The Export by J.K. Kelly (read along books txt) 📕

deep crevasses where they had fallen to their deaths and couldn’t be recovered, or lying where they had died against rocks and boulders or out in the open. Quite often, snow buried the remains for a time, but as temperatures rose, they became exposed again. Tradition demanded that if you died on the mountain while climbing, you remained there. A life taken by a tremendous fall or other climb-related trauma was mourned but accepted as part of the risk. A death like this one was altogether different, though. The mountain hadn’t claimed this man; another human being had struck him down.

In a nearby tent, a weathered yellow one much like the scene of the crime, another visitor to the mountain was dealing with a piercing headache of his own. Another sherpa delivered tea and the stunning news to the American who had come to Everest’s Base Camp on a whim. He’d paid handsomely to make a quick trek up, too fast of a journey it turned out, and was now paying a heavy price.

“What was I thinking?’ he kept asking himself. “I know better.”

He’d suffered through a long night dealing with elevation sickness caused by the extremely thin air, and the large quantity of beer and alcohol he’d ingested to kill the pain had left him in a fog with an excruciating headache, shortness of breath, and a desire for someone to induce a coma to put him out of his misery. But when Matt’s head had cleared enough to comprehend what the sherpa told him, he laced up his boots and headed out, tea in hand. “Best not touch anything,” Thompson heard someone call out from the crowd of onlookers.

*

They were of all shapes and sizes and their choice of outerwear was equally as diverse. A variety of bright orange, yellow, or red jackets and vests, knit hats, baseball caps, wool scarves, jeans, shorts, hiking boots and the one guy with the STP t-shirt and flip flops made for an eclectic group, but Thompson saw a man holding up something gold and shiny and waved for him to come closer. As the man made his way toward him, he was visibly unsteady, dragging his feet in the rocks and almost falling once.

“Look at this clown,” Thompson said to the others with him, “he’s altitude sick, drunk, or just plain daft.”

“Matt Christopher, I’m with the FBI,” the man said, cringing in the bright sunlight as he handed over his gold shield and identity card. Despite his disheveled hair and clothes he was handsome, with chiseled features, late 30s, graying black hair, and week-old beard. Someone in the crowd remarked the man looked just like that actor George Clooney, only younger.

“You’re a long way from home,” Thompson stated, his face showing the wear and tear of years of intense sun and extreme cold and altitude that had taken him to the summit six times but had worn on him more than most.

“It appears I am,” was all Matt could muster. Thompson scrutinized the ID and then passed it to the other climb team leaders, Klaus Muehler, the German who wore his handlebar mustache so proudly, and Tony Agazzi, an Aussie who had been on the mountain more times than he could remember.

“You smell like a damn brewery mate,” Thompson charged the special agent. “Thanks for the offer, but I’m not sure you can be of any help to us in your condition.” Agazzi handed the credential back and the three leaders stood and watched as the man struggled to place it in his blue North Face jacket pocket and formulate a response.

“All I need is some coffee, IV fluids, and twenty minutes on oxygen and I’ll be good as new,” Matt stated as he shook his head to clear the cobwebs. Thompson looked to the others and then decided to give the American a much-needed hand. He directed one of his sherpas to help Matt to the medical tent and then, if he seemed better, bring him back to the crime scene.

“We’ll give it a go mate, this guy’s not going anywhere,” Thompson said. “The police are on their way up by chopper and should be here in a few hours. Go get some fluids, some gas, and maybe some food and we’ll see how it goes from there.” As the sherpa guided Matt from the scene, Thompson expressed his pessimism.

“That’ll be the last time we see that boy for sure,” he said in a disappointed tone.

*

“All right, let’s get to it,” Special Agent Christopher called out as he tried in vain to not spill his hot tea as he approached the scene of the crime. He still felt like hell but when he saw Thompson’s surprised expression Matt gave him a wink.

“If I didn’t tell you earlier, I work as part of an FBI International Investigative Team.” Typically, the FBI only responded to crimes outside of the States if an American interest was involved or a foreign government requested assistance in an investigation. But, unofficially, he might be of help since he had been here when the murder happened. “I was here on vacation,” he continued. “Until now.”

He didn’t disclose the truth, that he was actually no longer an FBI agent. It wasn’t relevant or necessary. Nobody needed to know that in recent years he had actually become a jack-of-all-trades as a contractor as part of a negotiated arrangement with the U.S. government. He was well trained and highly qualified to perform in any intelligence capacity his handler back in Washington called upon him to do – just as long as it wasn’t on U.S. soil. They’d given him a codename – The Export.

Matt’s eyes hadn’t stopped scanning the ground and the area surrounding the victim’s tent since he arrived.

“I know you,” one of the onlookers spoke out in an Australian accent, pointing at him. “I passed you just above the Namche Bazar on the trek up. I know you.”

Matt smiled as he shook his head in frustration. “Yep, I