A Spring Betrayal (18 page)

“You’re not Circle, I know that. They’ve all filled their beaks from me.”

I laughed, making the sneer evident. Nothing annoys a
pakhan
, a big man, more than thinking someone would have the temerity to fuck them over, think they could get away with it. The big man becomes angry, and that means reckless. Then you have him.

“Times change. People get hungry, prices go up.”

“Not when I make a deal.”

“Who said you’d made a deal with us?” I asked.

Silence on the other end of the phone.

“Think about what you’ve got. Think about how much you’re prepared to lose. Not just containers stuffed with questionable goods, but staff, bodyguards. Once they think you’re losing control, they’re out
the door and you’re all alone. Keeping that has to be worth something, don’t you think? So think; we’ll be in touch.”

Saltanat looked across at me as I switched off the phone. It was one of a dozen pay-as-you-go mobiles I’d bought at an Internet café near the railway station, onto which I’d copied Graves’s number. I didn’t know if Graves had the muscle to get them tracked, but I’ve never been one for unnecessary risks. I could see she wasn’t happy. The hotel room had never seemed more cramped.

“So what exactly is your master plan?” she asked, her voice like a steel bar hitting a table. “I’m assuming—hoping—you’ve got one?”

“This Graves; he’s got businesses, restaurants, shops, and not a big enough crew to protect them all. Gas bombs, drive-bys, we can keep him hopping from foot to foot, until he doesn’t have the muscle or money to keep himself protected.”

I slapped my hands together, the way you do when you squash a fly.

Saltanat shook her head in disbelief.

“You want to start a war? A one-man war, I might add, because I’m not going to take part in it,” she said.

I looked at her, shrugged as if to say it was no concern of mine.

“I thought Gurminj was your friend. My mistake, I guess,” I said. “The identity band on the kid’s wrist links Gurminj’s killers with the rapes and murders. All we have to do is hunt them down.”

“I know you can be a bastard, Akyl,” she said, and I heard both anger and pity in her voice, “but I never thought you’d be a stupid one.”

She lit a cigarette, blew smoke at the ceiling.

“This isn’t about revenge for Gurminj. Or justice for all those dead children. This is about you wanting to die, taking as many of the bad guys with you as you can.”

“You’re being ridiculous,” I said. “Why would I want to die?”

She stubbed her half-smoked cigarette out, jabbed her finger at me.

“Because your wife is dead and you’re not. Because your friend died and you couldn’t protect him. Because of tortured and murdered children, and you can’t give them justice. Because you can’t work out
whether you want to fuck me or leave me. Because you think you’ve failed and there’s nothing left.”

All of this delivered in a flat, impersonal tone, the more wounding because of it.

There was nothing I could say.

I stared at my reflection in the mirror above the small desk. Eyes empty as bruises on a corpse’s face. Was there any way back to feeling anything other than despair and anger?

“You’ve struck at him three times now. He’s not stupid. You think he won’t be waiting for you to pull another hit? You’ll walk into a trap, and you won’t ever know what hit you when someone gets a .22 to whisper in your ear.”

“What do you suggest, Saltanat? I’m the one on the run from the police,” I said, “the one with nowhere to go. You want to drive me over to Sverdlovsky so I can hand myself in?”

“You really want my advice?” she asked. “Or would that just be the ideal excuse to storm out and get yourself blown away?”

I looked at Saltanat, drawn in by her anger, her crystal-hard intelligence. The sudden thought of living without her was almost intolerable, like having a limb amputated without anesthetic. And, as always, I wondered if there was anything she could find to enjoy in a man like me.

I sighed, nodded, offered a cigarette, lit hers and mine.

“I rely on you,” I said, “more than I should.”

If I was expecting her to melt into my arms, I was mistaken. She squinted at me through the smoke that coiled between us, her eyes determined, suspicious.

“I don’t need bullshit, Akyl,” she said. “I don’t need lies. Not from anyone. And especially not from you.”

She reached over, stroked my cheek in the gesture of a friend rather than a lover, took her hand away, sat upright on the bed.

“This is what we’re going to do,” she said, “and listen to me. Otherwise, you’re on your own.”

