The Iranian Intercept

by R G Ainslee

  It was obvious he didn't have much confidence in my qualifications for the mission. Didn’t care and kept quiet. We stared at each other in an uneasy silence.

  "This Hungarian woman I'm supposed to meet at the Everest base camp, how did she contact you?"

  "Didn't contact us directly. She managed to pass a note to an American tourist in a restroom at her hotel."

  "You mean you haven't talked to her?"

  "No. But—"

  "Is that the only communication you had with her? I thought things were set up for—"

  "No. That's all. I forwarded the note to Langley. They took it from there."

  "You mean she doesn't know I'm coming."

  "Thought you boys had that all worked out." He shook his head in disgust and held up the palms of his hands. "Don't blame this one on me. I'm just the messenger."

  And I'm the sucker. Gotta stay calm and take this one step at a time. "This woman have a name?"

  "Her name is Valentina Kayroli … and no, I don't got a photo of the dame."

  "Okay. Supposing I make contact and she wants to leave, how am I supposed to get her out of the country?"

  He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his chin, as if deep in thought. "If you can get her to the Kathmandu airport, we can get both of you on a flight to Patna in India." He looked me straight in the eyes, a penetrating glare. "But don't expect you to be able to get her out of the mountains alive."

  His comment hung for a moment, another inkling of trouble. Had my doubts when Wilson said it would be a routine mission: all I had to do was go up to the Everest base camp, find out what she knew, and see if she wanted to defect. Wouldn't be the first time he was wrong.

  "Why not?"

  Harris pulled out the pack of Camels again. "Their security's pretty tight. Got a feeling they ain't just a scientific mission." He paused to light up.

  "What ya think they're up to?" Had a good idea but wanted him to tell what he knew.

  He inhaled and blew out another stream of smoke. "Not sure, but we do know the Russkies are keeping a close eye on ‘em. The Soviet embassy has a new guy. A Major Victor Andreyevich Suslov, almost certainly KGB. I sent a profile and picture of him to Langley and expect word back any day now. One thing for sure, he ain't here to study local agriculture."

  He opened a folder on his desk. "Here's a photo one of my men took on the street." Suslov looked like a slick henchman in a James Bond movie.

  My sixth sense told me something had gone wrong. It usually does. "Is he still here in Kathmandu?"

  "Lost track of him last week, he might be anywhere by now." Harris paused to flick an ash. "You'll need to keep your eyes open for him."

  * * *

  On the way back to the hotel, I spotted a stall selling knifes and made one additional purchase, my favorite weapon, a switchblade. Didn’t even bargain, paid full price.

  As I left the knife seller, a short wiry Nepalese man standing across the street stared at me in a way that didn't seem quite right. Wasn't just idle curiosity, it was something else. The survival instinct is universal among living beings — a little voice tells you trouble is coming. Instinct is the best detector of danger. If something doesn’t feel right, it's probably not.

  Careful not to make eye contact, I made my way back to the hotel, bypassing the most direct route. It had been a few years since I was last in Kathmandu and little had changed, except there seemed to be fewer hippies and more trekker types on the streets.

  The crowds on New Road went about their business as I made my way over to Freak Street. A dazed hippie girl wearing a ballet outfit offered a sample of the best weed in Nepal. That's why they call it Freak Street.

  Halted in front of a bookshop and chanced a look back. He was standing on the corner. Moved on, entered a few shops, returned towards the square, dodged a cow barreling down the street, and then paused to view a snake charmer in action. As I stepped aside to avoid a bicycle on New Road, I stole a glance back down the street. He was still there.

  A few blocks later, I entered the Panorama Hotel, a modest tourist establishment, comfortable and best of all not high profile, just the sort of place for a semi-affluent trekker. I lingered by the reception desk.

  The short wiry man approached the front door, hesitated as if to come in, and then strolled on past the door. I rushed out to the street, but he was gone. Hadn't seen him before the embassy, he must have picked me up there.

  * * *

  After an evening meal at Aunt Jane's American style restaurant and an interesting conversation with three Peace Corps girls, I returned to the hotel in a taxi. I paused outside the hotel entrance but failed to detect anything unusual. The man was nowhere in sight, but it was dark. He could be anywhere.

