The Adversary (41 page)

Nergui shrugged. “I take the long view,” he said. “But I rarely give up.”

Muunokhoi nodded, his mouth smiling, his eyes as dead as ever. “As you say. Though I think your investigations have always proved fruitless. I have considered bringing a formal complaint before now. But I understand that you and your colleagues—” He nodded vaguely toward Doripalam, “—have a job to do.”

“We do our best,” Nergui said. His gaze rested, just for a moment, on Luvsan. Then he looked back at Muunokhoi. “Now,” he said, “perhaps you will tell us what this is all about.”

“I think you know what it's all about, Nergui,” Muunokhoi said, quietly.

Nergui nodded, as though giving serious consideration to this assertion. He looked around the plush reception room. It looked, at the moment, like some bizarre house party. He and Doripalam had been seated on a large, over-stuffed sofa, with Kadyr hunched beside them, his face knotted into an expression of pure fear. Muunokhoi sat opposite, in a comfortable looking armchair. Luvsan and Tsend,
along with what were presumably a couple of Muunokhoi's security staff, were seated on hard chairs around a mahogany table, watching the interchange.

“I know what some of it's about,” Nergui said at last. “But by no means all. I suspect that I know rather less than you think I do.” He paused, his gaze fixed on Muunokhoi. “Though, in some respects, perhaps also rather more.”

“Opaque as ever, Nergui,” Muunokhoi said, with a touch of harshness in his tone. “But I'm sure we will be dazzled by your insights.”

“I have limited skills,” Nergui said. “I used them as best I can. Shall I tell you what I think I know?”

Muunokhoi sat back in his chair. “I am keen to hear.”

“I know quite a few things,” Nergui said. “It is really a question of where to start. I know, for example, that yours is the most destructive, corrupt regime that has ever gained any kind of power in this country. Which is quite an achievement, when you consider the kinds of power that have been wielded here over the centuries. I know that despite that—or, to be frank, because of that—you exercise enormous influence in all aspects of our daily lives, both through your legitimate business dealings and through the more—sordid aspects of your activities. I know that more people are in your pocket than I could begin to conceive—” He gestured elegantly toward Luvsan at the table. “Though I am not sure that you always pick your servants wisely. Luvsan's taste for fast cars—for expensive fast cars—had already made him a prime candidate in my investigations.”

“Though too late as always, I note,” Muunokhoi said. “Your views on my business influence are most interesting, but I am not sure that they are entirely pertinent.”

“They are no doubt entirely impertinent,” Nergui said. “But they are sincerely held and, I think, very relevant to our—presence here today.” He paused, his face as expressionless as ever, his eyes firmly fixed on Muunokhoi's blank gaze. “We are here because, for the first time in twenty years, you feel vulnerable. You think your regime is under threat.”

Muunokhoi laughed suddenly, though there was no humor in his expression. “Really? And yet I think it is you who are here, at my behest, betrayed by one of your own officers.”

Nergui shrugged. “That seems to be the case. But the question is why you brought us here in the first place. And why you kidnapped Mrs. Radnaa. And, for that matter, why you had Mrs. Tuya killed.”

For the first time, Muunokhoi looked at Nergui with something approaching interest. “Who is Mrs. Tuya?”

It was Nergui's turn to laugh, and he seemed genuinely amused. Doripalam glanced across at him, as astonished by his apparent good humor as by what he was saying. Sometimes he wondered quite what it would take to shake Nergui's confidence.

Nergui turned, still smiling, to the young man sitting cowering next to them on the voluminous sofa. “Mrs. Tuya,” he said, “is this young man's mother.” He paused, enjoying the silence while those around absorbed this information. “And this young man,” he
said, turning back to Muunokhoi, “is of course your son.”

The silence was even more protracted this time. Doripalam stared at Nergui, wondering just what kind of complex game he was playing. Kadyr was looking more terrified than ever, his body twisted as though he hoped that the bulk of the sofa might swallow him up.

“I'd heard you were smart, Nergui,” Muunokhoi said at last. “But I never knew you had such an imagination.”

