The Outcast (21 page)

There was a long silence as Tunjin stirred his already cold coffee. “No,” he said, finally. “But you could find them. If you knew where to look.”

Solongo took even longer to reply. “And, if you knew where to look, I don't suppose you had to look very hard.”

“Not me,” he said. “I was just a junior officer. Did what I was told.”

“Just obeying orders.”

He shrugged. “If you like. But we knew what Wu Sam was. We knew he'd never be prosecuted. Not here, anyway. But it would give us an excuse to have him deported. Something the Chinese couldn't create a diplomatic stink about.”

“So you couldn't just accuse him of being a spy?”

“He was a spy as well. But that would have just led to endless disputes and reprisals. And we weren't too bothered about him spying. We were bothered about him murdering young men.”

“So you had him deported so he could carry on murdering young men in China?”

“Maybe. But we didn't think it was very likely that they'd allow him to. We didn't imagine the Chinese authorities would simply turn a blind eye.”

“And did they?”

Tunjin shrugged. “We don't know. No, that's not right.
I
don't know. I didn't want to find out. I imagine the security services would have kept tabs on him.”

“Would Nergui have known?”

Tunjin looked up, surprised by her question. “Maybe. He was quite a bigwig even in those days. He'd been in the ministry. He'd set up the Serious Crimes Team. I imagine he could have found out if he'd wanted to.”

She nodded. “So who was behind this? If you're right about the framing, I mean. Was that Nergui?”

He shook his head. “I don't think so. It's not his style. Maybe he had his suspicions too, but he didn't reveal anything.”

“Which is very much his style. So who, then?”

“I don't know. The intelligence services, maybe.”

“But why? Why would they go to those lengths over some junior spy, even if he really was a murderer? I don't imagine the intelligence services shared your burning desire for justice.”

“Probably not. But they don't like things that are messy. Especially if they have international ramifications. Maybe they just wanted things tidied up, quickly and cleanly.”

She nodded, her eyes thoughtful. “I'm missing the bit about the carpet.”

“The body—the second body—had been beaten to death. It was wrapped in an old carpet and dumped in the cellar of Wu Sam's apartment block. Along with one or two other pieces of neatly incriminating evidence.”

“But the carpet?” she persisted.

“Maybe some sort of joke.” He caught the expression on Solongo's face. “Or a comment. Something else to point the finger in the right direction. Wu Sam was preparing a dissertation on the invasion of the Muslim empire.”

“Hulagu,” she said.

“Exactly,” he said. “Every school child knows that story.”

“But he wasn't a Muslim? The victim, I mean.”

“I've no idea,” Tunjin said. “I don't imagine so. He would have been a Communist, I imagine. Officially, at least.”

“So you arrested this Wu Sam and had him deported.”

“Pretty much. The evidence was there. I imagine we drew the Chinese authorities' attention to the other unproven case. I don't suppose they raised much objection. Probably just keen to—”

“Brush it under the carpet,” she said.

“Exactly.”

They sat in silence, both staring down at their half-full cups. Finally, Solongo rose and picked up the bottle of vodka from beside the kitchen sink. “I'm going to have some of this,” she said, holding out the bottle as if proffering a refill of coffee. “Do you want some?”

Tunjin looked at her, suspecting an undertone of irony. “I think so,” he said.

She took two glasses from one of the kitchen cupboards and carefully poured two measures. Small measures, he noted. But there would always be the opportunity to replenish them.

She took a mouthful. “So,” she said, “you think what you did to this Wu Sam is somehow connected to the body at the museum?”

“I don't know. I mean—”

“Every schoolchild knows that story.”

“Yes, exactly. It might just be coincidence. Someone else trying to make some kind of point.”

“But what kind of point?” she asked. “It occurred to me that there might be some kind of political resonance, but it doesn't really make much sense.”

“I don't know. It makes no sense to me. And then I look at what happened in the square yesterday.”

“So what did happen in the square yesterday?” she said. “I thought you were a hero. That you'd stopped a suspected suicide bomber.”

“I don't know what I am, but I don't think I can claim to be a
hero. I didn't know what I was doing even if it had all turned out for the best. As it is—well, I don't know how it's turned out.”

She took a swallow of her vodka, finishing the glass. Without a word, she poured another glass for herself and topped up Tunjin's. “But what are you saying?” she said. “Are you saying that—whatever it was in the square is somehow connected with the body in the museum?”

He shook his head and swallowed his own glass of vodka in a single mouthful. “I don't know,” he said. “And I don't know whether the supposed suicide bombing that I did or didn't prevent is connected to whatever other bombing might have happened last night. I don't know …” He stopped and helped himself to another glass of vodka. He waved the bottle vaguely in Solongo's direction. She shook her head, holding up her largely untouched drink.

“I don't know anything, really,” he concluded. “I'm better at the instinctive stuff.”

“Then we'd better stick together. I lost touch with my instincts years ago. But I'm okay at logic.”

“And what does your logic tell you?”

“That there's something going on here. Something serious. And that it might well be connected to your Wu Sam.”

He gazed at her, and then finished his vodka in another mouthful. “Funny,” he said. “That's exactly what my instinct is telling me.”

Sarangarel was trying to comfort Gundalai who, for some minutes, had seemed beyond any rational intervention. He curled in on himself, his body racked by endless rhythmic sobs. Nergui watched from his vantage point by the window, his expression suggesting he was observing some moderately interesting scientific demonstration.

It was several minutes before Gundalai became calmer. Sarangarel sat beside him, gently feeding him sips of water. Finally, he looked up. “I'm sorry,” he said. “It's just—well, Odbayar. We don't know where he is—what's happened to him.”

“What do you think may have happened to him?” Nergui said, softly.

