Michael Walters - The Shadow Walker

“What’s the schedule today?” he asked. This had all been very sudden. The previous evening, after he had found himself agreeing to accompany Nergui on the trip, Nergui had made a couple of official-sounding phone calls to organize the tickets and accommodation. Drew had returned to his hotel-again in an official car-at around eleven, and had then been up at six to prepare for the journey. He had retained his room at the Chinggis Khaan at Nergui’s suggestion and left most of his luggage there, taking only his small shoulder bag with a change of clothes. There was only one return flight each day to Dalanzadgad so they would have to stay overnight. The intention was to stay in the same camp that Delgerbayar had been intending to visit.

“We get to Dalanzadgad at around ten thirty. I’ve arranged to talk to one or two people from the airline to see if there’s any record or recollection of Delgerbayar coming through. It’s a bit of a long shot, but somebody caught that flight so we may be able to get some idea of whether it was Delgerbayar or not.”

Drew wondered whether Delgerbayar would have been easy to recognize. Since the only time he had seen the man’s face it had been detached from his neck, it wasn’t an issue he particularly wanted to dwell upon.

“And then we go on to the camp. It’s not too far-I’ve arranged for a jeep to take us out. I’ve set up an interview with the man who runs the place, and I’ve asked him if we can also talk to a few of the staff. You never know, someone might remember Delgerbayar.”

Drew settled back in his seat, still trying to make himself comfortable. “This probably sounds a stupid question,” he said, “but what exactly is a tourist camp?”

“Just what it sounds like,” Nergui said. “There are a number of them, scattered about the Gobi. Permanent clusters of gers which people visit for vacations.”

“Holiday camps?” Drew said. “In the desert?”

“Well, you could perhaps think of it as a large beach.” Nergui smiled. “Though I admit it’s a long walk to the sea.”

“So who uses them?”

“They’re still very popular,” Nergui said. “Some of them cater for tourists from the former Eastern bloc-we used to get a lot of tourists from there, when it was impossible for them to go elsewhere. But now it tends to be either international tourists-for them, it’s part of the experience of visiting our country-or Mongolians from the cities who wish to visit the desert on their vacations. The place we’re visiting caters mainly for foreign tourists.”

“But-assuming that Delgerbayar’s story was true or at least partly true-why would a contact have arranged to meet him in a place like that? Why not in Ulan Baatar?”

“That is part of the mystery,” Nergui said. “I have no answer. It is a strange place to arrange an assignation. Assuming that Delgerbayar’s story was true, then it’s possible of course that the contact was a foreigner, maybe a tourist or someone posing as a tourist. But that still doesn’t explain why they should have arranged to meet in such a strange location.”

“Maybe they thought it would be a discreet meeting place?”

“That’s quite possible. Of course, there are discreet places where one could meet in Ulan Baatar, but not many. In practice, the city tends to be something of a small village. Too many people know one another, frequent the same bars, the same restaurants. Delgerbayar was unlucky enough to be spotted in the Ulan Baatar. No matter where else he went, there was always the risk that he might be seen by someone.”

“Which implies,” Drew said, “that his contact-if there was one-was someone he didn’t want to be seen with.”

“Indeed.” Nergui nodded, and not for the first time Drew had the impression that the Mongolian’s thinking had already progressed several stages beyond his own. Nergui’s face, though, was as inscrutable as ever. “Now,” he said, finally, “you should enjoy the journey. It is not every day you have an opportunity to see the vast expanse of the Gobi.”

This was true enough, but it was not easy to take Nergui’s advice. Intriguing as the destination might be, the journey itself was anything but enjoyable. The takeoff had been unnerving-there had been at least a brief moment when Drew was convinced they were going to plow off the end of the runway into the cluster of sheds beyond. The ascent was little more reassuring, since he had the impression that the small aircraft was having to use every unit of its limited engine power to lift its heavy cargo. And now they were at what would normally be described as cruising altitude, the airplane was small enough to feel every buffet of air turbulence. Drew found no difficulty in declining the meager meal of dried meats and biscuits that was proffered, but accepted the familiar small bottle of vodka that accompanied it with relative enthusiasm. Across the aisle, a group of young men, dressed in gray overalls, had already produced a larger bottle of vodka which they were consuming at an impressive pace.

Nergui glanced across at them and smiled. “Mongolians do not like to fly,” he said. “We think it is unnatural. So we calm our fears with drink. Which of course does little for either our safety or our state of mind.”

Nergui had clearly noted Drew’s discomfort, and devoted his time to distracting stories of the desert, the nomadic herdsmen who frequented it, and other anecdotes of Mongolian life. Drew also had the impression, perhaps unfounded, that Nergui was attempting to distract his thoughts from the case that they were investigating.

The time passed quickly enough, though, even if it felt much longer in the pit of Drew’s stomach. Before long, first the buildings and then the vegetation fell away, and Drew could see the vast expanse of the desert spread out before them. Drew had never seen a desert before and his expectations were conditioned largely by filmic images of the Sahara-empty wastelands of sand baking in the eternally noonday sun, a few palm trees, tents and camels.

Some of that he would undoubtedly see over the next twenty-four hours. But the landscape they passed over was surprisingly varied-they passed over hills, forested areas and green plains. As they flew south, the undulating hills slowly gave way to something closer to Drew’s ideas of a desert. But even here he was surprised at how green the land looked. It was sand, for sure, but there had apparently been some rain over the preceding weeks, and a fine sheen of green, burgeoning grass, had spread across the landscape. Although the grass was sparse, from this altitude it bore a startling resemblance to a well-tended British lawn.

As they flew above the expansive landscape, far below Drew could see few signs of life. There were occasional clusters of gers, with the movements of animals that, from this height, might have been horses or might have been camels. Now and again, there was a fast moving cloud of sand which Drew assumed was a vehicle of some kind. But otherwise there was little to be seen until they began to approach Dalanzadgad.

The descent was as unnerving as the ascent had been. It felt almost as if they were plummeting from the sky, though he had to assume that the pilot knew what he was doing. Drew felt his ears popping from the pressure change as the aircraft banked and then leveled, preparing for landing. Drew was never particularly good with airplane landings and this was one of the worst he had experienced. He was convinced they were simply going to plow directly into the ground, and so he was hugely relieved when their tires hit the runway and bounced. The impact was a shock, but they-and the aircraft-seemed unscathed, bouncing speedily across the ground toward the airport buildings. Even then Drew thought they were still going too fast, but somehow the pilot managed to keep control of the aircraft and they pulled up safely at the stand.