The Outcast (30 page)

“No doubt,” Nergui said. “The ministry has rules about most kinds of thing.”

Batzorig, proprietorial about the whole adventure, confidently led the way across the scrubby grass of the airfield. The pilot looked up and signalled to acknowledge their approach, and then indicated where they should sit, helping them with seatbelts, handing out the headsets that would enable them to converse above the noise of the rotors.

“If this is as uncomfortable an experience as I'm fearing,” Doripalam said, “you may be saying goodbye to a promising career, Batzorig.”

There was a moment's silence, while the pilot fiddled with the controls. Somewhere, over among the scattering of
gers
, Doripalam could hear a goat bleating, an incongruously bucolic and comforting noise. A second later, the pilot started the engine, and all other sounds were lost beneath the scream and roar of the engine, the deafening clatter of the blades.

The ascent was smoother and less terrifying than Doripalam had feared. He watched the ground fall away, suddenly seeing the
ger
camp spread out like a map. The helicopter banked, and then the whole city was below them. Rows of grey concrete tenements, open squares and parks, the newer and more striking buildings of the city centre and the business areas, the ornate gold temples. As they rose, he could see the central square, the statue of Sukh Bataar, the squat new likeness of Genghis Khan. The edges of the square were draped in canopies and awnings, in preparation for the impending anniversary celebrations and the annual Naadam Festival. And there was the new memorial, finally almost complete after frantic last-minute construction work.

It was a small city and it still seemed unsure of its own permanence, as if settled living might be only a temporary aberration in their long national history. As the helicopter rose still higher, he
could make out, on all sides of the city, the spreading rash of
gers
, the dotting of white resembling some kind of organic growth, an uncontrollable mould spreading around the ordered ranks and squares of the city centre.

In those tall office blocks, there was all the paraphernalia of the twenty-first century—computers, cell phones, wireless networks. And living alongside them there were people with no running water, no permanent sanitation, huddled around wood stoves even in the depths of the Mongolian winter. It was a growing problem, and the nature of the problem changed with the seasons. In the winter, the challenge was the bitter cold—deaths through starvation and hypothermia. Now, in this brief baking summer, the stench of poor sanitation indicated a different threat.

“You look as if you're about to be sick,” Nergui said, his voice metallic in Doripalam's earphones.

Doripalam looked up, startled out of his reverie. “Speak for yourself,” he said. “I'm actually rather enjoying this.” He leaned forward towards Batzorig, who was sitting next to the pilot. “Your career's safe for another day, then.” Batzorig looked back over his shoulder and gave an enthusiastic thumbs-up.

“It gives you a whole new perspective,” Nergui said. “Different from being in a plane, even.”

Doripalam nodded. They were rising higher now, banking away from the city to begin their journey, heading east. The endless grassland lay beneath, browner than usual after the extended hot weather. Paler lines stretched across the empty landscape, indicating crude dirt roads apparently leading nowhere. In the distance, the land darkened towards the edges of the forests and mountains. Doripalam could see the shadow of the helicopter, the shape distorted by the angle of the afternoon sun, scurrying across the steppe, chasing after them like an eager dog.

“How long will it take us?” Nergui asked.

“Best part of a couple of hours, apparently. We should sit back and enjoy the view.”

Nergui twisted his head and took in the vast empty vista spread out before them. “One hell of a view.”

Tunjin heard the fire door click softly shut behind him. No way back.

The rear stairway was functional rather than decorative, not intended for public use. The stairs were bare concrete with a plain iron railing, the walls a dull beige. There were no windows, and the only illumination was the dim glow of emergency lights to provide direction in the event of a fire.

Tunjin made his way down the stairs, taking two at a time but trying to make his movements as silent as possible.

It took him only a few minutes to reach the bottom. The rear lobby was as unprepossessing as the rest of the stairway—an empty hallway with a tiled floor, one grimy window, and, opposite the bottom of the stairs, a double fire door. Tunjin lifted himself to peer out of the window.