Gundalai was staring at the floor. “I don't know,” he said. “But I've been worried.”

“Worried about what?”

“His campaigning. His anti-government campaigning. The things that were happening.”

“You think he was making enemies?” Doripalam said.

Gundalai shook his head. “I don't think it was as simple as that. I mean, yes, he made enemies—he saw that as one of his purposes in life. But it was more that he was starting to have an impact. And people knew who he was. Who his father was, I mean.”

“What are you saying?” Nergui's tone was neutral.

“I don't know what I'm saying. I'm just saying that people were watching him.”

“You think there were people who felt threatened by him? By his actions?” Doripalam said.

Gundalai shook his head. “No, not really. I mean, he was small-fry, really, wasn't he? There were plenty more influential figures out there.” He dropped his head into his hands, kneading his temples as though trying to stimulate his brain. “No,” he said through his fingers, “it was more that there were people who thought they could use him. People who thought he could give them some kind of leverage.”

“What kind of people?” Nergui's tone suggested nothing more than mild curiosity.

“I'm not sure,” Gundalai said. “But some powerful people.” He stopped as though a thought had just occurred to him. “I didn't believe that anyone would take
him
that seriously—not because of his political impact, at any rate. But there were people out there who thought he could help their cause.” He paused. “Maybe even some people on his own side.”

“People opposed to the government, you mean?” Doripalam prompted.

“Who knows?” Nergui said. “The biggest threat Odbayar poses is the risk of embarrassing his father. And there are plenty even within government who wouldn't be sorry to see that happen.”

“So what are we going to do?” Batzorig said. “I mean, Odbayar might have been taken by persons unknown for reasons unknown. But he might not have been. And if he has, we've no clue where he might have been taken.”

“I think you've summed up the situation with characteristic succinctness,” Doripalam said. “We can't do much more than we're doing, interviewing anyone who might have been a witness from the bombing, anyone who can corroborate or add to what Gundalai saw.”

“And that's the best you can offer?” Gundalai said. “Endless witness interviews which just might add some tiny tidbit of information to what I've already told you?” He looked around the assembled group, as though suspecting that they might themselves be impostors.

Doripalam shrugged. “It's how it works. We don't do miracles.”

Nergui had turned and was staring out of the window. His dark-skinned face as impassive as ever, his blue eyes fixed on the distant horizon. “And what about Wu Sam?” he said.

“Wu Sam?” Doripalam looked up. “This supposed killer from twenty years ago? What about him? You really think there might be a connection?”

Nergui turned to face the room, silhouetted against the morning's brilliant sunshine. “Two identical killings,” he said. “Two bodies wrapped in carpets, replicating the story of Hulagu.”

“Not necessarily identical, from what you said,” Doripalam pointed out. “We don't know the victim at the museum was actually killed inside the carpet. We don't know where the actual killing took place.”

Nergui gazed blankly at him. “The scenario is exactly the same,” he said. “The victim was killed as you describe. And then the body was wrapped in the carpet and left, partly hidden, in the basement of Wu Sam's apartment block.”

Doripalam frowned. “But why would Wu Sam do that? Wrap the body in a carpet, I mean?”

“Who knows? Perhaps just because he was insane. He was preparing his dissertation on the Mongol's invasion of the Muslim lands. Perhaps the gesture meant something to him.”

“Did it mean anything to you?” Doripalam persisted.

Nergui looked for a moment as if he were about to respond to the question, then he shook his head. “It was enough for us. We did not need incontrovertible evidence. We simply needed something strong enough to justify our sending him back to his masters.”

He sounded almost defensive. It was a tone that Doripalam had never heard from Nergui, even when he was describing the demands and challenges of the old regime. Nergui had always traversed the minefield of moral dilemma with the most delicate of steps, and he never seemed to lack confidence in his own ethical position. There was a new uncertainty here.

“And you seriously think that the two cases might be connected?”

“We have to consider the possibility. Especially considering …” his voice trailed off, and he sounded uncharacteristically tentative.

“Considering what?” Doripalam said.

Nergui shook his head. “Nothing important. It was a long time ago.”

“But something that makes you think this Wu Sam might be involved again?”

“I have reasons for thinking we should follow it up.” The words were spoken without undue emphasis, but Doripalam knew that Nergui's unspoken reasons were never wisely ignored.

“But this Wu Sam couldn't have entered the country without our knowing,” Batzorig said.

Nergui shrugged. “It was all a long time ago. We do not know what happened after his return to China. In theory, he would be on our lists. But in practice—who knows?” As if responding to his own question, he pulled his cell phone from his jacket pocket and thumbed in a number. “It's Nergui,” he said. “I need an answer to a simple question.” He laughed gently at the unheard response. “Consider it a challenge then. We deported a suspected spy back to China about twenty years ago.” He laughed again. “Yes, I can.” He paused, and then named a precise date. “I could probably quote you the time and number of the flight he took, if you give me a couple of minutes. But I imagine your fancy databases can outdo that. You'll have him on record—probably just hard copy, I don't know—but there'll be a photograph and all the details. I just want to know whether the same man has re-entered the country in, say, the last month. I told you it was a simple question.” He paused, clearly listening to what was being said at the other end of the line, a faint smile playing across his face. “Okay, I'll make it even easier for you. Forget China. Have a look at other international arrivals first.” He paused again, listening. “I don't know. How does fifteen minutes sound?”

He thumbed off the call. “I think some of these backroom people spend too long away from civilised company.” He moved to slip the phone back into his jacket pocket, and then stopped as it vibrated in his hand.

He held the phone to his ear, listening intently, and then looked back up at the expectant group around him. “I suppose this is hardly a surprise,” he said, speaking to Doripalam. “And it may mean something or nothing. But Tunjin has been true to form. He's absconded from the hospital.”