The Armenia Caper (3 page)

Chapter 8

What the Hell Was That?

We left the offices and nearby found a small Georgian restaurant buried on the corner of a busy street. The place was apparently notorious for many reasons. Regardless of reputation it was the only true Georgian cuisine in town. One had to step down broken stairs to the entrance. The place was small and everywhere there sat burly swarthy dark men in black leathers. Yes. They clearly had guns in their waistbands and in shoulder holsters. This was the best Georgian food in Armenia but it also was the meeting place of the Armenian secret police. I spent more time reviewing the scene than I did the menu. Osanna did the ordering for me and I got into a staring contest with one table of the local goons.

One of the people who joined us for lunch was a young man with the USAID offices. There was no doubt the parties in the restaurant were clearly viewing their options. Should they come over and demand identification and determine who the hell we were? Should we be whisked away to their nearby headquarters for further interrogation? Should we just be ignored?

All at once every table got up and left. We were the only ones left sitting amongst the empty tables. Things in Armenia happen in abrupt, definitive ways. The carry-over of soviet times was highly evident. Was this the cloak or was this the dagger?

I could see the USAID lad sweating and asked if he was okay. He nodded and smiled. Then I asked if he was perhaps a young CIA recruit getting his wings in the field for the first time. That struck an unholy nerve and without hesitation he got up from the table and quickly left leaving the door open behind him.  I went on to enjoy one amazing lunch. The soup was to die for.

Osanna did not want to talk about my enquiries on government offices or personnel I should be interviewing for an angle on the diamond disappearance. She advised it was not a good place to do anything but enjoy the impromptu music and food offered by the owner of the restaurant. The Georgian music and the food were a totally new experience and a good one at that. Georgian food was simply fabulous. The company enlightening.

Chapter 9

Mystery Dinner

The evening came quickly. Osanna and her boss Dmitri came by my crumbling apartment picking me up to attend our dinner gathering. I stood waiting outside while locals walked by eyeing me up and down. This was worse than the movie setting of legendary Orson Welles, The Third Man Theme, as I stood shuffling on the broken stones that made up the stairs into the building. Darkness had fallen and one lonely light cast its yellow glow over the building entrance. People were scurrying about just like my disorganized family of rats in the apartment.

Out of nowhere a large Land Cruiser arrives and Osanna says out the window, in broken English, “Get in Mr. Blacke.” Well that was easy.

Driving in the early darkened evening it was easy to see so few lights were on, anywhere. In fact traffic lights failed to work as well. Dodging vehicles at each intersection gave one a great appetite. The Land Cruiser, weirdly heavy with extra thick window glass, just barrelled on through without hesitation. Everyone yielded.

We arrived and drove into an alley way where numerous cars were parked. An attendant guided us to our spot. Truly if a visitor was out looking for a restaurant this would not have been a choice. In fact there was no name or signage attached. It was just there.

Osanna guided us into the entrance and a short bulging older woman with badly dyed tufts of red hair came up suggesting we follow her. There was a series of doors, and no restaurant so I thought. A door was opened and I found myself sitting at a prepped table in a small but cozy room. This was our table seating. This building was a leftover once again from the soviet era.

Going out was a treat in those days and for the most part only those in government positions, military, politicians, city leaders and the sort could do that. Nobody trusted anybody and in some cases you did not want people listening in on your conversations or seeing who you were dining with. Therefore, restaurants were built with private rooms and no window viewing.

Regardless the vodka overtook the odd arrangement and the evening began. Copious amounts of vodka, lavash, and the country’s favorite flat bread rolled around onion stems, peppers, and various types of lettuce started out an evening that ended with plates of incredible barbequed lamb and pork, done over the smoldering coals of grape vine cuttings. Delicious, even more than finger licking good. Large volumes of wine dropped on the table. After dinner drinks rounded out this truly ethnic dinner experience. So good. Memorable. Now what was the name of this place? I wanted to know how to locate it on my own.

As we completed our final round of drinks the door burst open and our friends from the lunch time experience pushed into the room with guns drawn and they stood there with their ugly pudgy faces exhibiting a menacing situation. We were asked to stand up and take the wall. We were searched rather gruffly and sat back down. The question they had is who was I. Of course my hosts really didn’t know, although Osanna suspected, and they saw me as the hotel restoration guy suggested by the Canadian Government as a mentor in their country rebuild. The big boys in black leather did not buy it. They were good at their job.

As I stood facing the wall when asked why I was in Yerevan I decided to tell them. I was there looking for missing diamonds. There was a long pause and we were all asked to sit down.

The men in black simply disappeared leaving my hosts and me in the silence of the room. There was no further contact with those people. The evening ended well. We were alive.

The incident was troubling but passable. Was our closeted room bugged? Everything is bugged.

The food this day was enlightening from the scrumptious Georgian lunch to this fabulous truly traditional Armenian dinner. I was glad to be here with good people and unquestionably amazing food. Today was high on the list of remembering world class cuisine over anything else. Armenia has the pomegranate represent the Country. I would add apricots and figs, and on the top of my list the barbecued pork.   Just an explosion of flavor. 

Osanna suggested, in the morning I meet an Armenian gentleman known as Artem. Apparently nothing happens in Yerevan without him knowing about it. We were to have breakfast at the upscale Tulip Hotel on downtown Abovian St. We ended the night with me being driven back to my cold damp apartment. Please. Just one more piece of juicy, fatty, barbecued pork.

