Midnight in Mongolia: The Blenders, #4

By Veronica Helen Hart

Can Doll find two kidnapped friends before they disappear into the wilds of the Gobi Desert?

 

The Blenders are visiting Mongolia when two of them, Al and Larry, find themselves mistakenly kidnapped by mystery men who think they took two executives in an elaborate ransom plot.

 

When Doll is unable to get help from the police, she decides it is up to her to find her friends.

 

Before long, as Al and Larry struggle to survive in the wilds of Mongolia, Doll, assisted by her fiancé and one of the other Blenders, races against time and the elements to discover where they are. Will she find them before they disappear into the desert?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Champagne Book Group
• Release date: Aug 7, 2017
• ISBN: 9781771552561

Book preview

One

Doll—Somewhere in the Mongolian Desert

Old Howard, bundled up against the brutal cold, stepped out of the yurt and bumped into the yak.

I milked the beast as its regular milkmaid stood nearby.

Morning, Howard, I called out. A white cloudy puff of air floated from my mouth.

Brisk. He straightened and faced east, where the sunshine and warmth should be coming from.

Not as cold as it could be. I stopped tugging at the teats of the docile beast. It’s meant to get up in the seventies later today.

Sarangerel, the slender young milkmaid, scolded me. Though I couldn’t understand her words, the meaning was clear: Milk or get off the stool.

Cut! The clapperboard smacked. Chas stepped down from his canvas director’s chair. Take five, he shouted as he came over to us. We’ll check this shot. If it’s good, we’ll call it a wrap. Nice work, Doll.

The yak ignored everyone.

This is it, Howard, I said. I’m happy you managed to have your Mongolian experience sleeping in a ger, but I, for one, am ready to return to the lumpy mattress at the hotel in Ulaanbaatar.

Chas rested his right hand on the rump of the patient yak. Coffee’s ready. Why don’t you go get some while we close out this episode?

Sorry, young man, Howard said. Had no idea you intended to film right outside my hut. He set about stretching his arms, working out his kinks.

Yurt, I reminded him. Huts are stationary. Yurts are portable.

I know what a yurt is, he said. If you can forgive my lapse, I can tell you all about the flexible framework, the felt linings and—

That won’t be necessary. We can check online whenever we get back to civilization.

I think we’ll be able to edit you out. Not a problem, Mr. Wright. Chas scurried around the girl and the yak, his hands framing her as he imagined new photos for the Mongolian episode of Cooking for Your Life with Mandy Young.

The milkmaid giggled. I looked up at the girl dressed in a padded blue silk kimono-like coat belted with a red fabric tie. With her black hair pulled into a tight bun, secured with colorful combs, she appeared more like a beautiful model posing for a tourist magazine than a genuine hardworking nomadic tribeswoman. Even her hands were smooth and well-manicured. Probably from yak butter.

I smiled at her and held out a hand. She had been working with me for three days, teaching me how to milk the yak and knew I needed assistance to get up from the stool. Thank you, I said as I stood.

Thank you, she replied. She knew no English, but was eager to please so repeated phrases like a parrot.

She led the yak away and chased it into a pen with a dozen other yaks already milked by the other tribeswomen, who were too shy to come close to our set.

Come, Sarangerel. We’ll have some breakfast. I mimicked eating food from my hand.

She nodded. Breakfast. She turned away and crossed to the next ger, opened the door, then went inside.

I headed for the catering table where Jimmy and Katie, crew for our traveling reality show, had laid out a sumptuous display of European and Mongolian treats, including rich yak milk cheese, khuushur, which I called dumplings, and Mongolian tea which was more like soup, except their soup was lumpy. Fortunately, we also had coffee and orange pekoe tea. Hardboiled eggs and canned beans completed the breakfast bar.

