The Outcast (17 page)

“They shot at him?” Gundalai said. He was still on his feet, swaying slightly. Doripalam suddenly realised how exhausted the young man looked, his face grey, his eyes red with strain.

“They missed, fortunately.”

“And they arrested him?”

“That's what we don't know,” Doripalam said. “Two officers helped him away—presumably the two you saw. And at some point an ambulance arrived. They assumed he'd been taken away in it.”

“Under arrest?” Nergui said.

“It's not clear. What is clear is that we haven't tracked him down yet.”

Gundalai was in front of him again, inches from his face. “What do you mean you haven't tracked him down yet? How difficult can it be?”

“Gundalai,” Sarangarel said. “They're here to help.”

“It's okay,” Doripalam said. “I know how he's feeling.” He looked back at Gundalai. “No, it shouldn't be difficult. But we've checked the main city hospital and we're going through all the other surgeries and medical units. So far, there's no record of his arrival.” He shook his head. “Not that that necessarily means much. I have officers going around all the wards to check.”

“They've gotten a description?” He looked at Doripalam, then back at Nergui. “Oh, yes. I suppose they would have.”

“And plenty of photographs,” Nergui said. “We've kept tabs on Odbayar from time to time. But mostly in the way of what you might call parental concern.” He made the concept sound vaguely frightening.

Gundalai shook his head again, as though trying to shake the dust from his mind. “But what about the police?” he said. “I mean, the local police. They must know where he is.”

Doripalam was silent for a moment. “That's where the story gets strange. The police don't know where he is; they don't know who arrested him.”

Gundalai started to say something, his eyes wide. But Nergui stepped forward and placed a hand on the young man's shoulder and he fell quiet. Nergui was looking at Doripalam. “They don't know who arrested him,” he repeated. “So who were the two officers?”

“They weren't from the local team. At first they thought they might be from another unit, but there was no one else there till our people arrived.”

Nergui was watching him closely. “You think they were fakes?”

Doripalam took a step back and glanced over at Batzorig, as if looking for some support. “I don't know. It sounds ridiculous. Maybe it's some sort of joke or stunt.”

Gundalai looked ready for another outburst, but Nergui's hand tightened on his arm and he remained silent.

“I don't think it's a stunt,” he said. “Or if it is, it's a spectacular one. I don't know what's going on, but there are things we need to talk about.”

Doripalam nodded. “There's too much going on, and I don't understand any of it.” He paused, as a thought struck him. He assumed that Nergui always knew everything, that he was at least one step ahead of all those around him, but Nergui had been in the hospital with Tunjin all night—it was possible that, for once, Nergui's famous grapevine had not yet been in contact. “Nergui,”
he said, finally, “there may be even more happening than you realise.”

“Go on.” Nergui's eyes held a look that Doripalam couldn't fathom.

“I'm talking about the killings,” Doripalam said, abruptly. He caught the expression on Gundalai's face and wished he'd chosen a different word.

“There were two bodies found yesterday. It looks as if they were both murdered.”

“Where?”

Doripalam paused, looking at Gundalai. “The second was at the hotel. In a storeroom at the back.” Before Gundalai could interrupt, he went on, “We know it's not Odbayar. The victim wasn't Mongolian. And he wasn't a victim of the smoke or the flames. He was stabbed.”

There was a long silence. Finally, Nergui said, “And the first?”

“He was found in the museum. Downstairs in the loading bay.”

“Another stabbing?”

For a brief moment, Doripalam felt an incongruous sense of triumph at finally being one step ahead of Nergui. But the feeling vanished immediately, leaving no pleasure. “No,” he said. “Not a stabbing. This one was wrapped in a carpet and kicked to death.”

Nergui was staring at him. “Hulagu,” he said unexpectedly, his tone suggesting that his mind was elsewhere, his brain rummaging through the dense databanks of his memory. “The siege of Baghdad. The killing of the caliph.”