“Perhaps I am simply making a fool of myself,” Nergui said, still smiling. “But since you are not planning to allow to us leave here alive, I think that is a fairly minor consideration.”

Muunokhoi looked between Nergui and Doripalam. “We can reach some accommodation,” he said. “Things are not so absolute.”

Nergui shook his head. “I don't really see what accommodation is possible. We know the truth about you, or at least something approaching the truth. And you have already committed a serious offense simply by bringing us here. I don't see that you can let us go.”

“I'm sure we can reach some accommodation,” Muunokhoi repeated. “Once things have been resolved.”

“I don't think so.” He glanced across at Luvsan. “Not everybody has a price.”

He's right, Doripalam thought. We're dead. If we were different people, Muunokhoi might be able to walk away from this. We might be able to walk away from this. But Nergui would never do that. And, Doripalam realized, neither would he.

Muunokhoi stared at Doripalam, as though expecting him to disagree with Nergui. But Doripalam simply shook his head. “He's right,” he said. “There's no accommodation.”

Muunokhoi shook his head. “Perhaps you are right,” he said. “In which case, I am sorry. I simply want what is mine.”

“Nothing is yours,” Nergui said. “Everything you have is stolen. Or corrupt.”

“You know nothing. You have been pursuing a vendetta for twenty years. You see me as a symbol of all that you think is wrong in this country. But you have never been able to lay a finger on me. You know nothing.”

Nergui smiled. “You've always been a step ahead. Perhaps you still are. You will walk away from this and we will not. But it's not true that I know nothing. I don't know everything. But I know a lot.”

Muunokhoi stared at him, his eyes as blank as ever. “Go ahead,” he said. “What do you know?”

“Your story,” Nergui said. “Which begins a long time ago. Sixteen, seventeen years ago, I guess. It is difficult for us to remember now. You have been so good at building your own mythology. But you were not quite then the power you are today. You were small time.”

For the first time, Doripalam thought that Nergui might have gotten under Muunokhoi's skin. “I was bigger than you'll ever be, Nergui. What were you in those days? A secret policeman?”

“Something like that, I suppose. But you were—what? A small time crook with a lot of ambition. Protection rackets. Smuggling from Russia and China.
Small scale drug dealing. Prostitution. Illegal gambling. Anything where you could turn a quick buck.” He paused. “We could have had you then, but we didn't take you seriously enough.”

“Not usually one of your failings, Nergui.”

“We had other things on our minds,” Nergui smiled. “The state was more concerned with what was happening in the Soviet Union than with petty criminals. Except that, for exactly that reason, you weren't going to be petty much longer. All those changes across the border would start to open doors for you. And then you made what probably seemed to others a pretty dumb business decision. You went into partnership with Gansukh.”

Muunokhoi raised his eyebrows, as though about to challenge this assessment of his business acumen, but he remained silent.

“Perhaps I'm giving you too much credit,” Nergui went on, “but I don't think you were taken in by Gansukh's bravado. You saw him for what he was. Small-time, no brains, a risk-taker. Gansukh was dispensable. But he had one thing that you didn't. He—or at least his associate Khenbish—had good contacts in the drugs trade. I'm not entirely sure how he acquired them even now—I don't imagine, even in those confused days, that it was easy to develop those kinds of networks as a soldier in Afghanistan. But Khenbish
was
smart. He
was
like you. If you'd let him live, he might be sitting in your place today.”

“You've no idea what you're talking about, Nergui. I'm not the only one skilled at myth-making.”

Nergui leaned forward in his seat, staring at
Muunokhoi. “I got close to the story at the time, but not close enough to pin you down. You brought Gansukh and Khenbish on board. They didn't have the resources or expertise to take advantage of their contacts, but you did. You tried to muscle in, but Khenbish was too smart for that. He insisted on a deal.” Nergui paused. “And for the first and probably last time in your business career, you were forced into the open. You knew how important this was. You knew the opportunity that was out there. And you knew it couldn't be left to intermediaries. This had to be face to face, with them and with their contacts.”