For the purpose of the cooking show, I played the role of Mandy’s grandmother. In this segment, I worked more as a sous chef for her, milking the yaks and preparing the dough for the khuushur and variations thereof, which could be large and deep-fried, small and steamed, or boiled. The dumplings were mostly served without vegetables, but when we did the menu for the show, we included noodles, a rice-vegetable dish, and described their barbecue style, which left me a little ill when I first observed the locals in action.

A freshly killed marmot was gutted and then stuffed with vegetables and heated rocks. It was then laid on a bed of hot coals to ensure cooking thoroughly inside and out as well as burning off the fur. I’m afraid the creature looked a little too lifelike for my taste. I prefer my marmot filleted and packaged in plastic wrap.

Howard, where are Larry and Al? They were the only other members of the Keegan Bay Park Blenders on the Mongolian trip. The club was organized last year to save the life of an infant Middle Eastern prince who had been hidden in our community. Though we never scheduled regular meetings, we seemed to have enough situations arise which needed our attention to meet often.

I put two meat-filled dumplings on my plate along with a hardboiled egg.

They left before dawn to the city. They’re taking a day trip to an ancient monastery, Howard replied.

A trip to a monastery? I thought they joined this group to protect me from myself. That’s what they said, anyway, I said through a mouthful of dumpling.

Ever since my husband disappeared over five years ago, my friends and neighbors felt compelled to watch over me as though I couldn’t take care of myself. On the other hand, though they were only a few years younger than me, I tended to regard them more like my sons than my peers.

They know I’m here.

Howard, I love you, but you’re ninety-two years old. How much help could you be in the event of an emergency? By the expression on his face, I’d been careless with his feelings. A pattern I had before.

In fact, my behavior had led my fiancé, Michael, to rethink our engagement. Following our visit to South Africa the previous month, he returned to Keegan Bay Park in Florida. Home seemed a zillion miles away.

Howard took his plate of food to his yurt, er, ger. I wasn’t exactly sure which word was the right one. I think a yurt meant a structure, and a ger indicated someone’s home. In any case, I hoped I hadn’t lost the allegiance of another member of the Keegan Bay Blenders. Sometimes I wished I could have a personal kicker to help keep me on track.

Tony, the cameraman, sidled up to me. Mandy’s headed to the hotel with Katie and Jimmy. I think Chas is calling it a wrap. You want to ride with them in the Land Cruiser? It’s a heck of a lot more comfortable than the Russian van.

I shook my head, unable to talk with my mouth full, this time with egg. Besides, I don’t do well while tears threaten.

I’ll see if Howard wants to go with them, Tony continued. There’s no need for him to hang around. We’ll be doing a few final background shots of the encampment then it’s a wrap. It’s been fun.

I nodded as he wandered off. No need for Howard. I wanted to shout at the callous youth and explain to him the old man was a war hero and could probably still outwit and out-maneuver him in any sort of confrontation.

You aren’t looking so happy. What’s up, Doll?

Chas startled me. After choking down the eggy mass, I said, It’s just something I’ve been going through lately. Kind of a change-of-life thing.

He eyed me skeptically, his eyelids lowered to slits. If you’ll pardon my saying so, aren’t you a little past that?

Not that kind. The ‘getting older and wondering what it’s all been about’ kind.

He pinched his lips and nodded, appearing wiser than his years. I see.

I sighed. It was fun getting to milk a yak. Not a lot of people do, you know.

A lot of Mongolians do.

I let out a small chuckle. Okay. Not a lot of old American women.

I’ve noticed you are not a typical old American woman.

Had Chas, my impudent young director, just complimented me? My face heated in the early morning sunshine. I certainly couldn’t be blushing at my age. In any case, I’ve had a good time working on the show. I’m so glad you offered me the job playing Mandy’s grandmother. What’s next? Are we still doing Dushanbe?

He looked at me as if I lost my mind. And his next comment made me believe I had. What do you mean, Dushanbe? In Tajikistan? Whatever gave you the idea we were filming there? He turned his back to me while he loaded his coffee with sugar and stirred vigorously.

