The Iranian Intercept

by R G Ainslee

  "A nice cold Coors. The only thing I miss about Colorado. But, thanks anyway." He sat down on the bench beside me and asked, "Are you okay? You look beat. The altitude up here can get to you fast."

  "Yeah, it's been a long day. And yes, I am aware of the altitude. Done this before, I know how to pace myself."

  "Been up here? When?"

  "Several years ago, I trekked over by Annapurna and earlier this year on Mount Kenya."

  "Good — I hate it when I have a client that doesn't know how to pace themselves. Do I need to hire someone to carry your gear?"

  I gave in to the inevitable, an unusual exercise of good judgment. "Sounds like a good idea, at least for the first few days. Have you been briefed on what we need to do up there?"

  "Yes, I have taken care of the details on this end."

  "You done much work like this for Harris?"

  "I have guided several parties for him."

  "You have mountaineering experience?"

  "I served as a guide on several Everest expeditions and made the summit once."

  Feeling slightly foolish, I told him, "Looks like I'm in good hands."

  "If you have no questions, I must find a porter for you."

  The thought of not having to carry my pack was appealing. Told him what gear I had and asked if we needed anything else.

  "No, it will only be a few days. No climbing, no problem. See you tomorrow." He paused and looked me over, "You need rest. We take it easy tomorrow."

  "Okay, make it about nine." He nodded in reply and left the hotel.

  I wasn't sure whom Ang Dorjie actually worked for or if he was a freelance agent. I wondered how much help he might be if we ran into trouble. At least he knew the territory and had experience working with Harris.

  I caught the waiter's attention and ordered another expensive hot chocolate. Tomorrow promised to be a grueling day. The trek wouldn't get any easier on the way up to Everest base camp at 18,000 feet. It would take about three days to cover 15 miles. Doubts formed. The high altitude and cold chill began to take their toll.

  Flying in directly to the hotel was a hazard because of the distinct possibility of severe altitude sickness. Oxygen was available in the rooms because several Japanese tourists died soon after arriving. See Everest and Die wasn't just a trite cliché.

  The polite Sherpa waiter brought a steaming cup and I was about to take my first sip when an accented voice said, "Excuse me. Are you planning to trek up the valley?"

  The voice belonged to a trim man in his early forties with silver grey hair. A lump formed in my throat as my gut tightened. I recognized him from the picture Al Harris had shown me in Kathmandu: Major Viktor Andreyevich Suslov, KGB.

  My pulse accelerated. "Yes … just going to trek around some."

  "May I join you?"

  Did the Russian suspect me or was he just fishing? I never expected to meet him and would have to exercise extreme care. I inhaled a shallow breath and regained my composure.

  "Sure, have a seat."

  Facing him was like sitting across from a python. I tried to remain casual, show no signs of recognition. I had only been there an hour and already had a gut feeling everything was about to unravel.

  He offered his hand. "My name is Andrey. I am a journalist from Vienna."

  "Nice to meet you … I'm Dan." I almost let my real name slip-out.

  He had a confident smile and asked with an inquisitive tone, "Are you American?"

  "No. Canadian, I sound American because I grew up in New Mexico on my uncle's ranch after my parents died." Luckily, I had that story prepared in advance. Gotta change the subject. "Are you up here on assignment?"

  "Yes, I am here to report on the Hungarian scientific expedition at base camp." He spent a few moments talking about the planned experiments before he got to the point. "Are you trekking up to base camp, by chance?"

  I was in no position to lie about my destination. There was only one route up to base camp and it was late in the season, only a few travelers would be on the trail.

  "Plan to leave tomorrow if I'm able. You never know about the effects of high altitude, can be dangerous if you push it too hard."

  "Is that so?"

  Trying to buy time and deflect the conversation away from me, I outlined the problems of trekking at altitude.

  He seemed genuinely impressed. "Sounds like you’re experienced. Have you done this before?"

  More questions, he was boxing me in, and I was too tired to out-fox him. "Several years ago. I like to trek but have to go slow." I needed to turn the conversation away from me. "How about you? This your first trip to Nepal?"

  "I have been to Kathmandu before, but never up into the Himalaya. Is it strenuous traveling up to base camp?"