  The first thing I noticed as I entered my room was the smell of cheap smokes. Someone had been in my room, a local most likely, judging by the pungent odor. Nothing was missing, but several things had obviously been moved, the flap on my pack open. I wasn't sure if it was carelessness or a subtle message. One thing for sure, they didn't find anything interesting. I was travelling clean, carrying nothing inconsistent with my cover as an innocent trekker.

  That night, sleep didn't come easy, too many questions on my mind. First, the guy: Why is he following me? Is he just a thief searching for an opportunity? But he took nothing. Perhaps he works for the Soviets, but how would they know? I just arrived. Maybe they have someone staked-out at the embassy. On the other hand, Harris might have someone tailing me? But why?

  The woman: Passed a note to a tourist, give me a break.

  And Suslov: What's the real story on him. Why did he show up at this time?

  Just don't make sense. Am I being set up? Who knows?

  * * *

  Caught sight of the man several more times the next day, he maintained his distance, but didn't try to hide the fact that he was following me. As far as I could tell, he was working alone. It was an eerie feeling, as if a cat was stalking me.

  5 ~ The Approach

  Tuesday, 19 December: Dudh Kosi Valley, Nepal

  Flying in the Himalayas is a fusion of wonder and fear. The awe-inspiring panorama of the high mountains acts as a powerful drug subduing the senses, blocking out the inescapable reality that death awaits those who linger in its spell. The hypnotic trance may lure the unsuspecting to the side of a cliff. Engine failure results in a harrowing decent to the rocks below. Wind shear, an invisible, unexpected, and deadly force, might at any moment, plunge the frail craft into the void.

  Following the valley of the Dudh Kosi River, as it closed in narrower and narrower, was akin to flying into the jaws of a mythical monster, the jagged mountains forming its teeth. The small aircraft continued on its way skirting rough walls, pummeled by bursts of turbulence, straining to maintain its course. I searched the valley walls for our destination.

  No one spoke. The furious roar of the propeller and the low rumble of the slipstream rushed past the cockpit.

  The pilot broke an awkward silence, "Can you see it?"

  I pressed forward in the harness, straining to find it. "No, just the mountains."

  He pointed. "There at one o'clock, past the village, up the side valley. Namche Bazaar."

  "All I see is a small brown spot."

  "That's it."

  Ahead, a gash on the side of the ridge appeared about three kilometers away. A twinge of anxiety welled up as I awaited the approach and landing on such a tiny speck. Further up the valley, low cloud cover was beginning to form, merging the valley with the white slopes of the mountains.

  I was about to seek reassurance from the pilot when the brawny man behind me leaned forward and spoke to the pilot.

  "Es ist so klein." I could smell his fear. He asked if it was safe. "Ist es sicher?"

  The pilot answered, "Ja Ja, kein Problem." He asked the man if he was okay. "Ist alles in Ordnung?"

  "Ni —Nien."

  "Machen Sie sich keine Sorgen." He told him not to worry.

  "Mi
r ist schlecht."

  He brusquely told him, "Bitte nicht erbrechen," not to throw-up.

  "Ich bin krank."

  "Hörst du mich — nicht erbrechen."

  The pilot leaned towards me. "These guys from the east are not so tough. He says he is sick."

  "The east, what do you mean?"

  "One of the eastern lands. Can tell from his accent." That simple comment should have set off alarm bells, but the enormity of the spectacle before me short-circuited my internal warning system.

  He banked right and changed course up the new valley. Ahead, at 12,500 feet, lay the world's highest airport. Syangboche airstrip, less than 400 yards in length perched on a ledge 1,500 feet above the river below. It would be like landing on an aircraft carrier.

  The pilot, a confident and cheerful Swiss, a legendary mountain flyer, tracked the edge of the cliff to our right as he fought the turbulence.

  "The clouds are closing in. I must take off again as soon as we load up. Hope the bastards are ready for me. I do not stay for long."