Maybe because that’s what you told us while we were in Africa.

He shook his head and spoke like a patient parent to a slow child. You’re really a novice at this business, Doll. Schedules are subject to change at a moment’s notice. As are plans. You should never believe anyone in this industry unless you have a signed contract in your hands. He took a step away from me.

I see. Are you telling me you’ve given up on the idea of Mandy having a grandmother on the show? Did the New York guys disapprove?

He turned to face me, his face a mask of bonhomie. Actually, they love the idea. They just wanted us to skip Dushanbe and head to warmer climes until next year during the height of summer. It’s getting too cold to be doing outdoor shows. They also said something about visas.

I tilted my head as if that would make what he said clearer. So where are we going?

Not you this time. We’re going to Saipan in Micronesia. An exclusive club where Mandy is facing a challenge to prepare a romantic dinner for fifty engaged couples. Everybody’s young.

In despair, I threw my hands up. Young, youth, even the name of the show included Mandy’s name, Young. Maybe a hundred years from now seventy-two will be considered young. Saipan. Micronesia. I don’t follow. Why am I not included? You all seemed so enthused about my participation. Young or not, everyone loves a grandmother. We haven’t even had a chance to see how the public will react.

I had never been eager to be a cook show star or, as in this case, a side-kick to a star, but I didn’t like the feeling of rejection.

Mrs. Reynolds, he said, This was a corporate decision. We’ll pick you up again on later episodes once we see the ratings on the ones you’re in. As far as I’m concerned you did a marvelous job in South Africa and came across as even more confident in this one. I told them that in New York.

Really? I asked, doubting him because he was the one always scolding me for being on someone else’s spot, or talking to the wrong cameras. It seemed more likely that he experienced buyer’s remorse in asking me to do the show in South Africa when Mandy became ill. Most likely he’d be relieved to head off to his warmer climes without me.

Leaving my plate behind, I walked away from the table.

Where are you going? Chas called after me.

I continued toward the Land Rover. To Ulaanbaatar to see if I can get in more sightseeing before we head home. Maybe I’ll go find a monastery.

Two

Al

In all the years since I’ve retired from teaching, I think moving to Keegan Bay Park and joining the Blenders is the best thing we’ve ever done, Al said.

Larry continued to snap pictures of the passing landscape so fast Al wondered if he ever took time to focus. He was glad they’d brought several camera chips with them. They’d already filled two while at the safari camp in South Africa. He couldn’t wait to get home to view it all and relive their experiences.

How’s that? Larry said.

Was that a delayed reaction to his statement or did Larry want to know what he thought of his last shot? Since becoming partners, Al had more than once misinterpreted Larry’s words and found himself in hot water. He decided to pretend he hadn’t heard him, though unlike the time they’d gone to Italy where the historic churches were crammed with tourists, the only people around them now were the fifteen or so people they traveled with on the antiquated bus.

I said I was thinking about our move to Florida, to Keegan Bay Park. You remember the retirement community where we live?

Larry focused his camera out the window. Look at those two men in suits and ties standing on the side of a remote highway. I wonder if their car broke down. Got them. He turned back toward Al. What were you saying about retiring?

We abandoned Doll. I’m a little worried.

We sat around the set for ten days watching nothing happen. I thought you said you told her we were going out for the day. Stop being such a worry-wart. Besides, she has Howard.

That’s what worries me. He means well and knows a lot, but he’s not as agile as he used to be. Not even as quick as he was last year when we helped the Middle Eastern prince. Al poked around in his backpack. I’m going to call Doll and make sure she’s all right.

Larry shook his head. I doubt you’ll get any connection out here. What could happen? She’s also got all those youngsters with her. The director, the film crew. All bright-eyed, intelligent young folk. Stop fussing and enjoy yourself for a change. Isn’t that why we came along on this trip in the first place?

