Chapter 2: Transit
"Welcome to Tbilisi, Miss Saunders."
The Georgian's smile is infectious, and his English is barely accented. She responds in an accent that matches her birthplace on the fake passport that had been in the duffle bag. Mary Saunders is a thirty-four-year-old resident of Trenton, New Jersey.
She parks the bubble-gum she is chewing in the side of her cheek and shakes his hand firmly. "Well, gee; it's great to be here. I can't believe I'm actually here on my vacation of a life-time."
Sami, as he insists she call him, introduces her to the rest of the group. They turn out to be mostly European: a collection of three young Italian guys from Trentino in the Dolomites, one French woman who's done the famous GR10 across the Pyrenees, a couple from Harrogate in the north of England. The group is completed by a middle-aged Austrian and a German. The German is fiftyish, and sticks out because he's mute; cancer of the larynx had cost him his voice six years ago; he communicates via a pad on which he types a message. Everyone has some level of understanding of English, which makes it the lingua franca of the group. When instructions about crevasse walking need to be clear, it's important that everyone will get it.
She is relieved that her cover means that she is the only American. Despite having worked in the USA, it's not her favourite skin. Her Czech origins makes it easier for her to work in the field as a European. German, French, English, anything in Scandinavia or Eastern Europe works best. Play-acting a middle-class American can be trickier; they always seem to have that fresh-faced innocence that assumes everyone in their country shared the same upbringing, watched the same kiddie television programmes, played with the same dolls, got all the jokes.
Tamaz had deposited her and the duffle bag of trekking clothing and gear at The Visit, a three-star hotel in the Saburtalo district of Georgia's capital city. The Caucus Trekking Company's joining instructions had been in the duffle bag. She'd spent four days exploring the contents, which held every item of clothing and equipment had been specified on their list. Mary—as she now has to think of herself—had noticed that the sizes were perfect; even the boots fitted in a way that is surprising. The fact that they are not new but suitably broken in and even a bit worn satisfies her natural instinct for detail.
She finds it reassuring that the Hawking Man, as she has dubbed the mystery voice, has such a good eye for detail. Whatever package she is expected to carry over the border during this trekking party in Georgia to Mount Ushba and then across to Mount Elbrus in Russia, no expense has been spared in getting her disguise sorted. There is no mystery package in the duffel bag, but there are some fine topographical maps of the area where they will be trekking.
Mary—not Rosemary, not anymore—has given this material the respect it is due. After all, it pays to look this particular gift horse in the mouth. While promising her the route out of Georgia she so desperately needs, she worries about the price. What package could possibly justify such an elaborate scheme, and why choose her? She hasn't found the answer to that question anywhere in that duffel bag.
Not having an answer to that question preys on her mind. If she weren't so desperate, there is no way she'd agree to such an open-ended a commitment. It's the sort of thing all of her training and her field experience should ganged up to shriek 'no way'..
It's just that she hardly has a choice.
All she can do is hope to get out of Georgia and then run like hell to avoid whatever demands Hawking Man is going to make as her payment for the passage.
Tamaz's only instruction as he dropped her at the hotel was simple: "You play tourist. Package will find its way to you." He seemed delighted to see the back of her. Perhaps the role of looking after a woman had somehow offended his sense of honour. She didn't mind; being underestimated is a useful attribute. No one expects a bouncy, bubbly blonde who is only five foot three inches tall to be a significant threat.
oOoOoOo
After the first night's group dinner at the hotel, Sami takes her aside. "Your health is okay now? I was sorry to hear about the car accident last week. You sure you are up to this?"
She nods, her newly dyed blonde curls bobbing. "Of course. Still a little bruised here and there, ankle aches and my wrist won't take any major strain but hey, there isn't any serious stuff before Elbrus so I should be fine for the trekking. Nothing's going to get between me and taking a closer look at those two mountains. No worries."