There was nothing much to see. The fire doors opened on to a small courtyard, with a narrow alleyway beyond. As far as Tunjin could tell, the courtyard was deserted. He pushed open the door and stepped out. Even in this shady spot, after the relative cool of the building the heat of the day struck him immediately. The fire door shut firmly behind him. Definitely no way back now.

He stepped forward and peered into the alleyway. It was narrow and dark, running between two adjoining apartment blocks, with a glare of sunlight at the far end. He scurried quickly down the alley, then stopped and peered around the corner. From there, he could see the main entrance. Two men, dressed in dark grey suits, were standing next to a black, official-looking car, engaged in discussion with Solongo.

Tunjin had already spotted Solongo's Daewoo, parked a few hundred yards from the entrance. With any luck, he should be able to reach it without being seen. They'd hear the engine starting—and there were still few enough cars passing here for that to be conspicuous—but he'd buy himself a few minutes.

He turned back towards Solongo and the men, trying to judge when the moment might be right to make his move. Although he was too far away to make out the words, the conversation seemed to be becoming heated. Tunjin assumed that Solongo was doing her utmost to be difficult.

Thanking her silently, Tunjin began to jog towards the car, the keys clutched firmly in his hand. Further up the street, Solongo shouted something, and for the first time he caught a snatch of her voice.

He reached the car and stopped, his hand on the hot metal of the door handle. Keeping his head low, he looked back. She had sounded genuinely distressed. Distressed and angry. Something more than even the most skilful of acts.

Moving slowly around the car, keeping his large body hidden, Tunjin peered cautiously over the top. Solongo was definitely shouting now, waving her arms as if trying to attract attention. Other than himself, there was no one to respond.

Suddenly, one of the two men grabbed her arm and pulled her forcibly towards their car. She struggled for a moment and then stopped. For a second, Tunjin thought she'd been struck. Then he realised why she had stopped moving. The second man had come forward, his arm extended, something in his hand.

Tunjin stood for a moment, feeling as if the breath had been knocked from his body, wondering what to do. I owe you one, he thought. He hadn't expected that he'd need to pay it back quite so quickly.

He stood frozen, working out the possible options. He could try to intervene, hoping that his presence would be enough to scare them off. But if these men were prepared to snatch the wife of the head of the Serious Crimes Team in broad daylight, they were unlikely to be disturbed by an overweight superannuated policeman.

He was still hesitating when the man with the pistol pulled open the rear door of the car. The other thrust Solongo inside. She fought back briefly, her heel grinding brutally against the man's shin. And then the man with the pistol thrust it hard against her
head and drove her back into the car, forcing himself in beside her. The other man pulled open the driver's door, threw himself in and started the engine.

Tunjin fumbled with the keys to Solongo's car and finally succeeded in opening the door. Behind him, he could hear the other car executing a clumsy U-turn, its front wing scraping noisily against a street sign. Perhaps Solongo was still causing them trouble. In any case, the minor accident—and the need to reverse and extricate the car—gained Tunjin a precious few seconds. He found the ignition, started the engine and, keeping his eyes on the black car, prepared to pull into the road.

He waited a moment, hoping that, even in these quiet back streets, he would be able to avoid drawing attention to his presence. Ahead of him, the black car straightened and then, as the driver floored the accelerator, disappeared up the street.

Immediately, Tunjin pulled out, in time to see the rear end of the black car disappear around the next corner. Perfect, he thought. Close but not too close.

In his better days, Tunjin had trained as a high-speed driver. The booze had put an end to all that, just as it had to his career as a marksman. His own choice, in both cases. Nobody else seemed to have noticed that his reactions were shot, or that his aim wasn't as precise as it had been. But Tunjin had been aware that it was only a matter of time before he killed somebody. Before he killed the wrong somebody.

The somebody in the square, perhaps.

