraged from below. She had both hands around his legs and strove to support his weight.

  His arms were killing him, but he needed to slip another few feet to position himself over the walkway.

  Just then, a shot rang out. Simultaneously a bullet zinged off the metal wall just a foot away.

  In the huge open building, someone had taken a potshot at them.

  If saving himself from falling into the machine wasn’t motivation enough, the thought of getting struck by a bullet proved all the incentive he needed.

  Another shot rang out, and this time the bullet nearly struck his head. Sparks showered against the nearby wall.

  He arched his back and swung his shoulders back and forth, trying to nurse the rope along the pipe that supported his weight. He renewed his grip on the rope and jerked it violently toward the wall.

  “I have you,” Saran cried from below.

  He put his full weight in her hands. She was lifting him onto her shoulders.

  “Let go,” she called, as yet another shot exploded from far below.

  The bullet cracked inches from his ear.

  “Crap.” He gave one last swing of his shoulders, jerked the rope toward the wall, and let go.

  Saran had his full weight on her shoulders, but little balance.

  In one swift move, Jake wrapped his arms around the nearest I-beam and hugged the wall.

  Then he quickly slid down to her level.

  A fourth shot tried to pick them off. He felt the metal catwalk shudder as it took the bullet from below. They crouched low to let the walkway protect them.

  “Who is that?” he whispered. “The cops?”

  “I don’t think so,” she said. “It was just one man.”

  “Did you get a look at him?”

  “Fat. Hairy. Not from Mongolia.”

  Cal Frost. Jake had his gun out and a bullet chambered in under a second.

  He felt like a rat trapped in the rafters. He looked around for escape options. Bent low, they could run unseen around the walkway high inside the processing plant. An occasional set of stairs led on lengthy, exposed descents to the floor far below. Cal Frost couldn’t cover all exits any more than a safety could cover all corners of a football field.

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nbsp; “Follow me,” Jake said, and took Saran by the hand.

  Together they crouched low and prowled along the walkway, hidden from view. His goal was to circle to the far side of the building, two hundred yards away, then descend the stairs unobserved.

  The sound of their footsteps was obscured by the grinding, popping, and growling machines that busily chewed the rocks they were fed.

  Jake was eager to glance over the edge to verify that it was Cal Frost, but the risk was too great. They had to get out of an exposed position before they could take control of the situation.

  For such an active factory, there were few workers. The process seemed highly automated.

  They passed large crushers and sag mills pounding away. After that, they walked over dozens of round tubs of dark liquid where valuable ore was being extracted from the rock.

  The occasional worker he did see seemed undisturbed by the gunfire. Maybe nobody heard it. That was likely from all the splashing and pouring of water at the far end of the building.

  How had Cal Frost found them? Was he lying in wait, listening to police radio traffic over the airwaves?

  Was this just a giant trap for Jake, or was Cal Frost there for another reason? And if so, why in the middle of the Gobi?

  “Try these stairs,” Saran said, huffing behind him.

  They had reached a long staircase that snaked down a dark corner of the building all the way to the factory floor.

  “Why here?” he whispered.

  “This is where the gers are.”

  He understood at once. She felt safest among the dwellings where she knew the layout and likely several workers.

  He made a snap decision to follow her advice. Trying to remain out of sight from below, they eased down the first flight of stairs one step at a time.

  He pointed his gun straight ahead. He worried about surprising an unsuspecting worker.

  He pushed Saran behind him and thrust his gun around the corner of the first landing. He leaned forward to get a better look. Nobody there.

  They scooted around the corner and faced another flight of stairs. Careful not to clang their boots against the metal, they crept slowly down to a yet darker landing.

  There he waited for sound from beyond. Hearing nothing, he eased his gun around the corner. No shadows. No sounds.

  Another landing cleared.

  He took a deep breath and the pair advanced step by step to the next landing.

  They were soon eye-level with the tops of grinding machines that spilled their contents into rippling pools of liquid. It didn’t smell like chemicals. Was that water?

  If so, was that the water that contaminated the Gobi?

  It hardly seemed like enough liquid to poison a nation. Besides, hadn’t Nils read from the Mongolia file that mineral processing merely recycled the same water? The product Mongolia produced wasn’t pure copper and gold. Instead, they produced bags of ore for China to refine.

  As they advanced, he heard no footfalls, no breathing, no rustling of clothing. It looked like they had chosen a good escape route.

  At the bottom of the stairs, they encountered a closed door, presumably leading outside.

  Jake touched the handle. It felt like ice. “Are you ready for this?”

  Saran nodded in the half light.

  Careful to conceal his gun, but ready to whip it out at a moment’s notice, he turned the door handle.

  The door was instantly ripped out of his hand.

  A howling wind flapped the door against its hinges. A long piece of sheet metal flew overhead and nearly decapitated him.

  They had opened the door into a wind storm, and just informed the entire building that they were there.

  Jake faced rows of gers that slept in the night, snow piled up against their northern exposure.

  They couldn’t afford to linger. “Take us somewhere safe,” he told Saran, and urged her to take the lead.

  Which she did.

  Hunkered low to avoid flying debris, she hurried toward the nearest ger. He followed step by step.