Doripalam glanced across at Batzorig, somehow gratified that Nergui had lost none of his capacity to surprise. “That was what Solongo said. You've an impressive knowledge of ancient history.”

Nergui shook his head. “No,” he said. “Not ancient history. Old. But not ancient.” He paused, and smiled faintly, though there was no obvious humour in his expression. “No more ancient than me, anyway. I think we're talking twenty years.”

 

The glare of the flashlight was unexpected. Dazzled, he twisted his head away, his vision dancing with after-images.

“Not bad,” the contact said. “You look okay. Better than your photographs.”

The light had gone now, switched off as quickly as it had been turned on.

It took him a moment to register what the contact had said. “You've seen photographs of me?”

“You don't think I'd go into this without some checking up.”

“No, I suppose not.” The truth was that he had no idea. But the contact was no fool. He would not have stepped into something like this blindly.

“Just as you've no doubt checked up on me. That's why we're here.”

He had, of course. There were endless files on the contact. He was someone that they had been running for years. Though, looking back, it was not always clear who had been running whom. The contact had provided them with some useful information. In return, they had fed him various morsels—the information that kept him one step ahead of his political competitors. Information that had made him the public figure he was today.

“I think we can do business.” His voice sounded more tremulous than he would have liked.

The contact laughed. “You think we can do business? We'll have to see about that.” He took another step forward, so that he was standing very close. “Once we get to know one another.”

“We can't—” He stopped, the words dying in his throat, as the
contact's gloved hand reached out and touched the skin of his cheek. The touch was as unexpected as the previous glare of the flashlight, soft through the rough surface of the leather.

“They would have warned you about me, in any case,” the contact said. “That's why you're here.”

“I don't know.” The leather-clad fingers were stroking his cheek now, moving gently up and down. “They didn't—”

The contact laughed again, more harshly. “Are you saying they didn't warn you? Nobody told you?”

Of course, nobody had told him. Nobody really knew what he was up to, out here. He had been surprised when they had agreed so readily to the trip. He had told them he wanted experience in the field, that he was ready for something more demanding. This would just be a routine liaison with an established contact. A good entry point for an inexperienced officer. That was the line he had fed them. While he had been building up this relationship, picking up on the hints scattered throughout the contact's case history.

And they had gone along with it. They had given him the authorisation he needed. Allowed him to come, while making it clear that, if anything went wrong, he was on his own.

But no one had warned him about anything.

Tunjin moved as quickly as he could away from the hospital, almost achieving a slow jog as he crossed the grass verge to the narrow street beyond. He looked for his watch, then realised with a mild curse that he had left it behind in the hospital room. Along with any cash that was still left in his wallet and his cell phone. Not to mention all his other possessions.

As so often before, Tunjin wondered why he had acted so precipitately. His departure from the hospital had seemed like a good idea at the moment he embarked upon it. Now he wasn't so sure. He had no money. He had nowhere to go. And, in all honesty, he had no idea of what he might reasonably do next.

For a moment, he was tempted to go back, claim that he had just popped out for a stroll. But, whatever the motives, that wasn't really Tunjin's way. He couldn't imagine himself lying on that bed, unclear what he was supposed to have done, waiting for Nergui to come back to make everything clear. That wasn't his style.

No, his style was to throw himself out of the frying pan and into the fiercest fire he could find. His style was to stir up as much trouble as possible in the hope that somehow, in all the confusion, he would save his own sorry neck. And, in fairness, so far in his life this approach had tended to work. The only question was how much damage was done in the meantime.

He turned the corner of the narrow street and found himself
back on one of the main routes leading to the city centre. For all his familiarity with the city, it took him a moment to regain his bearings. The hospital wasn't a regular haunt of his, and he had no real desire that it should become one, despite his doctor's frequent warnings about his lifestyle.