The duffel bag had a set of typed instructions about her cover and a story to explain her joining the group a day late as well as her recovery from the injuries. In fact, Mary is feeling much better. The bed-rest, food and first aid treatment have worked their magic.
The only thing she lacks is a weapon. The backpack had included an all-in-one camping utensil and a swiss army knife, but that was it. Being left-handed means the healing wrist will make it harder for her to use her martial arts skills at full throttle but, if the cover story works, she should have another five days of healing before it might be tested in the border crossing.
The orientation meeting the next morning expands on the details she'd found in the duffel bag. They are due to leave after lunch and drive to Mestia where the trek will begin.
"You'll be joined there by the Svan guides. The Svaneti region is quite wild, and very distinct from the rest of Georgia." Sami smiles and says conspiratorially, "They don't even speak Georgian," he adds conspiratorially—as if this were explanation enough for their wildness. "The trek up into the foothills is off the beaten track; most tourist routes will take you from Mestia through the valleys to Ushguli, but this is our signature trek, tailor-made so you can get to both Mount Ushba and Mount Elbrus. It may only be thirty kilometres between the two, but that's as the eagle flies, not as the human walks."
"We'll take the trip up to the Ushba glacier from Mazeri over four days to get you acclimatised to the higher altitudes and the climate. Work out a few kinks and get into the rhythm of life up there. The walk up to Mount Ushba is twenty-two kilometres with an elevation gain of a thousand meters. Some sections of the trail are steep, exposed and there's a tricky crossing over the Dolra river, so we won't rush." Sami points to the map that he's blue-tacked to the wall of the little meeting room. "We'll take a side trip to the waterfall here for some photos."
"To get to the base of Ushba itself will be a steep climb, but once we make it to three and half thousand meters, the walk from there across the glacier to the pass is pretty straight forward. From there, it's then a couple of nights. The first will be on the glacier, the second on the scree field going down into the Azau valley on the Russian side. Elbrus is Europe's highest mountain, but it's quite a popular tourist destination so there are a lot more signs of civilisation over there than on the Georgian side. The south face ascent of Elbrus by the standard route is technically easy, and we're going to be using some of the cable car lifts to make it even easier. So, this one you can claim as a summit."
One of the Italians raises a hand. "Is the area safe from militants? I hear there is trouble in the border area."
Sami shakes his head. "That's old news. This isn't South Ossetia, and it isn't Abkhazia. Your border area permits have been taken care of, nothing to worry about. Your passports will be checked by the Georgian border guards at the river crossing before the Shdughra waterfall, but there won't be anything else until we cross into Russia and go down to the A158 highway. That's where you'll be put up for a night at the hotel, to let you have a decent shower and some proper hot food, and the Russian guides From Pilgrim Treks will meet you and brief you about the ascent of Mount Elbrus. They've also got all the technical equipment you need, so you don't have to carry any from our side of the border. Any questions?"
Mary tunes out most of the rest of the briefing, which is mostly about weather conditions and whether the local Svan guides speak English well enough to explain the hazards of the crevasse fields on the glaciers. One of the trekkers, a middle-aged Austrian from Linz wants to know details about the emergency rescue services on both sides of the border. Sami reassures everyone that both trekking companies, his and the Pilgrim group are highly experienced and that this area is well served by mountain rescue teams. The trekking party will be in constant contact through satellite phones. "It's not as remote as anywhere in the Himalayas or Karakoram ranges, so please don't worry."
Sami tells everyone that this trek should live up to their expectations. "We've been running this trip for almost a decade, so relax and enjoy yourselves."
If only she could. Until Mary knows what the hell the package is that she is expected to carry and what price she is going to be expected to pay for the privilege of escaping, there is no way she can possible enjoy herself.
oOoOoOo
Relax. Three deep breaths. It's a little mantra that Mary is using to keep herself from worrying about when the mystery package is going to show up. Mestia is the central town of the region, but more hamlet than city. The rest of the group has been taken off to the Museum of History and Ethnography while she uses the excuse of her bruises to put her feet up and think hard about what is coming. It may be that whoever is delivering the package will see her staying behind at their quaint guesthouse as the perfect excuse to contact her without arousing suspicions.