  Briefly out of the wind, he wondered if that was her destination. It wasn’t. She hurried into the wind toward the next ger. They continued running through the spaces between dwellings. Some of the low, yurt-like structures had air conditioning units. Some had satellite dishes. Some had piles of wood. Some were even attached to outhouses.

  But aside from those differences, one ger looked like another and he was soon lost in the zigzagging route past row after row of the round, white dwellings.

  Presumably Cal Frost would get equally lost among the similar looking tents.

  The greatest danger he saw was flying debris. In the moonlight, one metal scrap appeared out of nowhere, warping loudly as it flew past.

  “Next ger,” she said, and broke into the gap.

  The ger she was heading for looked indistinguishable from the rest.

  He launched into the gap. He had long since put away his gun and was firmly covered by hat and gloves. But despite all his protection, the wind went straight through him, along with an extra dose of iciness. How did people survive in those conditions?

  Saran didn’t bother to knock on the painted blue and orange door. She called out a greeting and pulled it open.

  “Follow me,” she told Jake.

  He wasn’t about to resist. Besides, light and warmth emanated from within.

  A man sat on a stool with a bottle of wine in front of him. His gentlemanly appearance was diminished by a drunken slouch and unbuttoned shirt. He absently proffered them a toast.

  “Put that away,” Saran told the man severely, and took the cup out of his hand.

  “Alcohol is strictly forbidden at the mine,” she explained to Jake.

  The Mongolian had a black buzz cut and an extra layer of fat. He would have looked like a wrestler if it weren’t for his white, military-style uniform.

  “This is Dr. Omga,” she said. “The company doctor.”

  The man seemed in no condition to practice medicine. But someone had to treat injuries at the mine. And that person also had to endure life in the desert.

  Dr. Omga was that guy.

  The good doctor didn’t resist Saran taking the cup out of his hand, but he clung to the wine bottle.

  “This is my friend,” Saran introduced Jake.

  The doctor struggled to stand up, but Saran firmly pushed him back in place.

  “Thank you for your hospitality,” Jake said, wondering why she had brought him to a doctor in the first place. Despite all they had experienced, neither he nor Saran needed medical attention.

  The man shoved a plate of orange-colored slivers their way. Jake recognized it as the cheese curds that got Mongolians through the winter. He had tried it at Courtney’s, and he had nearly broken a tooth on the first bite.

  “No thanks,” he said.

  “Take one,” Saran said. “You don’t turn down food.”

  He took one.

  The three sat around the table and Saran broke into a murmured conversation with the good doctor. Jake didn’t understand a word they said, but for all his drinking the guy seemed able to carry on a coherent conversation.

  Jake was just happy to be indoors and away from the gun-slinging madman from McLean. He was left to contemplate all the havoc he and Cal Frost had brought to the simple life of the steppe. Were he and Cal just further damaging the Gobi?

  He was filled with admiration for Saran. In another life, she could be a contortionist with the Mongolian national circus. She could also be a great stuntman with her motorcycle and rock-climbing skills.

  Inventive and cool under pressure, she could even be in the country’s special forces. For all he knew, maybe she was.

  Which got him thinking. What was the border like with China? Was there a Great Wall across the desert? Were there even soldiers? If not, what marked where Mongolia ended and China began?

  He got that sense of excitement he always felt when approaching another country. China was so cultur
ally different. But so was Mongolia.

  For the first time, he had the disorienting sensation of being stuck in a no-man’s-land between two peoples.

  He couldn’t be farther from home. And if it weren’t for the friendly voices at the table and the feeling that Amber was nearby, he would have forgotten what home was like altogether, and why he was there.

  Saran turned to Jake. “He’s telling me that all the miners are sick,” she interpreted. “He tells me that if he didn’t have a secret stash of wine, he would be dead by now.”

  “So wine is a good thing?”

  “He says so. He’s the one who urged me to buy bottled water. The mine store sells it, but it’s too expensive for most miners. They’re here for the money and don’t want to waste it on imports.”

  “What’s in the local water?” Jake asked.

  With that, Dr. Omga turned to him with a stare so sober, Jake wondered if he had unlocked the cure to inebriation.

  “You haven’t seen the ponds?” the doctor asked.

  “No,” Jake said.

  The doctor returned to stare at his table, nodding gently.

  Jake got the point. Until he saw the ponds, he wouldn’t understand anything.

  “We’ll go there in the morning,” Saran said.

  “Can you ask him about the foreigner who was shooting at us?” Jake asked.

  But Saran didn’t respond.

  “Can you ask him about an African-American woman who might be held captive here?”

  Again, Saran didn’t answer and her eyes remained downturned.

  “Can you ask him about the cause of the illness?”

  But Jake was getting the idea. The doctor had slipped into a stupor that none of his questions could penetrate.

  And none of it would make sense until the next morning.

  Chapter 13

  Thursday

  At sunrise, Jake and Saran ducked out of the doctor’s ger and were met by the brilliant light of a bright sun and clear sky.

  Workers streamed back and forth as a new shift took over. Hefty-looking men and women in red coats and yellow hardhats stomped slowly and undramatically through the new snow to work at the mine. Meanwhile, rushing in the opposite direction was a sprightlier group of scientists and technicians in white lab coats.