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

experts would deal with fingerprints, DNA, and other clues in a less hostile, more controlled environment.

“Not much to go on here, not even a passport,” Matt said as he stepped inside the tent, “but there is a condom wrapper under him,” he added, pointing to its torn edge.

“Must have been a bad lay,” he chuckled. While the detective and those close by didn’t understand the crack or chose to ignore it, Matt was onto something.

“We might get lucky. There might be a print, perhaps the killer’s print on the wrapper, and a condom also means DNA – his on the inside and perhaps the killer’s on the outside, so we need to find it. It’s not on him and not in sight though. We’ve looked.”

Matt watched as Baral looked about the tent and then directed his team to recover the body and load it on the chopper for immediate transfer back to the city.

“How ’bout we get something to drink inside the mess tent and I go over the rest of what I’ve found?” Matt suggested. Baral agreed and had a few questions of his own on the walk. A few stragglers remained at the crime scene to watch, while most others had long lost interest or were too disturbed by it to stay there any longer.

“Your manager Claire Dale in Washington spoke very highly of you, Agent Christopher,” he said, “although she did not appreciate my waking her up. When I said your name she asked, ‘what’s he done now?’” Matt laughed and continued walking. Once inside the tent Matt laid out what he had found, starting with a report obtained from Interpol in Lyon.

The victim was an Andy Bartlett from Liverpool, England. He’d traveled there with his mate Ken Husband, also from Liverpool, to climb the mountain. They’d both been partying in this very mess tent last evening. Husband had related that both he and Andy had been trying to score with some of the females at the party. Husband had also said he vaguely remembered the woman Bartlett had been talking with. He recalled her saying something about being an environmentalist there to do a story about the trash left on the mountain by the climbers. He said everyone was very drunk and the only other thing he remembered about the woman was that she was very attractive and had a sexy French accent. Apparently Husband was more focused on a date of his own and didn’t notice when Bartlett and the woman left. Husband spent the night in his date’s tent and walked up to find Bartlett dead after all the commotion around their tent had started.

“As for the woman, I’ve interviewed maybe six people who were at the party and nobody recalls much of anything, not even her name,” Matt added. “I have a knack for observational behavior, almost a sixth sense some people say, and despite my slightly diminished faculties this morning I don’t believe I detected a lie in any of them. My instincts tell me the killer’s one cool customer. These two hooked up, she got pissed off about something, slammed the ax into Bartlett’s head, and then went on her way without leaving a trace. I’m intrigued.”

Matt and Baral discussed the difficulties that such a harsh and transient environment posed to the investigation. The punishing high winds could come and go without warning and snow could start at any time. The population of the camp itself was one of climbers attempting to reach the 27,000- foot summit; some would succeed, some would turn around, and others would never make it back down. Sherpas, the locals who carried the supplies and ropes and assisted the climbers in their quest, as well as the support people that sustained the camp, could all be identified and accounted for. But so many trekkers came and went without any record made of their arrivals and departures that a suspect could be anywhere; up on the mountain, down on the trekking path, or sitting in another mess tent having tea.

“Taking that into consideration, I would suggest I ride back to Kathmandu with the body and your team tries to find and interview any hot blondes with French accents. I’d like to stick around, this one’s got a hook in me, but I’ve been asked to return to Qatar and stand by for my next assignment.”

As Matt got up to get rid of the enormous amount of fluid he had taken in recently, Baral stepped outside to make calls to his team.

*

“Yes, don’t worry about the men,” Baral directed. “Just stop any women trekking down from Base Camp, any blonde females with a French or Swiss passport. I will send this FBI agent back to HQ on the chopper with the body.” As the two reunited in the tent, one of Baral’s team members ran in. “We may have her!”

CHAPTER TWO

At the main terminal of Tribhuvan International Airport, the one without the monkeys he’d encountered at the remote commuter terminal for his flight to Namche, Matt boarded a state-of-the-art Qatar Airways Airbus A330, found his spacious seat in First Class at the front of the plane, and settled in for the six-hour flight west to Doha. The attentive flight attendants delivered a large pillow and heated blanket, offered a variety of newspapers including the Wall Street Journal, London Times, and USA Today, and then took his drink and dinner order. “No booze for me, just coffee, two if you can, both light, and a bottle of water,” he said as he began to page through the Journal in one hand and the menu in the other.

“Filet, medium well with béarnaise, baked potato extra butter, garlic spinach, sourdough roll, and let’s start with a caprese salad.” Minutes later, the cabin lights were dimmed and the coffee began to flow. He pulled up the window shade to look down at India as he flew over the country at 38,000 feet. He wished the pilot