It's the nature of the package that has her most worried. She's already dismissed the idea of someone using her to carry something as mundane as drugs; the arrangements have been too elaborate for that, and the quantity that she could possibly conceal in her backpack is way too small to make it sensible. Truck loads from Afghanistan would be the more popular choice, using the porous borders between Russia, South Ossetia and Georgia as the preferred route. Guns or some other weaponry would have the same problem of size and weight. There are far easier ways of getting this stuff across a border in the quantity that would make the risks worthwhile.
So, what could it be? One thing is certain: it needs to be small enough to be portable by a trekker.
Information? In this day and age of electronic transfers, the idea seems preposterous. Why go to all the trouble? Encryption means that digital data flows through the dark web; no need for a human carrier pigeon.
Whatever it is, the person sending it is clearly an opportunist, using her capture as a fortunate coincidence, a case of someone useful being in the right place at the right time. So, it has to be a one-off, otherwise why leave it to chance?
The fact that the transfer has to be in person and hidden means it must be dangerous. The fact that Hawking Man is unwilling to trust a local person to make this journey speaks volumes—just not in a language that she can understand just yet.
After an hour of her thoughts going around in circles, Mary concludes that she is going to get no further until someone actually shows up with the package.
oOoOoOo
The next day starts with a bumpy minivan drive from Mestria to Mazeri, the last Svan village before the start of their trek. Here, Sami hands them over to the two Svan guides, Levan Dadiani and Giorgi Kipiani.
Levan is the older of the two yet couldn't be much over thirty. Dark-haired and dark-eyed, he's got a trimmed beard and moustache. He's not very tall, but well-built and muscular, dressed in the usual sort of international expedition clothing. The exception is a grey felted hat that seems local; the design is somewhere between an Afghan pakol and an Islamic kufi. Mary notes that he moves with the assurance of someone who knows he's in charge. In contrast, the younger Giorgi is slimmer and less confident. His English is a bit basic, and he eyes the trekkers with an air of what Mary can only describe as suspicion. He is on edge for some reason which makes her uneasy, too.
The rest of the group members are packing up their gear under Levan's watchful eye. He's distributing some of the food and camp equipment amongst the group. "No Sherpas here," he says when he gets to her. Because of her diminutive size relative to the others, he goes easy on her when it comes to the size of the load that needs carrying.
"You don't have to, you know. I am not some barbie doll," she snarks in her New Jersey accent.
"Don't worry. When you've shown you can manage the first few days on those bruises, you'll get more."
Giorgi seems to be more concerned about how they are packing than what they are packing. When he gets to the German guy, who Mary now knows is named Axel Reichmann, the Svan unceremoniously dumps the contents of the backpack out onto the floor. He picks through the various items, as if he is looking for something that shouldn't be there. Disappointed, the Svan grunts "Pack again. Too much heavy stuff at the bottom. Hurt your back."
Mary sees anger flare very briefly in the German's dark eyes.
Axel reaches for the white board and the marker pen. He's sensibly no longer relying on the tablet; on the trek, batteries cannot be charged. He furiously scrawls something large enough that she can read it at this distance. Piss off. My back/my pack.
She smirks. He's clearly got a temper and doesn't like to be told what to do. His wavy dark hair is longer than many of his generation would have worn it; it makes Mary wonder where in Germany he's from because he has none of the rounded cheeks or blond features that are common there. Not a Bavarian, that's for sure. Perhaps the cancer had made him dour and pessimistic; whatever the reason, he's made little or no effort to communicate so far with most of the group. His muteness seems consistent with his temperament. She finds him… interesting, although she's not exactly sure why.
