A Spring Betrayal (14 page)

I tapped the iPhone.

“They’ll call, don’t worry.”

So we sat there as the shadows grew longer, smoked cigarette after cigarette, waiting for the call.

“Ten thousand dollars,” the Voice said, no introduction, no greeting, straight to business.

“No,” I said, and broke the connection, switched off the phone.

“Why did you do that?” Saltanat demanded, anger in her eyes.

“I want to show them we’re greedy, that we’ll be careless when it comes to the meet and exchange. And it puts them on the back foot, which isn’t a bad thing.”

I threw the remains of my cigarette out onto the grass.

“I’ll turn it back on in an hour. And I guarantee it will ring a minute later.”

Which was exactly what happened.

“Twenty-five thousand dollars, very well,” the Voice said. I was pretty sure it was an American voice, confident, no sign of hesitation or anger.

“It’s very expensive to keep me waiting,” I said, injecting a note of annoyance into my voice. “The price is now thirty thousand. Dollars.”

Silence on the other end of the line.

“Who are you? Circle of Brothers?”

I smiled. This was a dance only one person could lead. And if the American thought I might be connected to the organized crime gang spread throughout Russia and Central Asia, so much the better for piling on pressure.

“Call me Manas. The local superhero. Top dog.
Bratski krug
.”

“Very clever, Mr. Whoever-you-are.” Anger in the Voice now, the first hint of carelessness with an undercurrent of worry.

“I’m turning this mobile off in ten seconds,” I said, “and I won’t be switching it back on if we don’t agree now.”

I could sense the man’s hesitation, almost smell his desire to hit and stamp and kill me.

“Ten, nine, eight . . .”

“Okay, we have a deal, but where do we meet?” he asked.

“Instructions in an hour, call me,” I told him and switched off the phone again.

“What do we do until then?” Saltanat asked.

I nodded at the hotel.

“I’m sure Rustam has a room to spare,” I said and walked around the bar to where the cold beer was kept.

“Another Baltika?”

She shook her head, lit another cigarette, stared at the empty sky.

Chapter 28

Like most Murder Squad detectives, I keep a stash of not strictly legal weapons, “just in case,” as I always tell myself, stuff I don’t want to risk keeping at home. Divide and conquer is a pretty good motto when it comes to illegal weapons. I rent a small storage space near the big bazaar on the other side of Bishkek, not in my name. That’s where I hide two passports, one Uzbek and one Russian, also not in my name, a couple of Makarovs and ammo to go with them, a switchblade, lock picks, several changes of clothing, including bulletproof vests, and other useful items. I think of it as an additional insurance policy, in case we have another revolution and someone decides I’m not cheering fervently enough.

Saltanat kept watch while I taped the two Makarovs and ammo to the underside of the car, having made sure they were loaded. If we found ourselves caught in crossfire, I wanted cover to hide behind and enough firepower to shoot our way out. We both stripped to the waist and strapped on the vests before putting our shirts back on.

“Comfortable?” I asked.

“If you enjoy mammograms,” she said, checking her own Makarov and slamming the clip home.

I slipped the fake passports into the glove compartment, padlocked the storage space, then we were off, back down Chui Prospekt, car headlights already on to combat the dusk, the greater darkness that lay ahead.

I could smell leaves, grass, and the hint of rain in the air. Spring was striding toward Bishkek, the rivers starting to swell with snowmelt. Shepherds would be thinking about moving their flocks back up to the grasslands of the high
jailoo
, and the city girls would be hunting out their summer dresses packed away months ago. I wondered if I would be alive to see them parade across Ala-Too Square, young, hopeful, an eternal future ahead of them.

“Take a right here, and then a left,” I said, peering out at the familiar streets.

“We’re going to the Kulturny?” Saltanat asked, following my instructions.

“This is my city,” I replied. “I know how it works here. So yes, the Kulturny.”

There was a confidence in my voice I didn’t really feel, but I knew we had to keep moving forward. Losing momentum means losing advantage. And unlike wolves, we didn’t have anywhere to shelter, anywhere to hide.

Right on time, the call came.

“Okay, where?”

“You know the Kulturny?” I said. “The most stylish bar in Bishkek? The French champagne, fine vintage wines, haute cuisine, sophisticated clientele?”

