Death on the Silk Road Read online

  While the old man talked, a far younger man entered the room and sat silently beside the desk. Emmett acknowledged his presence with a faint nod of recognition, and placed a finger to his lips before continuing his overseas conversation. The young man nodded in acknowledgement. He would never think of distracting Mr. Valentine. Listening intently, he marveled at his mentor’s conciliatory tone. It was considerably different from the tutorial approach he employed in their conversations. However, his curiosity was aroused regarding the unidentified man on the other end of the line.

  “You see Charlie,” Emmett continued while searching his desk drawers for his pipe, “the Agency has had five different directors in the last six years so the recommendation to combine the agencies scared the hell out of everyone. No one knew which agency would ultimately be in control. Who would be in charge, and which organizations would disappear?

  “At the same time,” Emmett continued warming to his subject “while the people in the new administration want to focus their attention on the Islamic countries, the Russian Bear hasn’t been so accommodating. Putin is resisting the idea of providing any cooperation on Iran, and instead is flexing his muscle by invading Georgia, while working to re-establish control over Ukraine. Now, he is helping the opposition in Kyrgyzstan who are threatening to kick us out of our airbase in Manas. We need that base to supply our troops in Afghanistan. Without it, it is almost impossible to move supplies and personnel overland. The way it stands now, Manas represents our new hub of the old Silk Road, and it is in danger of going away. I am sure that you would agree Charlie that things are not going smoothly.

  “That is why, old friend, they brought this old warhorse out of retirement, and set him up in a basement office nobody knew existed. My role is to use some of my former cold warrior contacts to see what I can do clandestinely to counter our communist cousins. Once again, I am off the books, so the bean counters can’t object to my expenses when they don’t even know I exist”.

  This arrangement came as no shock to Charlie. He was aware, from his previous association with the Agency, that while it was not usual for an organization to operate hidden from the basic channels, it was not particularly uncommon either. He knew the CIA had occasionally concealed some of its more questionable activities from most of the Washington bureaucracy, and Congress as well—particularly Congress. In such situations, black money becomes the coin of the realm and deniability the watchword. If anyone knew how to operate effectively under such circumstances, it would be Emmett. He had operated several times before, sequestered away from the eyes of only a few people at the very top of the organization.

  “In order to gain better control over its own organization,” Emmett continued “and divert attention from the committee’s recommendations, the Director announced the development of a new five-year strategic plan that would invest considerable resources in new technologies to combat cyber warfare attacks from overseas. Particularly after we found a foreign spy agency was able to breach our computer network by inserting a flash drive into a military laptop they somehow got their hands on.

  “By the way, isn’t that what you do Charlie? Aren’t you going to Kazakhstan to set up a strategic plan for a lead and zinc mine?” Emmett inquired, getting back to the subject of his call.

  “Yeah, you’re right. I did work on strategic plans before I got on the international circuit, and it is what I will be doing for the Global Bank Corp in Kazakhstan--but how did you know that?”

  Unfazed, Emmett ignored the question and continued. “To make the plan work the Director wants to make better use of spies that work undercover in roles where they have no public association with the U. S. government.” Chuckling, he added almost to himself, “He keeps telling everyone that you have to plan the work then work the plan.”

  “I have heard that once or twice before, Emmett.”

  It was now becoming clear to Charlie what was happening. He had been involved with the Agency in an unofficial way several times in the past, and it had usually led to trouble. He did not want to get involved again. His children were grown, with families of their own. He and his wife Beth had settled into a life that fit their temperaments, and the times. He had enough excitement with his occasional assignments with the Global Bank Corp, and he wanted to keep it that way. He had promised himself that he would never again let the old man use him on his cockamamie missions. But, damn it, he couldn’t help himself. He was curious why they contacted him now, and how the hell they knew where he was.

  “Are you getting the picture Charlie? All I want is for you to keep in touch. You have my number. Nothing specific, but you are going to be in a new hot spot. At least one that is, let us say, warming-up.

  “Kazakhstan is turning into a major oil supplier, and they have access to every mineral known to man. I have been told by some of the wizards here that, if they wished, the country is fully capable of exporting the entire Periodic Table of Elements-- all at the same time. They have a very authoritarian leadership that could be toppled like the one that was just kicked-out of Kyrgyzstan. If that happens, Russia could regain control of that chip too. You can be my eyes and ears there—just like before.”

  Looking out of his window, Charlie could see a small chink of light beginning to penetrate the inky darkness of the swiftly fading Turkish night. He realized any chance for additional sleep was fading with the rapidly approaching dawn.

  “No Emmett. Forget it!” he almost shouted in frustration. “You are a nice guy, and I wish you well, but I am going to do my job at the mine, and nothing else. That’s enough for me. I don’t want to get involved with you again. Ever!”

  Charlie Connelly had sailed under Emmett Valentine’s flag before, and he remembered it had invariably led him into very rough waters.