  "It could be difficult, especially if you are not acclimatized." He claims to be from Vienna. "But I guess you Austrians are well used to it. Shouldn't be any problem should it?"

  He didn't miss a beat, showed no reaction to my feeble attempt to trip him up. "No, but being from Vienna, I am not an experienced mountaineer."

  Yeah right. "How long have you been here at the hotel?"

  "Three days, long enough to acclimatize, the first day was the worst." He paused, I remained silent, and then he spread his hands and said, "Seeing how you are the experienced trekker, might you consider a joint venture? I notice you have an experienced guide."

  The last thing I needed to do was latch on to a KGB goon for a traveling companion. I was also worried he may have recognized Ang Dorjie. "Sorry, but I prefer to travel alone. I’m here to escape some family difficulties and need time to think. Please don't think I'm being rude." Tried to sound sincere and hoped he would buy it.

  He paused before responding with a cold intense stare. "If you reconsider let me know. I will leave early. Maybe we will cross paths along the way." We shook hands and then he marched towards the rooms. I was unsure if I had dodged a bullet or made him even more suspicious.

  At the bottom steps to the rooms, Suslov met Toma Kuban. They paused and spoke briefly. The big guy furtively glanced in my direction, our eyes met, and a three-alarm warning sounded in my head. Suslov tugged at his arm and they went up the steps and disappeared down the hall.

  The way Kuban looked at me left little doubt that they were at least suspicious. They had no way to know for sure, unless there was a leak somewhere. Things were too tight on the stateside end. If there was, it had to be from the embassy.

  I considered the situation, first, the guy following me in Kathmandu and the search of my room, then Kuban on the plane, and now, Suslov. What do they say? — Once is an accident. Twice is coincidence. Three times is a trend. — I didn't want to think about the fourth.

  If there was a leak from the embassy: Can I trust my guide?

  The note: Could it all be a set-up? For what?

  A foreboding sense of isolation took hold. Things were spiraling out of control.

  Even the hot chocolate turned cold.

  Wednesday, 20 December: Everest View Hotel

  Awake, wallowing in a mindless daze, a miserable night spent staring at the ceiling, robbed of any hope of rest. A deep dull pain fought the relentless cold for supremacy in a derby of discomfort.

  A knock on the door: I gasped, "Come in."

  Ang Dorjie poked his head in. "Are you okay?"

  Wrapped tight in a goose down sleeping bag, I struggled to sit up. "Help me get things together, I overslept." That wasn't true, barely slept at all. A glance at my Timex: On no, nine o'clock.

  "You don't look good. Does your head hurt?"

  "No, it’s way beyond hurting. A war's going on inside." And I was losing.

  "Lay back down, I will get water and an oxygen bottle. You can't go today."

  In no position to argue, the effects and dangers of altitude sickness obvious, I exercised good sense for a change. "Okay, we'll postpone it for a day. I'll be all right tomorrow." I hoped.

  I rustled through my pack and pulled out an aspi
rin bottle, swallowed three and finished off the water bottle. Ang Dorjie returned carrying an oxygen bottle and mask.

  "Here, breathe this, not much. Don't overdo it."

  My hands trembled as I fumbled with the mask, twisted the knob, and inhaled cool sweet oxygen. Not a cure by any means, but life began to look more promising. I gave him a thumbs-up.

  Ang Dorjie tapped me on the shoulder. "Good, try to sleep. I will come get you for lunch and we will see if you can go on."

  "Thanks, I'll try." He left, and I fell into an uncomfortable slumber.

  * * *

  Again, a knock on the door, the Timex showed noon. The oxygen and aspirin bought sleep, but the effects of altitude persisted as the war inside my head continued.

  Hunger gnawed at my gut, but I didn't have an appetite. High altitude can do that to you. At least my mind was clear enough to realize I needed nourishment to keep my strength. After eating a tough Yak steak and a plate of rough fried potatoes, I retired for an afternoon nap.

  Later in the afternoon, and a few more draws of oxygen, I was ready to find Ang Dorjie and go over the next day's itinerary. Out on the veranda, three elderly Japanese sat at a table on the far end, enjoying the late afternoon sun and a view of Mount Everest. Ang Dorjie sat alone on the opposite side. I trudged over and plopped down next to him.