A grunt was the only response.

“When?”

“Forty-five minutes,” I replied. “But don’t be late or they’ll give our table away.”

“How will I know you?” the Voice asked.

“Don’t worry about that,” I said. “I’ll know you.”

I ended the call just as Saltanat pulled into an empty space, across from the bar.

The street was pretty much empty; this part of town doesn’t see much action, once the daylight starts to go. The yellow puddles from
the few streetlights we have become stepping stones in a dark and dangerous lake. I could see Lubashov leaning by the steel door, his balls presumably recovered from meeting Saltanat.

I put on one of the midnight-blue wool ski masks I’d taken out of storage, and handed the other to Saltanat. With only eyes and mouth visible, it would be difficult for anyone to identify us, unless we were dead, in which case it was all academic, and Usupov would do the final honors.

You set up something like this by arranging the meet to give them the bare minimum time to get there, with not enough time for an ambush, making sure you’re already in place. You wait until they arrive with a shriek of tires, hurl themselves out of an armor-plated Hummer like a
Spetsnaz
team on high alert, cover the street with Kalashnikovs primed to fire.

But nothing happens, no gunshots from the dark, no grenades thrown from the rooftops. So everyone starts to relax and get sloppy, the adrenaline beginning to flush out of their systems.

They all tense again as the car door opens, always the front passenger door, and the big guy, the number one, the
bratski krug
, gets out and takes the few steps to the meet door and safety.

That’s when everyone is waiting for the hit. Which is why you don’t do it then. You wait. Wait some more. A bit more after that. And then you hit them.

We were invisible, thanks to the car’s tinted windows and our dark clothing. I reached up and switched off the interior light; no point in giving someone a clean shot.

I heard Saltanat’s breath, sharp and ragged, almost loud enough to drown the way my heart hammered in my chest, death’s knuckles beating on the door, demanding to be let in. I wiped my damp palms on my trousers, wishing I’d wound tape around the butt of my gun for a better grip. I needed a piss as well. Too late now.

Twenty minutes before the rendezvous, so I knew they’d be here in the next five.

Saltanat reached over and squeezed my hand.

“This is the bit I hate,” she whispered. “Waiting. Always have.”

I squeezed back, then stroked the back of her hand. The bones felt thin, fragile, unable to pull a trigger and blow a man’s life into a memory. Appearances deceive.

As I sat there in the darkness, preparing for chaos and death, I remembered Chinara quoting one of her favorite lines of poetry, by some foreign poet, how love was what would survive of us. I wasn’t sure it was true. Because love isn’t the only emotion to linger after we die. Let’s not forget despair and his best friend, hate. And since the cancer devoured Chinara, they’d both visited me several times to offer their sincere condolences.

It was Saltanat who spotted the headlights, growing larger, throwing the trees into light and shadows that spun away, parting before the black people carrier as it prowled the street.

The car pulled up outside the Kulturny, Lubashov snapping to attention. Regular customers obviously, or big tippers. The expected no-necks bailed out of the car, clutching those nasty little Micro Uzis, looking around for potential targets. After a moment, the front passenger door swung open and a giant emerged. He must have been two meters from army boots to watch cap, so he would stand out in most places.

The Voice was a Western man, in his mid-forties, burly but not fat, shoulders threatening to split his jacket apart. His shaven head glowed almost white under the Kulturny’s single light. Simply standing there, he exuded power, strength, ruthlessness. His mouth was wide, determined, like a shark hunting down its prey. His eyes were black coins in his face. We couldn’t have chosen a worse foe.

The Voice looked around, head up as if he’d scented our presence, reached for his phone. I covered the iPhone with my hand, not wanting its glow to betray our position, sliding down in my seat, out of view.

“You’re at the Kulturny?” I asked.

“Yes, where are you?”

“Never mind that, do you have the money? All thirty thousand dollars?”

“Yes,” the Voice answered, emotionless, deadly.

“Take ten thousand and go into the Kulturny. Alone. Walk down the stairs, go into the toilet, stuff the money behind the tank. Don’t look around, don’t talk to anyone. Come back outside.”

“What the fuck?”

I broke the connection.

“What the hell are you doing?” Saltanat asked.