Giorgi glares at him and then stomps off. Mary wonders what is behind the antipathy. Not my problem. What is her problem is the fact that she is no closer to working out what her mission really involves.
oOoOoOoOo
Three days later, as their route approaches the glacier, she is still worrying about why the mystery package has not materialised. They've done the tourist things: the walk up the valley, the photos of the waterfall, the casual conversations. They've met a few other hikers on day trips, but no one has approached her. As might be expected of the trekking group, the Italian boys keep to themselves; the British couple are more interested in each other than in talking to younger people. The Austrian and the German don't know each other, and the latter's lack of a voice limits conversation anyway, so the Austrian has been swapping summit bragging rights and climbing stories with Marie, the French woman. He's spent a lot of time in the Alps, and has learned French to be able to work with the best climbers.
Mary has been engaging in just enough conversation with all of them to keep in her character while also trying to figure out if any of them might be the source of the mystery package. So far, the reactions towards her have been polite, if a bit distant—the way one might expect people to react to a single person with whom one has little in common. It's been frustrating.
She also has to admit that she's feeling the effects of her injuries: when they camp, it is all she can manage to do to eat her supper and crawl into the sleeping bag and the tent she is sharing with the French climber. Mary has decided that her American disguise means she doesn't speak French, so they manage to co-exist with sign language and gestures interspersed with the occasional bit of English that the French woman is willing to concede.
Despite what Sami had said back in Tbilisi, when they come to the small hut that serves as the border inspection post, the two guards there seem intent on scrutinising everything. Passport, contents of their backpacks, even a body search. Mary notes that they are a little apologetic when it comes to the two women. Marie just rolls her eyes as she is patted down and mutters something about dignity.
Mary pops her bubble gum and puts on a bored expression, wise-cracking, "You should see what the US border folks get up to—grope city."
Levan is still apologising an hour later when they make a lunch stop. "Sometimes these guys just feel like they have to prove they are worth their wages, and I guess it wasn't our lucky day. Anyway, let's eat!"
It's the last proper food they will have before they get down to civilisation on the Russian side of the border; above snow line, the food they carry will be freeze-dried and has to be heated on a primus stove.
To celebrate, Levan unpacks some Georgian delicacies he's been carrying since Mazrui. They gorge on kubdari, something that looks to her eye like a thin Cornish pasty; a pork and beef meat pie, seasoned with onions and that combination of spices that Mary recognises from the days of her captivity. Tamaz had been a better cook than whoever produced these; or, perhaps after their trek up, the pastry is a bit tired. Marie, being a vegetarian, gets her own version—a kartoplaar which contains potatoes and cheese instead of meat.
Giorgi is busy with a stove and a big pot into which he slices potatoes and a cheese. Levan explains as he drops a dollop of the cheesey mash into their metal plates. "It's Tashmijabi. The more the sulghuni cheese stretches, the better it is." Mary decides it tastes a bit like a salty version of mozzarella.
Levan explained that, as most of the population of Svan live above 2000 meters, the choice of food is limited but suitable for the conditions. For the trekkers, it is sensible fuel for the climb ahead: carbohydrates, protein and salt, washed down with a lot of bottled water. Until now, there had been a risk of sheep and goats polluting the streams and rivers with bacteria. Levan had made it clear as soon as they'd put on their backpacks; "Diarrhoea is no fun and dysentery is really serious. So bottled water only, until we get above snow line."
They work off the lunch by ascending through a scree field. It is heavy going: stones that slip and slide under their weight make walking treacherous, requiring concentration to avoid turning an ankle. The stress and strain on her damaged ankle demand additional focus; Mary has no time to think of anything other than avoiding a fall that will make it impossible for her to continue. As worried as she is about when the package is going to show up, an even greater fear is being forced to return to Tbilisi because of an injury. Escape means she has to keep going, so she increases the dosage of ibuprofen and Co-codamol tablets that had been in the duffel bag.