  “I know Charlie. I know just how you feel. I only wanted to warn you there could be problems where you are going. You have my number. We will stay in touch.”

  The line went dead before there was any chance for a reply, or any opportunity to gain answers to the countless questions racing through Charlie’s mind. Instead, he rose stiffly from the bed, angrily zipped his bag shut, and bolted out of his room; hoping he could find a cab at such an early hour.

  2.

  Washington

  In a small dimly lit office, deep in the bowels of a mammoth shielded structure in Langley, Virginia Emmett Valentine flipped a sequence of switches before replacing the handset on the phone’s oblong base. Satisfied with the results of his conversation, he turned and fiddled with the dials of an antiquated stereo receiver setting majestically on a narrow table in the sparsely furnished enclosure. He smiled to himself as the militant strains of the iconic “Ride of the Valkyries” leaped from two large speakers’ bookending the glowing receiver.

  The old man presented a commanding figure. He was impeccably clothed in a well tailored suit that, none the less, was beginning to hang more loosely on his still powerful frame; as if it were originally made for someone even larger—or perhaps younger than its present owner. A silk handkerchief carefully tucked in his breast pocket meticulously matched the regimental tie and the buttoned suit coat. His fastidious appearance was in mark contrast to the sweater and sport shirt culture that currently prevailed in the Agency’s hallways.

  Turning to the young man sitting across the desk Emmett asked, “so Roger what do you think?”

  “Well Mr. Valentine,” the young man replied nervously, clearing his throat before continuing, “I have always liked the Ring Cycle myself, but I never had that much time to listen to the full seventeen hours.” He had heard that, at one time, the old man had gone by the cryptonym “maestro” and he now understood why, as the music swelled and ebbed in the background.

  Momentarily taken aback by the reply of his young acolyte, Emmett quickly recovered. “No, no Roger, I was referring to the telephone conversation. What did you think of what you heard of the telephone conversation?”

  Chagrined, and trying to make amends, the
young man offered that he had not heard too much of what was said, but it seemed as if the man on the other end of the line was not too pleased with the direction the conversation was taking.

  “I fear you are correct Roger, I have known Charlie for a long time and, while he is always reluctant, eventually he does as we ask.”

  The contrast between the two individuals sitting across from one another was striking. One was a reed-thin young man with a bland complexion, sitting nervously erect on a straight-back office chair. The other was a broad shouldered, still powerfully built elderly individual, with deep-set wrinkles lining his weather-beaten face, casually relaxing in an ancient leather recliner.

  Roger had only come in to see if he could leave early that afternoon. Tomorrow was the big game between Princeton and Harvard. As a recent graduate, he felt it important to attend, and he planned to spend a full weekend with old friends. Now, it appeared he was in for a long afternoon of reminiscing; something the old man was increasingly prone to do.

  “Who is he sir?” the young man inquired deferentially. “Is he a spook?”

  “We really don’t use that term very much Roger. We prefer to refer to them as agents in play, however in your context let us say he is a “graying ghost.” Emmett smiled at the appropriateness of his witticism.

  “Charlie Connelly is above all a good man-a very good man, and he has served us well. When we first met, he was head of an international marketing organization that required him to travel to many funny places, as he liked to refer to them. Mostly, they were newly emerging markets in South America, and Africa; then later in China as it awoke from the Maoist slumber. He was valuable to us because he always appeared to be exactly what he was—a businessman. We never had to create a legend because, everywhere he went, he carried his own with him. No one would suspect that he had any connections with the Agency—he was a “clean face” as we like to say. However, he was a little different from most of the executives, since he was willing to cooperate with us.

  “At that time, the CIA was not very well regarded by many people. We had screwed-up in Cuba, and we may have deposed a dictator or two along the way. We did whatever was necessary, but it gave us a bad reputation in some quarters--including the administration at the time. “Later, of course,” he added lost in thought, “George Tenet telling the then President that finding Saddam’s WMDs would be a slam-dunk didn’t help a lot either. But, what the hell, that’s all water over the dam now.”

  Roger was not too sure about that. He still heard a lot of criticism of the Agency from his friends at college. He hadn’t shared their opinion, and that was why, when he was recruited by his international economics professor, he agreed to come aboard. Nevertheless, he certainly wasn’t going to voice his doubts now.

  “Getting back to Charlie,” Emmett recalled. “We first recruited him merely to provide us with basic information regarding the political and economic climate in some of the more difficult countries he visited. It was pretty much then as it is now, we could not afford to be fully staffed in some of the backwaters of the world, in order to concentrate our resources on the bigger fish. The problem was sometimes the little fish bit us in the ass and we couldn’t do anything about it. Where we did have people, they sometimes would not have access, or understand the type of information Charlie had available. “

  Roger fidgeted in his chair. He knew this was going to happen, but there was nothing he could do about it. He had to humor the old man if he was ever going to get ahead, anyway he was becoming more curious about the association with Charlie Connelly.