How long did he have? Once the guy from the elevator got back to his colleague, they'd soon discover he was missing so he probably only had a few minutes. If he'd been smarter, he'd have rolled some blankets under the bedsheets, make them think he was still there. But he wasn't smarter, and anyway that kind of thing only worked in films.

And then what? They could run out after him or put out a call to the city police to have him picked up. But would they do that? He had barely been conscious during Nergui's conversation with Doripalam, but even in that semi-sentient state he had been struck by the peremptory way that Nergui had dismissed his former protégé.

It didn't make sense. Or it made sense only if Nergui was trying to get Doripalam out of there as soon as possible, to terminate any debate, to prevent any possibility that he might take things further. If Nergui wanted to be fully in control of the situation. If he wanted to keep something under wraps.

This was a ministry matter, then. Nergui had actively excluded even Doripalam's elite team. He wasn't going to involve the local force.

So that might buy Tunjin another few minutes. But he had to make good use of them. He was heading out across the main street, away from the centre of town but with no clear idea of where he was going. He passed bars, shops, offices, an apparently endless row of tenement blocks, taking left turns, then right turns, trying to put as much distance as possible between himself and the hospital.

He was not built for speed. His jog had long ago slowed to a walk—relatively brisk by Tunjin's standards, but hardly the basis of a rapid getaway. And he was already breathless, acutely aware
of the weight he was carrying, wondering how soon he might need to take a rest.

The streets were still deserted, though he could hear the occasional car or lorry on the main roads behind him. Then, turning a corner, he saw someone moving unsteadily towards him. Instinctively, he ducked back into the doorway of one of the tenements. There was a smell of garbage, and somewhere in the corner the scratching of rats.

The footsteps came closer, a steady scraping and stumbling. Behind it was a rasped mumbling, almost melodic, reminiscent of the chanting of the monks up in the temple. Tunjin was tempted to look out, but held back, realising that whoever had been walking down the street must be almost upon him.

Just as he was expecting the figure to pass the doorway, the footsteps and muttering stopped. Tunjin held his breath, trying to work out if he had missed a trick.

And then suddenly somebody reeled around into the doorway, one hand clutching at the wall. Two glaring eyes stared blankly at Tunjin.

Just in time, Tunjin understood and reacted. Grabbing the man's hand, he thrust him into the corner of the entrance and stepped back with his customary lightness of foot, watching as the drunk vomited copiously in the corner.

An occupational hazard, these days. On another night, that might have been him. Not that he usually found himself out on the street. Tunjin knew how to take himself well into the depths of drunkenness while still knowing more or less when to stop, how to get himself home, how to make sure he was in a fit state to work the next morning. He could carry on like that for as long as it took. Until it killed him.

The question was whether something else would kill him first. He took a last look at the drunk lying comatose in the corner of the tenement doorway. It was time to come up with an idea.

He crossed the street, still heading away from the centre, keeping his ears alert for any sound of pursuit. He was moving into a more
upmarket area. In Ulaan Baatar, even more than in most cities, real poverty existed virtually adjacent to substantial wealth—or, as in this area, the rising affluence of the emerging middle classes. And the classification was often fluid—the semi-nomads in the
ger
camps scattered around the city often had as many, or as few, assets as those in the state-owned apartment blocks.

It took him a moment to realise that he recognised his new surroundings. He had been here before, and not too long ago. Doripalam had moved into a new apartment a few months back and Tunjin had given him a lift one evening, because he'd had some problem with his car. Doripalam had a reputation for keeping his private and work lives very separate, so Tunjin had been mildly curious.

It had been a decent enough place, a step up from his previous apartment and a good few steps up from the run-down block in which Tunjin lived. He had had a suspicion, though, that the neighbourhood would still be insufficiently upmarket for Doripalam's wife, Solongo. Her background was high status and her aspirations even more so. It was difficult to see how those aspirations would ever be realised while Doripalam remained a public servant. Or, at least, while he remained an honest public servant.