He put the thought from his mind and pressed the accelerator. He reached the corner just in time to see the black car turning right at the next junction. They were heading out of the residential district towards the centre of town. Once out of these quiet back streets, it would be easier for Tunjin to remain unnoticed, but harder to keep behind them.

There was nothing else he could do. He had to keep close. There was no time to stop and call for assistance. No time for anything.

Not for the first time that day, Tunjin wished he'd thought a little harder before deciding to leave the hospital.

At least, then, he might have remembered to bring his phone.

Everything was silent, except for the steady hum of the engine and the constant rattle of their wheels across the harsh terrain.

Sam smiled softly at the figure in the passenger seat. Asleep again. Though hardly surprising this time, given the sedative that had been added to the bread he'd eaten.

The timing was just right. Not too large a dose, nothing too risky. But enough to keep Odbayar asleep till they reached their destination. And beyond. It was important to keep Sam's options open.

He was relieved not to have to endure any more of Odbayar's fatuous conversation. Still, at least Odbayar understood where things had to go, even if he was supremely deluded about his own potential role in taking them there.

The sun was high, but they were entering the edges of the forests and the air felt cooler. As soon as he was sure that Odbayar was unconscious, Sam had stopped the truck and dug out the cell phone from Odbayar's jacket. He had flicked through the list of numbers until he had found Gundalai's and then carefully composed a second text message.

The message sent, he had slipped the phone carefully back into Odbayar's jacket, watching the young man sleeping, his head slumped against the side window. Everything was slowly moving into place. He had checked his own phone, and there was a series of text message, sent over the previous hour or so, confirming that everything was running to plan.

He started the engine again, driving forward into the emerald gloom of the forest, his eyes fixed on the rough road ahead, the rising terrain, the looming trees. The endless empty landscape.

“We can use my car,” Sarangarel said. “We can be there in fifteen minutes.” She reached out and held Gundalai's shoulder. “Don't worry. He must be all right.” She wished that she felt as confident as she sounded. “We need to find out what's happening. But we need to tell the police. I mean, if he really is in some kind of trouble—”

“But he said not to. He said we shouldn't tell anyone yet.”

“It doesn't make any sense,” she pointed out. “He says he's in trouble, but doesn't say what kind of trouble. He says he needs help, but doesn't say what kind of help he needs. He asks you to meet him, but doesn't want you to tell anyone else. What's it all about?”

“I don't know,” he admitted. “It must be something only I can help him with. Or something that he can't let anyone else find out about.”

“And what sort of thing would that be, do you think?” She knew she was being harsh, that this kind of logic had no currency in the young man's heart. But she felt they were being manipulated, increasingly sure that this was just some stunt that Odbayar had cooked up. And she was angry that Gundalai—trusting, honest, helpless—was being suckered into it.

Gundalai was already on his feet, grabbing his jacket, his phone clutched in his hand. “I don't know,” he said. “I don't know what any of this is about. But if Odbayar really is in trouble, we can't just leave him.”

“If he really is in trouble, we need the police,” she said. “If he isn't—I mean, if this is just some kind of—”

“You don't believe him either,” he said. “Just like Doripalam, just like Nergui. You all think he's just playing games.”

She grasped his shoulders and swung him around to face her. “But that's just it,” she said. “He plays games. He's a politician; that's what they do.”

He shook his head fiercely, looking on the verge of tears. “Not with me,” he said. “He doesn't play games with me. If he says he's in trouble, then he is. He needs me to help him. He needs to know he can trust me, that I won't betray him. That I won't go rushing to the police.”

She loosened her grip, knowing that there was no point in arguing further. “Okay,” she said. “Let's go.”

“What do you think?” Doripalam said. “Another hour?”

Nergui nodded. “Something like that. Surprising how quickly you can get bored with the view, isn't it?”

They had travelled some distance already, but the landscape remained unchanging. The journey had brought home to him, as if for the first time, quite how vast this country was, with its mile upon mile of uninhabited plains.