  “As our relationship grew, we sometimes began to ask him to take a more active role. Nothing big you understand. Just deliver a message or two—sometimes carry some money to people who did not want to have any discernable connection to any part of the U.S. Government. We felt that we could trust him, and he was willing to do things if it did not interfere with his real work or in any way jeopardize his company’s reputation. He was never willing to do that.”

  “Why did he agree to help, Mr. Valentine?”

  The old man adjusted his position in the recliner. Sometimes that damn leg of his would begin to ache after sitting too long in one position. It was a little reminder he carried from the Cold War—not that he needed it for God’s sake.

  “For the most basic of reasons Roger. He loves his country. They say in our business that there are three Ls that dictate what a man does. Loot, lust, and maybe love, I have forgotten exactly. Whatever they are there is definitely love of country. That was a basic element of his generation, and it has not changed—with him at least. Maybe not so with everyone right now.

  “Also, his regular business relationships provided him with a cloak of anonymity that we at the Agency sometimes find difficult or awkward to provide. You have to understand Roger--when you get in the field--the brash and colorful James Bond types do not populate the real world of intelligence. They would stand out like the proverbial sore thumb. The good ones live in a shadow world of obscurity. It is their second nature. Charlie fits that well.”

  As new as he was to the Agency, Roger knew enough to pay close attention to what he heard. Emmett Valentine had assumed the cloak of legend in the eyes of many, at least among those who knew of him at all. Never the less, in a time when the Agency was trying to clear the decks of its old hands carrying Cold War baggage, his return presented a living breathing conundrum to all of the water cooler strategists attempting to find a template for their own questionable careers.

  The young man had heard stories about him from his trainers at the Farm. Apparently, the old man had been on board since the beginning. Even before the beginning, some said. During WWII, the Agency became known as the OSS, and it was under the leadership of Wild Bill Donavan and his men who were belatedly trying to quickly absorb a trade the Brits had been pursuing for over a century.

  Emmett had never risen to the top, but managed to retain a position of influence as Directors and Deputy Directors came and went. He had retired twice before and then brought back into the fold when there was a need for a man who knew how to work in the shaadows, using the influential contacts throughout the world that he had spent years developing.

  The music of Wagner filled the room, as the old man warmed to his task of educating his young assistant on the real world of espionage and intrigue.

  Roger sat nervously, furtively glancing at his watch.

  “The inactivity of retirement created a void in his life,” Emmett offered as he continued his description of Charlie Connelly, “as it does for many people,” he added offhandedly. He might even include himself in that category he thought, but made no mention. “Charlie missed the travel, and if the truth be known he missed the challenge and excitement of new people and new places. Anyway, he began to do some consulting for NGO organizations such as the UN and the World Bank on assignments to help publicly owned companies, in the newly independent states, convert their operations to a market driven economy.

  “The Agency suddenly found there was a pressing need in Ukraine, for someone who could go there under nonofficial cover, an NOC as we call them. I had connections with an old friend who now heads up the Global Bank Corp in Vienna. He hired Charlie and sent him into Kiev. We contacted him there, laid out our need, and he reluctantly agreed to help us—one last time. It turned out to be more demanding than we originally thought. He got the job done, but had to kill a man and leave the country with one of our agents hidden away on a tour boat going down the Dnieper River to Odessa.

  “We hadn’t had any contact with him since, until we found ourselves shorthanded in Kazakhstan. I learned the GBC was running a privatization project for a mining operation there. After that, it was easy to convince my old friend at the Bank to send Charlie out to nose around a bit.”

  “He doesn’t know that you arranged for him to be hired and sent there?”

  “No—not yet, but I am sure he will—eventually.”

  The Valkyries had finished their r
ide, and the old man was getting tired.

  “What was is that you wanted to see me about Roger?”

  “Nothing pressing sir, it can wait till Monday. Is there anything you need over the weekend?” he asked going out the door.

  Emmett still liked to be referred to as sir, even after so many years. “You might check on our man in Almati sometime. I haven’t heard anything from him for quite awhile. First thing Monday morning will do.”

  Roger stopped abruptly and turned to face the old man. “The man is dead. A message from our embassy there was just deciphered this afternoon. I forgot to tell you. “

  “What the hell happened to him?” Emmett shouted, overlooking for the moment that he wasn’t notified immediately.

  “All we know is that they found him yesterday. The oil company reported it to the embassy, and they passed it on to us.”

  “Was it an accident? Did he fall off a rig or some damn thing like that?” Emmett asked without conviction.

  “Not a chance.” It was obvious the old man was furious that he was not informed immediately, but it was too late now. All he could do was continue. “The maid at his hotel in Atyrau found him when she went to clean his room. His neck had been sliced from ear to ear.” Roger shuddered just thinking about it. “Nothing was taken, not even his passport. He was murdered no doubt about it. Did you know him Mr. Valentine?”