Al sighed. He knew he’d been worrying. Almost like an old woman. You know, I still haven’t got used to the idea I’m no longer responsible for thirty fifth-grade children every day.

Larry patted his hand. Now you can be responsible for me. Look out there. We’re almost to the monastery.

The buzz of conversation around them picked up. Al tried to detect what countries the other tourists were from. He’d easily recognized the Spanish-speaking couple, but still didn’t know if they were from South America or Spain. A young group, looking like teenagers, spoke French. A pair of very dark middle-aged men spoke some kind of Arabic language. Another retired looking couple he thought spoke Russian. This was where Howard would come in handy, Al mused, since he knew so many languages.

Only four others spoke English as a native language, and they were from England, not the United States. Al liked the feeling of he and Larry being the only Americans in the group. Gave him a sense of anonymity, as if no one could find him and no one else in the group cared a bit about where he came from or what he did.

The bus, never traveling at much speed anyway, slowed. Al looked around and saw the two well-dressed men on the roadside flapping their arms in an effort to stop the bus. Beside them a car spewed steam from under its hood.

Tourists, Larry said.

Al held up his phone and snapped a picture. Definitely not local, but why tourists?

Larry shrugged. Rented car. Carrying cell phones. New clothes. They look like tourists. I thought the bus would at least stop for them.

This is a private charter. Probably not allowed to. Al twisted his head to watch the two men as they dropped their arms and, shoulders sagging, returned to their disabled vehicle.

Larry nudged him. Stop staring, you’ll make me jealous.

Don’t be ridiculous. I can’t wait to see this statue everyone talks about. The largest of Genghis Khan anywhere.

Why would they build it so far from the city if they wanted tourists to visit it?

Al picked up the brochure and waved it as he spoke. If you’d read the material I gave you earlier, you’d know. They built it where Genghis Khan allegedly found a golden whip. This is the largest equestrian statue in the world, not just the largest Genghis Khan.

Amazing how he’s been revised into a hero. I always thought of him as a murdering tyrant who killed millions and millions of people.

Estimated over forty million. That’s what we learned and what we taught in school, but here they regard him as a national hero and a symbol of Mongolian culture. Al put the brochure down and continued, Later, we’re going to a monastery. It’s been there for centuries and is one of the few monasteries not destroyed during the communist invasion in the nineteen thirties. It’s also on the ‘must see’ list.

Shouldn’t we be there soon? Besides it’s becoming stuffy in here, and I’m getting thirsty.

Still a little kid at heart. We’ll be there soon. I’ll open the window. As he said it, Al tried raising the window. He pounded on it with the heels of his hands, but couldn’t jar it loose.

A large flowered shirt appeared between Al and Larry, filled by the body of a white haired, heavy-set man. Let me get that for you, son. I’m used to these old contraptions. He crowded his upper body over the seat and, doing the same thing Al just tried, loosened and lifted the window. There you go.

Cool air blew in, along with dust, creating a stir among the rest of the passengers.

Al, halfway off his seat by now, slid back into place. Thanks.

It’s a toss-up between windy, dusty, cold air blowing over us, or staying hot and stuffy, Larry said. He pulled his sunglasses from his top pocket and donned them.

Al did the same to keep the dust particles from his eyes. From the sounds of dissension behind us, I think we’re going to have to live with hot and stuffy. He lowered the window, leaving it open an inch for fresh air.

The stranger’s face appeared over the seat again. What was that all about? You boys can’t make up your mind?

Sorry. Thanks for your help anyway.

Hey, you catch those two people stranded back there? Doesn’t seem right that we didn’t stop to help them.

Al twisted to see the guy. He looked to be in his late seventies, with a thick head of snow white hair and a Santa Claus beard. They both had cell phones. They won’t be out there long. Besides this is a private charter, not a public bus.

I heard the two of you talking. You don’t fool me, but don’t worry. I won’t say a word to anyone.