Standing on the first patch of snow that they've come across after the tail through the scree, Levan starts to explain the challenges. "Once we get onto the glacier, the danger increases a lot. Crevasses are the main problem. They can be tens of meters deep and if you fall into one, it could kill you. Even with the help of emergency services, falling into one can be fatal very quickly, even if the fall itself doesn't end you. If you keep to bare ice then you will see the crevasse. Avoid snow. Do not wander from the route that is being taken. I will lead and Giorgi will bring up the rear. When you see the crevasse, no curiosity. Just stay away from the edges because these are slippery. The edges are also weak and could collapse from under you. The worst danger is when you see snow— because you don't know what's under it. Snow can drift across a crevasse, creating a bridge that looks solid, but it won't carry your weight."
He instructs them on how to fit the crampons to their boots, and Giorgi checks to be sure they are tight. She teases him that she likes seeing a man kneeling at her feet, but the Svan doesn't smile.
Levan tells them to take their ice axes off their packs and ensure the strap handle is secure around their wrists. "Don't think the axe will save you; in fact, the opposite could be true. To be effective, they have to be sharp, and even professional mountaineers have been injured or killed by falling on their ice axes. So, be careful. Once you leave the trailhead, you are going to be roped to your buddy. It is your responsibility to stay close to and to keep track of the safety of this buddy at all times."
Reichmann, the mute German, positions himself so he is paired with her. She decides to let this happen; it would seem to be the first overt approach anyone has really made to her. His white board and attached pen are dangling from his pack, within easy reach. Once they are roped together, he loiters and she meekly stays with him, so the two of them are near the back, behind the three Italians who have chosen to be roped as a trio.
As they head out, Reichmann isn't looking at her but at the mountains and the ice. His sunglasses obscure his eyes; her own dark lenses mean he can't see her studying him. She feels a frisson of fear; is this intuition about him? Perhaps Giorgi's earlier search of the pack was in pursuit of the mystery package? He could hand it over at some point and then use his disability as an excuse to return to Mazeri. It's the most likely scenario she can some up with.
The group moves slowly, steadily carefully up the glacier. There is standing water on the ice which makes things slippery, but the crampons help. They are single-file, treading in the footsteps on the person in front of them, trusting Levan to keep them safe.
After almost two hours, with the sun starting to cast serious shadows, he calls a halt. "We camp here tonight. Make sure to use metal ice spikes to hold the tents down." He points to a relatively flat icy area to the side, "That's the designated toilet, don't wander off to have a pee. In fact, I suggest you all try to do your business now, while it's still light enough. Anything solid will be frozen by morning and we'll bag it and take it with us. If you do have to get out of your tent at night, you have to wake your buddy." He grins at them. "So, before you unrope yourselves, form an orderly queue while Giorgi and I get the stove started to melt some water. It's best you get used to doing this with your buddy now on the flat; tomorrow is going to be steeper and more of a challenge. While each of you takes a turn, everyone else just look east at the view up to the horns of the devil."
Mount Ushba is towering above them, its twin peaks looking rather demonic, indeed. The mountain top looks set ablaze by the setting sun.
Mary has never been hung up about modesty; prudishness had gone out the window when she'd been working as the only woman in a special ops team. To keep in character, however, she asks Axel to turn his back when she struggles to get her expedition trousers down. "It's alright for you guys; just point and shoot. Women have a tougher time." When she squats, she uses the ice axe to give herself some stability in the crouch. The stress on her ankle makes it throb.
Later, they sit in the twilight eating something that may be labelled freeze-dried spaghetti bolognaise. The taste is indescribably dull, and she ends up digging out of her pocket one of the energy bars that had been included in her duffel bag. She notices that the German has had the same idea; he's unwrapped a bar which she realises is the same brand as hers. She shows him her snack, eyes fixed on his features to gauge his reaction. When he turns his head to look at her, she raises an eyebrow in a question.
He grabs the white board dangling from his belt and scrawls something very quickly. When she angles her head torch to read it, she realises it is written in Cyrillic, which startles her.
Почему так долго?
She instantly translates it in her head: 'What took you so long?'
He must somehow know that she knows Russian. And that means…Hawking Man!