Chapter 10

When the Going Gets Tough

Fortunately I travel with a mini light and could find my way up the flights of stairs necessary to find my accommodation. Everything remained dark and the solitary climb was simply me following the little flashlight beam up the stairs.

Reaching my door I felt uncomfortable. It was like something else was close by in the dark corners of the hallway. There was a slight click from my left. I reached in the dark and grabbed an arm. Turning it back sharply I heard the elbow crunch and watched the area light up from the flash of the gun. My sight was challenged and my ears were ringing.

Struggling in the dark I continued to hold the arm taking it back the other way and turning it inside out. The gun was heard dropping to the broken tiled entrance way to the apartment. From the other side I could only hear footsteps quickly retreating down the stairs in the dark.

The person I was holding took three hard cracks from my heavy shoe into their jolly parts. There were agonizing groans, then silence. I kicked again to be sure.  Nobody came out from any other apartment to see what was happening. Nobody. It was the old way. What was not your business you stayed away and gave it no mind. A good thing for me. No witnesses.

I threw the attacking person down the tile covered cement stairs head first and could only hear them crashing into the next level. Damn it felt good. I picked up the weapon after locating it with my trusty little light. You really have to love the smell of hot gunpowder.

Luckily I figured out how to open these old school doors with the multi-lock mechanism. Quickly I escaped into the dark of my apartment. As I attempted to find the cell phone my handler gave me so I could call in emergencies I tripped on the ripped carpet, fell to the hard wooden floor and just lay there for what seemed hours. I could feel my nose bleeding.  The cell phone bounced under a heavy side chest. No way was I going to fish it out now.

The evening had been adventurous. That floor was damned cold so I eventually gathered my strength and crawled my way to the bed, lay down fully dressed and covered myself with the big lumpy comforter. I kept the gun locked in my hand. The blood kept trickling down my throat. I leaned over and there went my fabulous dinner. I threw up.

The medieval doors on these old apartments were thick, massive pieces of metal and wood. I did not expect anybody to be crashing through it this night.

Clearly somebody wanted to explore the reasons for my asking questions about the diamonds. Perhaps they were determined to ensure nobody found out their destiny. Perhaps they just did not like snooping outsiders poking around their hay stack.

I fell into an uncomfortable sleep wrapped in a cold sweat. The rest of the night was unpleasant and troublesome. The question I had for myself was should I be getting out of town quickly or do I fulfil my objective and locate the end point for the wayward stones.

Chapter 11

Ibrik

The next morning came slowly and getting ready to face the day was difficult. No hot water. No shaving. No communication device working. It was a no morning so far.

Taking the best of what it was, I made my way out of the apartment without incident. There were no bodies or bad guys anywhere in sight. That alone made my day.

I was picked up by my new friends and we found our way to an Armenian breakfast of farm yogurt, cheese and cold meats coupled with beautiful hot strong Armenian coffee.

Now the Turkish people would call it Turkish coffee and as these two countries still have a bit of a hate on for each other it was what it was depending on what location you were at so we took it as Armenian. The most amazing part of this was that the coffee was served in the oldest method of coffee making there was. The CEZVES or The Ibrik is the ancient pot to prepare coffee and originated in Africa (some say Ethiopia and others Yemen). Placing the pot in the extremely hot sand brought the water to just before the boiling point and the coffee beans (ground) were added.

The warmly decorated small shop we were in actually had, on their counter top, a section filled with heated sand that created the effect of the sun heating sand in the desert. From this the Ibrik was heated and brought to your table. The aroma was intoxicating.

This I have never seen anywhere in my travels and it was something to remember. A probable North American Franchise in the making. Oh yes. The coffee was exquisite. Even with the troubling times the Armenians could hold their culture and adopted attractions high. A fiercely proud people who in a short time I have come to admire greatly.

It was time to fully explore time with Artem. Who was this Armenian man anyway? His nature was soft, quiet, and extremely word evasive. He did reveal he was a lawyer. He works part time in Moscow. He knows those in government running Armenia. He is also a close friend with the power brokers.  Maybe I have the right contact.

Artem played his cards close to his chest. There was little he would reveal about himself, his business or what he might know. It was his trait to deflect to someone else to answer questions put to him. A nice guy I thought and I do not give that out easily. When you knew this man you know you could trust him.

As we chatted he received a call and his expression changed from generally cordial to a tight unsmiling glare. He put away the phone and leaned over to me. In a whisper he mentioned Osanna was injured along with her boss when their Land Cruiser was in what has already been described as a suspicious collision. She was badly hurt. The boss walked clear. Artem said we needed to leave and insure Osanna was safe and not subject to any further danger.

We got in Artem’s automobile and I thought I would be rendered unconscious from the alcohol vapors reeking around me. The night had been extremely cold. The first heavy frost had set in as the season was moving into an early winter. Artem stated no worries about the overpowering smell. It was that he had just filled his windshield washer container with good Russian vodka.

Artem stated that vodka was much cheaper than a commercial winter windshield wash and did a better job on the car windshield. The obvious drawback is once the car warmed up the smell was chemically nauseous and for all I knew explosive.

Artem nervously laughed as we drove away. Osanna was already discharged from the hospital and back at the offices. We headed there to catch up and see how we could help.

Osanna’s face was badly lacerated and half her head had been shaved with a line of stitches showing prominently. I would have thought she should have remained in the hospital but what did I know. These Armenian’s are tough.

She and Artem had some private words and Artem turned to me and said “Let’s go.” I said goodbye to Osanna expressing my sincere concern but she waved it off with a broken tooth smile.