  "Is Suslov still here?" I asked.

  Ang Dorjie canted his head with a puzzled expression. "Who's that?"

  "The Russian guy with silver hair. Didn't Harris brief you on him?"

  "No, he hired me to guide you to base camp and back. What about this Suzmof?"

  "Suslov. Can't believe he didn't warn you about him."

  "I don't understand. Is there a problem?"

  An alarm went off. "What do you do for Harris? He told me you worked for him."

  "Yes, he pays me to guide VIP's and to report on people coming over the pass from Tibet."

  "You just guide, you don't…" I didn't know what to say or how much to say or what his role really was.

  "I am a mountain guide. What do you—"

  "What did he tell you about the purpose of my trip?"

  "Nothing, he told me to guide you to base camp and back. I don't understand. Is there a problem?"

  I was dumbfounded but shouldn't have been. John Smith was right: don't expect too much. A nudge from my subconscious told me I had lost control of the situation, an impulse I couldn't dismiss. Real life is about seemingly insignificant things that go wrong and if ignored can leave one blind and open to stupid mistakes. Not just theory, it was the voice of experience. The scar from Marsden's bullet gave ample testimony to that fact.

  "Do you know what Harris does?"

  "He works at the embassy, that's all I know. Think he may have something to do with security, but don't know. What are you trying to tell me?"

  What do I tell him? … No choice, gotta lay it on the line. "I'm supposed to go up to base camp and talk with someone working with the Hungarian scientific project. Suslov is Russian, maybe KGB. It may be dangerous. Can you handle that?"

  For the first time, he seemed genuinely surprised. "Is Harris a spy — CIA?"

  "Can’t say, but I can tell you it is important and may involve danger. That's all I can tell you. If you don't want to do it, I'll go on alone."

  He sat in silence, thinking it over. I could go on alone or go back. Danger or disgrace — what a choice. Al Harris, that SOB, I'd like to get my hands on him. And now this guy. — Is he about to dump me? How the hell do I get into these messes?

  "This Suzmof is a Red?"

  "Yeah, he's Russian."

  "I hear stories from my people across the pass in Tibet, they fight the Reds." He gazed at the mountains for about fifteen seconds. "Tell me what you want me to do."

  Relieved and disappointed at the same time, I explained as much as I dared, still uncertain if I could trust him completely. At the very least, his knowledge of the terrain could give me an edge. I sent him to speak to the Japanese manager, to check on Suslov and Kuban.

  I caught the waiter's eye and ordered another hot chocolate. He arrived with the steaming cup as Ang Dorjie returned from the front desk.

  "This Suzmof has gone, this morning. The other man Kuban is sick, much worse than you, and is still here."

  "Will Kuban be able to travel soon?"

  "Not for a few days. He is much sick."

  "Did Suslov leave alone?"

  "He hired a Sherpa porter, my cousin Pasang Norbu. The manager told me they go to Thyangboche."

  "That'll keep them a full day ahead of us, if they don't stay over. How long will it take us to reach base camp?"

  "Three days, longer if you are sick. Best take a rest day on the way up."

  The situation was becoming even more complicated. I needed to step back and reconsider my options. Turbulence loomed over the horizon and I was helpless to do anything about it.

  "Fine, wake me up again tomorrow at the same time."

  7 ~ The Trail

  Tuesday, 21 December: Thyangboche Monastery

  We set off on the trek to Thyangboche just before ten o'clock, after a breakfast of Sherpa potato pancakes with hot sauce. Ang Dorjie was pleased to find me in better spirits and ready to move out. A decent night's sleep worked wonders. I actually believed everything was going to be all right.

  Past the hotel, we followed the trail as it dropped steeply to the Dudh Kosi's rushing glacial waters. The trek continued, crossing the river over a long suspension bridge, climbing past a moss pine and rhododendron forest to a saddle on the ridge. Far below, the river rumbled across unbroken rapids. Eagles and hawks soared above, their shrill calls mocking our arduous progress.