Nergui's voice was hypnotic in the silent room. Doripalam watched him in something close to awe. Muunokhoi was a charismatic figure, capable of dominating a room without obviously trying. But Nergui was matching him easily.

“And it was worth the risk,” Nergui said. “You established a dominance in the drugs field just at the right time. The iron curtain was crumbling, the borders were opening and chaos was spreading across eastern Europe. By the time the game might have been open to other players, you had it sewn up. It's been the foundation of your empire ever since, the base on which everything else—the energy interests, the media empire, everything—has been built.” He paused. “But it's also your one area of vulnerability.”

“I should simply kill you now, Nergui,” Muunokhoi said, dismissively. “It would save us from listening to this nonsense.” But there was something in his tone that belied the words, as if, finally, he wanted the story to be told.

“You exposed yourself too much,” Nergui said. “Gansukh and Khenbish weren't to be trusted. I imagine they tried to blackmail you, tried to squeeze out a better deal. Even then, you had a lot more to lose than they did. You were building a public profile, making friends in the right places, developing the networks that have served you ever since. You needed Gansukh and Khenbish, or at least you needed what they could bring you, but you couldn't afford to be held to ransom by two small-time crooks.” Nergui hesitated, as though he were just at that moment working out the final details of his story. “So you had Khenbish killed. Not difficult. He was a serving soldier. He drank heavily. He'd made enemies in the army and outside. And, before he was killed, you tried to make him tell you what information he had. But Khenbish, being the smart one, tried to buy his own life by laying the blame on Gansukh—it was him behind the blackmail attempt, he had the incriminating material, all that. It didn't matter whether you believed him or not. When you couldn't get anything else from him, you had him killed anyway. Then you went after Gansukh.”

“It was your people who went after Gansukh, if you remember,” Muunokhoi said.

Nergui nodded. “Gansukh's usual inept sense of timing. You were coming to get him, but instead he managed to get himself arrested. And then, like Khenbish, he tried to talk his way out of trouble by claiming that he had useful things to tell us.” Nergui stopped again, and then continued almost wistfully. “And maybe he had. I really thought, just for a moment, that I might have had you then.”

“So where does this leave you, Nergui? All this nostalgia for two decades ago, and the vendetta you've waged against me ever since?”

Nergui smiled. “I don't know where it leaves me. But it left you, Muunokhoi, in a very interesting place. There's one part of the story we haven't touched on yet. Your affair with Khenbish's wife. Mrs. Tuya. A very attractive woman in those days, I imagine, though I don't know if that's what you were interested in. If I'm not drifting too far into the realms of psychology, maybe it was a power issue. You'd given a lot of ground to Khenbish. Perhaps you wanted to get some back. And, traditionalist that you are, you did it in the way that would have most impact on an old-fashioned Mongolian male. Possibly you even took steps to ensure that he knew, or at least suspected. And one side effect, if you'll excuse me—” Nergui gestured apologetically toward the cowering young man, “—is this poor individual, who was introduced to us as Kadyr, one of Mrs. Tuya's cousins, but who is, of course, Gavaa, her son. Who has spent the last few weeks on the run from you. No wonder he looks terrified.”

“He's no son of mine,” Muunokhoi said.

Nergui shrugged. “I don't see any strong resemblance at the moment. But you believed he was. And it suited you to allow his mother to think so.”

Muunokhoi shook his head. “You're rambling, Nergui.”

Nergui continued as though Muunokhoi hadn't spoken. “Gansukh and Khenbish were both dead. But you still didn't know whether there was anything
incriminating out there. You searched Gansukh's apartment. I imagine you did the same with Khenbish's. But you found nothing. For a while, you lived with the fear that they might somehow have arranged for the material to be released posthumously. But it didn't happen. And you'd put in place an insurance policy of your own. You encouraged Mrs. Tuya to believe that Gavaa was your son, and you offered to pay her a very generous continuing allowance. If she had the materials, or if she knew where they were, there was a strong incentive for her not to use them. And, over time, nothing happened, and you allowed yourself to relax a little, assuming that now nothing ever would.”

Muunokhoi smiled. “So tell me why, eighteen years down the road, I should suddenly take an interest in all this?”