Chapter 36

For the next half hour, I listened while Saltanat outlined her plan. It made sense as far as it went; she countered every objection, answered every question. When she finished, I looked at her, not pretending to hide my admiration.

“Pretty impressive,” I said.

She gave the smile that had always captivated me.

“It’s the obvious course of action. Or it would be if you weren’t so keen on getting shot.”

I nodded, as if agreeing with her. But I also wanted to put Graves in the ground, preferably after an unhealthy dosage of pain and blood.

“When do you want to get started?” I asked.

“Let’s go and see the adoption people. Who knows, they might even think we’d make wonderful parents,” she said, and smiled as if scenting prey.

The ministry building where the bureaucrats in charge of adoptions huddle is yet another tribute to the glories of Soviet architecture. A depressing stained fake-marble entrance conceals a rarely working
elevator that judders to a halt at floors hiding endless narrow corridors. Every second lightbulb is missing or burned out, and those that work don’t dispel the gloom. A shoulder-height smear of dirt reveals where people stand in line for hours, leaning against the wall before closed doors that rarely open. The building smells, unaccountably, of smoked fish, old sweat, and drains. As a place supposed to offer new hope and fresh beginnings, it doesn’t show any enthusiasm for the task.

I followed Saltanat until she stopped at a door somewhat less battered than the others we’d passed. A piece of paper taped to the door read
K.
SAKATAEV,
DIRECTOR
. Saltanat rapped sharply and opened the door. An overweight silver-haired man sat behind a conspicuously bare desk, looking up in outrage as we strode in. Before he could open his mouth to speak, Saltanat flashed a credentials wallet, stuffing it back in her bag before he could read what it said.

“Director Sakataev?” she said, her voice hard with authority. “Irina Shaikova, senior investigator for child welfare. This gentleman is Inspector Akyl Borubaev of Bishkek Murder Squad.”

I handed Sakataev my credentials, hoping he wouldn’t know I was on the run from my colleagues. The red-faced man turned white, wondering what crime of his we’d discovered. Even the innocent feel uneasy when two policemen arrive to question them. And in this city, there aren’t many innocents.

“I don’t know what—” Sakataev started to stutter, then shut up when Saltanat held up her hand.

“This isn’t about you, Director. At least, not yet,” she threatened. I looked at Sakataev, wondered if he was in the early throes of a heart attack.

“Just a few questions, that’s all. For the moment,” I said, and gave my least pleasant smile as I did so.

“Naturally, of course, if I can help in any way,” Sakataev said, eagerness to please evident.

“As you know, families are the first to suffer during periods of, shall we say, instability? Which all too often leads to families breaking up, and the children being housed in orphanages,” Saltanat said.

Sakataev nodded, looking relieved that the conversation wasn’t aimed at any scam he might be undertaking.

“When the moratorium on foreigners adopting children was lifted back in 2011, my post was created to protect our children from the risk of trafficking, sex abuse, or organ sales,” Saltanat continued. “I’m sure you agree this was the right policy.”

“I ensure very strict vetting of all foreigners who apply to adopt,” Sakataev said, “and of foreign agencies, naturally.”

Saltanat nodded her approval. I simply folded my arms, leaned against the wall, gave Sakataev the benefit of a policeman’s hard stare.

“The system works very well,” Saltanat confided, “but human nature being what it is, and with foreigners willing to pay huge amounts, there’s always a risk that some under-the-counter deal goes through.”

Sakataev replaced his look of fear with one of sorrow; I didn’t like either one, or the way he kept sneaking a look at Saltanat’s breasts.

“I can assure you no one in my department would ever consider such a thing.”

“However, you understand we have to investigate any cases reported to us,” Saltanat said. I kept my mouth shut, and simply stared at Sakataev a little harder.

“The inspector here has a personal commitment to such cases, and doesn’t leave any aspect unexamined.”

Sakataev opened his desk drawer and started to rummage around. The Yarygin was in my hand at once, not pointed at him exactly, but not in the opposite direction either.

“Slowly, tovarich, slowly,” I said. “Let’s not make any mistakes we might regret.”

His look of sorrow turned into one of terror, the way a rain cloud suddenly scuds over the Tien Shan mountains. His hand shook as he took out a bottle of vodka and three small glasses.