  The small plane trembled as turbulent air threatened to drive it into the rugged cliff looming above. The single engine Pilatus Porter banked to the left to begin the final approach. A fierce gust shook the small craft causing it to slide away from the postage stamp sized landing strip. We drifted straight towards a rocky ridge. He dipped the nose, eased the throttle forward, gained speed, tracked right, and then left again. The aircraft was back on course. We would land on an up-hill grade that ended at a jumble of rocks below a small cliff.

  Another wind shear shook the craft as he eased the throttle back to idle, deployed the large flaps, and brought the nose up for landing. The aircraft shuddered as it decelerated below forty-five knots and gently touched down with a slight thud. With full brakes and reverse thrust, the Porter achieved a remarkably short rollout after landing, with plenty room to spare. The brawny man let out an audible sigh of relief.

  We rolled past a cluster of waiting people. Reaching the end of the crude runway, the aircraft spun around, and taxied up to the small group clad in mountain clothing. The pilot applied the brakes and shutdown the engine. The vista, back down the landing strip, revealed a short stretch of dirt and grass jammed against the mountain on the far side of the narrow valley. In a few days, I would have to do it again.

  "Sorry. You must quickly step out. I leave very soon. Thank you for flying with me. — I see you in a few days."

  I was the last to leave and asked the pilot, "What kind of accent does that guy have?"

  "He speaks German with an accent. Russia, the Ukraine, somewhere over there. He must be going to base camp for the science project."

  "Yeah, he looks like a real scientist."

  "Physical science perhaps?" he suggested followed by a wink. "I must go now. I will be back as soon as your people call me. Viel Glück."

  "Thanks — should be in less than a week. Auf Widersehen.

  "Bis spöter."

  A Sherpa man dressed in mountaineering gear ambled over and began to unload our baggage. My fellow passengers, the brawny man and three Japanese tourists, joined me as we collected our packs. We all carried similar trekking and mountaineering gear.

  The pilot gestured to the waiting passengers. "Come, please get in. We must go quickly. He examined the new passenger's luggage and asked the Sherpa if he had weighed it. The Sherpa ignored the question and the pilot shook his head. "One of these days you are going to kill me." He canted his head to us and remarked, "At this altitude every kilo is critical. Too much weight and poof, we are dead at the deep of the valley." The Sherpa smiled and stepped back to the pile of backpacks.

  The new passengers, two petite Japanese women and three fit German men, climbed into the cabin and strapped themselves in as the Sherpa loaded their gear into the cargo compartment. The pilot paced around the aircraft conducting a careful preflight inspection.

  The inspection completed, the pilot climbed back into the cockpit and re-started the engine. The hesitant whine grew to a reassuring roar, the powerful jet turbine gaining power as the four-bladed propeller bit into thin mountain air. He pointed to the end of the runway, his mouth forming colorful Swiss-German expletives. Clouds obscured the face of the mountain across the narrow valley. A look of concern came over the three German passengers as the unknowing Japanese women waved to us.

  The Pratt and Whitney engine growled as he revved to near maximum power, held for a few seconds, and released the brakes. The small craft shot down the runway gaining speed at full power with twenty degrees of flap. It soared off the dirt strip in less than 200 yards.

  We stood transfixed as the Porter disappeared into the haze covering the end of the runway. The sharp whine of the turbo-prop indicated the pilot banked to the right and plunged the aircraft below the clouds. An echoing drone down the valley told us he was safely on the way back to Kathmandu.

  The Sherpa turned to us and laughed. "He no want stay night. He no like hotel food." One of the Japanese translated the Sherpa's words to the others. After a moment's hesitation, they all nodded their heads.

  The Sherpa reached into his thick down jacket, pulled out a passenger manifest, and read out our names. I raised my hand when he called out the name Dan McDonald, the brawny man hesitantly answered to the name Toma Kuban. We shouldered our packs and began our short walk towards the trail to the Everest View Hotel.

  A few hundred yards up the trail, a dense fog enveloped our group as we trudged towards the hotel. The cloud cover had come to ground. The Sherpa warned us to keep within sight of the person in front. The rocky trail wound around the ridge and turned back on itself as we climbed higher and higher.