  The final approach to the monastery or gompa, the Khumbu's region spiritual center, revealed a peaceful setting: a meadow resting on a ridge 13,000 feet above sea level surrounded by spectacular mountains. Ama Dablam at almost 22,000 feet stood as a dramatic sentinel. The towering heights of Everest, Lhotse, and Nuptse loomed ahead.

  Ang Dorjie led us to the rest house where we deposited our gear next to a party of German trekkers. He sent the porter for food and we retired outside to soak up warm afternoon sun. A half hour later, the porter brought us each a bowl of dal bhat, a traditional Nepalese meal. The rice and lentil soup spicy, the rice gritty, but filling never the less, a satisfactory conclusion to my first day on the trail.

  Late afternoon, a ghostly sound echoed between the hills. Two dark robed Lamas called for prayer with traditional Tibetan temple horns. We followed the procession to the monastery's central chamber. Colorful wall hangings, musical instruments, and Lama's robes decorated the interior along with a large Buddha statue.

  I squatted on an ornate carpet next to a woman who greeted me with a melodic Irish accent. The mystical chanting and music performed by the monks produced a soothing effect. Midway through the ceremony, she moved closer and casually leaned against my shoulder.

  She was a tall thin redhead with light freckles. Her weary face wore metal-rimmed glasses and a sad expression, as if she was tired. She was dressed in well-worn jeans, a common wool shirt, patched down jacket, wool pullover cap, and the requisite full-size mountain boots.

  Outside the temple, I asked, "Are you headed up to base camp?"

  "No, I am a volunteer nurse. I am posted here by the Mountaineering Association to deal with cases of acute mountain sickness." She inspected me with an inquisitive eye.

  "That's good to know. I'm already feeling the effects, spent an extra day down at the hotel because of it."

  "Come, I will show you my so-called clinic." She introduced herself as Jane O'Reilly from Ireland. I almost slipped up again but caught myself and gave my name as Dan McDonald.

  We strolled to the clinic, a single room dirt-floor hut with rough beams and stacked stone walls. Wooden and cardboard supply boxes lined the walls. A rumpled sleeping bag lay spread beside a stack of wooden crates.

  "Seems pretty basic."

  "Yes, life is
not easy here, but better than farther up the valley. I spent a few months up there." She spread her arms and offered a weak shrug. "This kip is comparative luxury. You will see once you pass Dingboche." She motioned for me to sit. "Take the weight off your legs."

  I plopped down on the sleeping bag and she sat beside me. I asked, "Do many people get sick up here?"

  "So far, about fifteen people have died from various causes this trekking season, usually connected with the altitude. A Japanese woman died a few days ago. You do need to be careful and go slowly."

  "Yeah, I think the altitude can cloud your judgment."

  She adjusted her glasses. "You're bang on. As you go higher, keep alert for signs of acute altitude sickness. You may have a lack of appetite, feel more tired than normal, your head may spin, and you may puke. If you feel uncoordinated or dizzy, it is time to act. You must descend to lower altitude. You may develop a swelling of the brain that will cause you to become unconscious or stop breathing."

  She dug into a metal box and produced a small bottle of pills and a package of cough drops. "These pills are Lasix for pulmonary edema."

  "What do they do?"

  "The edema causes lungs to fill up with water and you essentially drown. The pill will increase urine production and provide some relief. Take them only in an extreme emergency. They are given on loan and are to be returned if you do not need them."

  I pocketed the bottle and package. "Thanks, I'll leave them with you on the way back down." I started to get up.

  She grasped and held my hand with a firm touch and gazed sadly into my eyes with a desperate pleading. "You don't have to go. Please stay and have a cup in your hand." She noticed my confusion. "A cuppa tea."

  I hesitated. "Guess so." She seemed lonely and I didn’t have anything better to do. "Sure, I’ll stay a while. Tea sounds fine."

  She responded with a faint smile. "I would like that."

  I waited on her sleeping bag as she prepared tea over an open fire in a corner. She remained silent, fiddling with the aluminum teapot. I tried to break the tension. "Tell me about life up here."

  She continued without looking at me. "It is so lonely. The Lamas have their own life and leave me alone. Most trekkers are tired or focused on their trek. The high altitude tends to inflate their egos. It's not what I expected." She poured the tea and rose to her feet. "I have only a few more weeks here and then I go home."