Michael Walters - The Shadow Walker

But the gradual return to sentience was neither pleasant nor reassuring. As the feeling gradually began to flow back into his limbs, he became increasingly aware of the pain. A dull throbbing ache that filled his arms and legs and head, the kind of painful lethargy that accompanies a serious bout of influenza. And more localized aches-bruises or contusions on his back, on his head. And, on top of all this was a feeling of lassitude. Even in other circumstances, he would have struggled to rise from where he was lying.

As more and more feeling flooded back into his body, he became aware that his supine state was not voluntary. There was some kind of binding, holding his arms, and something similar around his ankles. When he tried, painfully, to lift his head, he became aware of a cord around his neck, tight enough to throttle him if he tried to move more than a centimeter or two.

He realized-like a third party observing his own predicament-that he ought to be frightened. He had no idea where he was or what was happening here, his brain was not processing this at all. But one thing he could work out, what was happening here was clearly not good.

Slowly, slowly, consciousness came dribbling back. Why was he here? What was going on? Where was he? The questions came in no rational order, but at least he was beginning to formulate questions.

Suddenly, as if he had woken from a deep sleep, clarity hit him. Whereas before there had just been a fog of sensation, now he could remember everything up to a point. He remembered the dinner at the embassy. He remembered the Wilsons, and the bizarre turn taken by their conversation. He remembered the strange behavior of Helena Wilson. He remembered the car driving away into the frosty night. And then-

Then what? Himself drunkenly stumbling away. Something, someone crashing into him. And then nothing. And then this.

With full consciousness came a full sense of horror. He had no idea where he was or why he was here. But he was lying in the dark, with no sign of light or life, his limbs strapped down. And someone, for some reason, had brought him here.

“I’m sorry, sir. You can leave a message for him, but that’s all we can do. I’m sure you appreciate-”

Nergui sighed and leaned forward over the reception desk. “No,” he said. “I do appreciate that you’re doing your job, but so am I. If you don’t have the authority to do it, then can I speak to whoever’s in charge here?”

“I’m sorry, sir. I mean, I understand you’re in an official capacity, but I’ve been told strictly-”

It would never have been like this in the old days, Nergui thought. There was a time when one flash of your official card would have been enough to terrify the wits out of any functionary who got in your way. In those days, they knew what the Ministry was capable of. It was still generally unwise to cross the Ministry, but there was greater willingness to take the risk these days, particularly if Western currency was involved.

Nergui straightened up, smiling. Then he turned sharply on his heel. For a moment, the receptionist looked relieved, assuming that she had dealt successfully with a troublesome visitor. The look of relief turned to a look of panic as Nergui calmly pushed open the door that led behind the reception desk “Now, if you’ll just give me a cardkey to open Room 204, I won’t need to cause the kind of fuss that might disturb your guests.”

“You can’t-” she said. “I’ll call the police-”

Nergui shrugged, still smiling. “I’ve told you. I am the police. Please do tell the manager if you wish to. He can join me in Room 204. Now please give me a key.”

She stared at him for a moment, then reluctantly took a card from the drawer beside her and ran it through the computer system. “That will open it now,” she said.

“And if you or the manager should decide to call the police, you should mention that it’s Nergui who has taken the key.” He briefly flashed his pass again. “There, you see. If you tell them that, they will not be surprised and will not waste their time coming over here.”

He let himself out from behind the desk and made his way across to the elevators. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the receptionist hesitate and then pick up the phone. He hoped that she was only calling the manager.

He knew he was being foolish. There was nothing for him to worry about, and he could have waited and done this properly. But the sense of anxiety had continued to nag away at him. It was eleven a.m. now. He had called Drew’s room repeatedly, but there had been no response. Drew’s cell phone appeared still to be switched off or out of range. There had been no word from him at all. Nergui had even tried to call the British ambassador, in case Drew had for some reason returned to the embassy the previous evening after the car had left. The ambassador, fortunately or unfortunately, had been tied up in a meeting and had not yet returned Nergui’s call.

Finally, when he could see nothing else to do, he had come across to the Chinggis Khaan. The receptionist had called up to Drew’s room, but there was, as before, no response.

It was perfectly feasible that Drew was deeply asleep or had decided to get some air. Maybe he was out exploring the city, doing some of the tourist activities while he had the opportunity. Maybe Nergui had simply missed him and he was already on his way to the police offices.

Or maybe, Nergui thought, he had not been back here at all.

The elevator opened on the second floor and Nergui made his way along the corridor to Drew’s room. He slid the card through the electronic lock, and pushed open the door.

The room was empty. The bed was undisturbed, though if the chambermaids had already visited the room, it was still possible that Drew might have been here this morning. The room itself was very tidy, with only a few personal possessions-a hairbrush, a paperback thriller, a still unpacked suitcase on the stand-to indicate that it was occupied.

Nergui pulled open the wardrobe doors. There were a couple of suits and several shirts hanging up. Nothing else. A pair of polished black shoes on the floor. Policeman’s shoes, Nergui thought.

“Excuse me, sir, I must ask you-”

Nergui turned. A short, overweight man was standing in the doorway. He was balding and his hair was badly combed across in an attempt to conceal the fact. He was wearing an expensive-looking Western-style suit. Presumably the manager.

Nergui nodded politely. “Can I help you?” he said.

The manager looked nonplussed at Nergui’s question and it took him a second to gather his thoughts. “I’m sorry, sir, but this really is-”

“Has this room been made up yet?” Nergui said. “Have the chambermaids been in here?”

The manager opened his mouth, clearly about to repeat his objections to Nergui’s presence, then he stopped. “I can check for you,” he said, finally. “Can I see your ID first, though, sir?”

Nergui nodded. “Of course.” He smiled and pulled out his ID again. “Here,” he said.

“That’s fine, sir. No problem. You understand we have to be careful.”

“Naturally.”

He followed the manager back out into the corridor. A group of chambermaids were standing by the elevators, chatting. The manager approached them and spoke briefly, then turned back to Nergui. “They say that room’s already been cleaned.”

Nergui smiled at the group of women who were watching him with some curiosity. “Police,” he said. “Room 204. Which of you cleaned that room?”

One of the women, young and pretty with dark hair, raised her arm shyly. Nergui looked at her. “Had the bed been disturbed?” he said. “Had anyone slept in it?”