  At the end of a steep switchback, Kuban halted to rest. I took advantage to sit and try to catch my breath. It had been a long day and was only a taste of what was to come. The trail wouldn't get any easier, but the altitude provided the primary challenge.

  Faint signs of altitude sickness, a dull mushiness had taken hold. Soon, it would evolve into a headache, growing more severe.

  Back in February, I made a quick un-acclimatized climb on Mount Kenya in East Africa and suffered accordingly. Even before then, six years ago on my first trip to Nepal. I experienced altitude sickness when I pushed too hard.

  Now, as in Kenya, I had no choice, the job came first. The next few days could be difficult, at least a week of slow moving agony at high altitude. Past 16,000 feet, every breath would be a struggle.

  As we trudged along the trail, what the pilot said began to sink in. Kuban was from the east, Russian or Ukrainian. He seemed out of place. I started to speak to him in German, but decided against it, something deep inside placed me on guard. I learned the hard way over the last year not to trust strangers, especially ones that could be associated with the Soviets.

  I thought back to the man following me in Kathmandu. A chill came over me despite the warm clothing. The inner survival instinct never sleeps, tells you something is wrong. A sixth sense compels you to watch your back.

  Suddenly, Kuban bent over beside the trail and threw up. The Sherpa asked him if he was sick, but the big man didn't understand. I asked him, in German if he was all right.

  "Nyet. Ya khvoryy̆," he answered in Ukrainian.

  "Auf Deutch, bitte."

  "Tak," he hesitated, appeared confused, "Ich bin krank."

  "Sie muss viel Wasser trinken. Verstehen?" I told him to drink a lot of water. He downed a long drink from his canteen and gave a weak smile.

  The Sherpa called to us, "Go now."

  Kuban hesitated, cinched up his pack, and shuffled along. It was clear he was not used to high altitudes. The three Japanese had no difficulties and seemed annoyed with the slow pace — porters carried their gear.

  As we moved along the trail, a sense of isolation and foreboding stole into my thoughts. Alone in the high Himalaya with the first signs of mountain sickness creeping in, I faced uncertain odds. The trail was easy, but I tired faster than expected. The difficulty took me
by surprise. Altitude sickness could be a problem.

  The trail steepened, continuing to twist and turn. Finally, we reached the crest, came out of the cloud, and before us, the Everest View Hotel. I climbed the stone steps, cold and exhausted, ready for something warm to drink.

  6 ~ Everest View

  Tuesday, 19 December: Everest View Hotel

  The Everest View Hotel, built for rich Japanese tourists, dominated the scene overlooking the tiny airstrip. The place lived up to its name, offering a magnificent view of Mount Everest fifteen miles to the north. The airstrip, its lifeline, brought in guests and supplies. They even flew the laundry to Kathmandu. Normally, the cost would have been well beyond my means, but thankfully, I was on Wilson's dime.

  I sat on a simple padded bench with my back to the wall surveying the lobby shared with several other guests, mostly Japanese and a few Europeans. My fellow passengers remained in their rooms. The hotel wasn't busy in December, the beginning of the off-season, and in a few weeks the hotel would close until spring.

  The hot chocolate was first-rate but did nothing to chase away the pervasive cold. The sun disappeared over the high mountains to the west, replaced by a sudden and distinct chill. I experienced the phenomenon before on my earlier trip to the Himalaya. At high altitude, direct radiation from the sun is the only heat source. Earth and rocks don't absorb enough to provide any level of comfort.

  The Japanese manager approached with a young Sherpa man. "Mister McDonald, if you please, this man your guide. His name Ang Dorjie."

  The Sherpa was dressed in a mountaineering parka and wore a black baseball cap emblazoned with a bright yellow block letter C. I asked, "Do you speak English?"

  He replied with only a trace of an accent, "Yes, of course I speak English. Do you speak Sherpa?" The amused manager returned to the other guests.

  "Where did you learn English?"

  "Two years at the University of Colorado."

  "Have a seat. Do you want something to drink?"