Bored with the trip, Al decided to play along with the old boy. We’d appreciate that, sir. My partner sometimes forgets we’re not as invisible as we’d like to be.

The white-haired man leaned even closer, if that was possible. So, what are the Feds doing over here in Mongolia?

Can’t tell you.

Has to be oil.

Al heard Larry snicker, but maintained a straight face. It always is, isn’t it?

Look out there! Larry pointed. Gers and horses. What a picture. He pushed open the window and picked up his camera to snap more photos.

The man chuckled. Even spies can act like tourists. Nice.

Deciding the joke had run long enough, Al confessed, We really are tourists. That was just a little humor before.

The man winked. Gotcha. He leaned back into his own space nearly crushing his wife who sat in the window seat.

Our first stop, the tour guide announced over his crackling sound system. We will arrive in fifteen minutes, but already you can see the shape of the largest equestrian statue in the world. And seated upon this magnificent horse is the great Genghis Khan bearing the golden whip. As we approach and await our turn to disembark, let me give you some history of the mighty warrior.

Al tilted his head enough to look through the dirty front window of the bus. Sure enough, ahead on the long flat approach, stood the statue. He’d read about it in the brochures, but the enormity of the figure couldn’t be conveyed in pictures. Ignoring the tour guide, he turned to Larry and began his own recitation of more facts and statistics about Genghis Khan.

Larry’s eyes glazed over. As the bus rumbled through the grand gated archway, he gaped at the statue standing like a sentinel in the middle of the vast empty countryside. Four hundred million dollars for a statue, huh? That’s a lot of Rolexes.

After the bus stopped and everyone scrambled to disembark, Al had to bend his head to walk down the center aisle of the bus. Once on terra firma, he turned around to help the old man who had been sitting behind them down the last high step. Larry skipped ahead like a schoolboy, snapping photos of everything and everyone. Though it was late in the year for tourists, there were still half a dozen buses of varying sizes, shapes, and ages in the parking lot along with about a dozen cars.

Al stretched his legs and waited until the rest of their group gathered around the tour guide. That is one big horse.

To say nothing of the man seated on it, the bearded man responded. Name’s Bob, and this is my wife Margie. We’re from Toronto.

Al shook hands with the two of them and introduced Larry, who paused long enough from his picture taking to say hello.

Al and Larry remained next to the Canadians, Margie and Bob, while the guide issued instructions about how to get up to the top of the horse’s head. Their choices were elevator or stairs. Bored by the droning speech in poor English, Al tugged at Larry’s sleeve. Let’s go. We’ve heard all this already.

They wandered toward the long sloping paved path leading to the visitors’ center at the base of the statue.

The two of them chugged like a couple of old locomotives until Larry called out, Slow down.

Al paused. You all right? Come on. I want to spend as much time as possible in the museum.

Let me catch my breath first.

His partner looked horribly pale. Al patted him on the back. Take your time. We shouldn’t have been running. I’m a little winded too.

I was starting to feel dizzy.

How do you feel now? Although he was concerned for Larry’s well-being, Al also found himself annoyed at the delay.

Just give me a minute.

The two of them stood to one side as other tourists made their way to and from the massive museum and visitors’ center that was the foundation beneath the statue.

After a few minutes, he asked Larry, You want to go up to the visitors’ center or return to the bus?

Larry smiled. It’s kind of nice just standing here in the sunshine. Feels good, doesn’t it?

Al rolled his eyes. That’s all we’ve been doing all week. The whole point was for us to get in some sightseeing before we have to leave.

"Hasn’t it sunk in yet? We don’t have to do anything. I don’t have to flog expensive watches to self-important jerks. The inventory in the store I worked in alone could fund an entire third world country. I’m so glad to be finished with it all." Larry raised a hand to shade his eyes as he gazed over the vast plains spread out before them.

"I know you hated your job, but you were good at it. If you hadn’t been flogging watches, you and I would never have met.