“Don’t worry,” I said, worried. “I have a plan.”

“A plan you’re planning to share with me?” she asked. “Or do I get killed so you can show how superior you are?”

“Saltanat,” I said, hissing the words into a whisper, “trust me, I know what I’m doing.”

The indignant snort from the driver’s seat didn’t say a lot for my powers of persuasion. So instead I watched until the Voice emerged from the Kulturny. Lubashov walked toward him, maybe to ask if there was a problem, if he needed some help. Without breaking step, the Voice backhanded Lubashov across the face, once, twice, not looking to see if the young man fell or not. Lubashov stumbled back, then held up his hands in submission, a clear indication death by gangster wasn’t on his agenda. The nearest no-neck nodded approvingly as the Voice clambered back into the car.

I switched the iPhone back on, and pressed redial.

“Drive to the junction of Ibraimova and Toktogul. There’s a
shashlik
stand there, with a trash bin in front of it. Place ten thousand dollars in the bin, then drive one block down and wait outside Dordoi Plaza, the big supermarket. You’ll be contacted there.”

“If you’re fucking with me, I’ll have your carcass dripping from a meat hook by tomorrow night,” the Voice said, menace sharp as a switchblade.

“We’re both sensible men, businessmen, we take precautions to secure our interests. I just want your money, you want your secrets back. It’s business, that’s all.”

The people carrier drove off east toward Ibraimova, and as the headlights faded from view, Saltanat rounded on me.

“What the fuck are you doing, Akyl? You want to go and retrieve that ten thousand dollars? You’re crazy.” Spitting out her words.

“I don’t give a damn about the money,” I said. “The first
alkashi
to stumble in there for a piss can have it, for all I care.”

“Then what are you doing?” she asked.

“The bleating of the sheep attracts the wolf,” I said.

“Very poetic. So?”

“Well, I’m just changing where the sheep’s tethered,” I replied. “And now we’d better get going.”

“Where?” Saltanat asked. “Dordoi Plaza? They’ll be waiting for us there.”

“I hope so,” I replied. “That’s why we’re going to his house.”

Chapter 29

“It’s like this,” I explained, as Saltanat drove us back toward Frunze. “While he’s chasing us all over Bishkek, we can do a spot of breaking and entering, try and get ourselves some evidence.”

“We’ve got the videos on the iPhone,” Saltanat said.

“Circumstantial. All we can prove is that someone who had the phone called him. And living where he does, the kind of money he must make, he’s going to have enough clout to close down any questions. If he even gets asked any.”

I reached under my seat, found a bottle of water, swirled some around my mouth to clean out the fear, spat out of the window. On either side of the street, tree branches clutched at the moon. It wasn’t the ideal night for burglary, but then it wasn’t the ideal night for anything except being several hundred kilometers away.

“I think the film clips were used to find potential customers for the DVDs. A sales promotion kit, if you like. And you can bet the salesman isn’t going to be found any time soon. Not with the back of his head intact. Dead men don’t betray bosses. So no use looking for him.”

“What do you think we’ll find at the house?” Saltanat asked.

“They’ve got to make these films somewhere. Somewhere private, secluded, soundproofed. You don’t film this kind of stuff in your bedroom. And there’s one other thing you need access to.”

“What’s that?” Saltanat asked.

I drank some more of the water, feeling it hit my stomach, wondering if I was going to vomit.

“Raw material,” I said. “Children.”

We parked a couple of blocks away from the American’s house and walked toward it, on the far side of the street, holding hands, just another couple taking a romantic midnight stroll. If you consider two people dressed entirely in black and clutching high-powered weapons romantic. All the trees had been painted white at their bases, as if the wind had managed to partially uproot them, so we weren’t as invisible as I would have liked. We’d stuffed our ski masks into our pockets; no point in advertising. I kept an eye out for guards, for cameras, but saw nothing. Saltanat had linked her arm in mine, and I was very aware of the pressure of her breast against me. It didn’t help my concentration.

Just before we reached the house, I turned to Saltanat, stroked her cheek, and then kissed her, her lips soft against mine. That way, she could stare over my shoulder and check out any possible trouble. Her hair smelled of cigarettes and shampoo, her mouth tasted of coffee. I just smelled of sweat and fear.