“I thought we might . . .” he started, and then fell silent.

I replaced my gun, and shook my head.

“Thank you, but no, Director,” Saltanat said. “But please, if you feel you must have a drink, then by all means go ahead.”

Sakataev poured himself a more than generous shot, threw it back, spluttered, and waited for the alcohol to hit.

“I don’t normally make a practice of this,” he said, voice hoarse from the vodka.

I raised an eyebrow, the cynical, suspicious cop who disbelieves everything he’s told on principle. Sakataev noticed, and poured himself another, smaller drink. I walked over, looked through the open drawer, knowing he wouldn’t have the courage to object. There was the usual detritus of pencil stubs, paperclips crusted with earwax, a few scribbled notes with first names and phone numbers. I also noticed a set of car keys on a BMW fob. A framed photograph showed Sakataev posing proudly beside his car in front of an elegant dacha.

“Let me tell you what I’m looking for, Mr. Director,” I said, injecting a tone of menace into my voice. “A list of the foreign adoption agencies here in Bishkek, and the names of your contacts in each one.”

“Of course, they’re all very reputable, vetted by the ministry,” he said. “That won’t be a problem.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” I said. “What about the ones who help you afford a BMW and your lovely dacha? The ones who work off the books, pockets stuffed with more money than you’ve ever earned in your life.”

To reinforce my point, I let my hand fall against the Yarygin’s butt.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sakataev mumbled, but his heart wasn’t in it. “I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Director, we’re not accusing you of anything,” Saltanat said. “But if the inspector here doesn’t get the answers he wants, he can become rather emotional. And while you’re discovering just how much a police interrogation can hurt, I’ll be making an anonymous call to the authorities.”

Saltanat paused, lit a cigarette, the smoke doing nothing to mask the stink of sweat and fear in the room. Her smile, when it came, was no sweeter than mine, and twice as dangerous.

“After I make that call, once the people you deal with hear about it, I don’t think you’ll be working with them anymore.”

She paused, ground the cigarette out on the fake leather desktop.

“I wonder who’ll inherit the dacha.”

Chapter 37

“You’re really not going to blow the whistle on that shithead?” I asked. We were driving back to the hotel while I looked through the folder Sakataev had thrust into my hands.

“Of course not,” she said. “A promise is a promise, right?”

“If you’re sure,” I replied.

Saltanat looked over at me, then laughed.

“You can be trustingly naive at times, Akyl, you know that? Of course I’m going to burn the fat fucker as soon as we get this sorted. He’ll either end up in the pen or in the ground, I don’t really care which.”

“He did offer us the dacha and the car, though.”

“I’ve got a car, and I’m allergic to the countryside,” she said.

“Pollen?”

“And animals and trees and outhouse toilets.”

“City life it is, then,” I said. “But how did you know he was the guy to question?”

Saltanat stared at me as if unable to believe what I’d just asked.

“Akyl,” she said, her voice pitying, “why wouldn’t he be?”

The way it works in Bishkek, you bribe an official to do what you want. He takes the money. Then you blackmail him forever after, just to make sure he keeps quiet about the first time. The amazing thing? They fall for it every time.

Sometimes you have to decide how you want to live your life, and if you’re lucky, you find someone to share it with. I’d loved Chinara, and lost her. I didn’t know if Saltanat and I had a future to share. One part of me hoped so, if we managed to get through this alive.

We parked outside the hotel; Saltanat hit the horn to summon Rustam to open the gates. We waited for a couple of moments, sounded the horn again, but the gates remained shut.

“I don’t like the look of this,” Saltanat said, taking out her Makarov from the glove compartment. She backed the Lexus against the gate, and we scrambled onto the car roof.

I peered cautiously over the top of the wall. There was no sign of Rustam, or any of the other staff. I swung my leg over the gates, dropped to the ground, Saltanat covering me from above. Yarygin in my hand, I opened the side door, and Saltanat joined me. Her face showed she felt as uneasy as I did.

I ran up the steps, looked through the glass panel of the door leading into the kitchen. In the hallway beyond, I could see a pair of legs, a woman, one shoe on, the other lying nearby.