Michael Walters - The Shadow Walker

“What do you know about the killings?” Nergui said. He was still trying to piece together the story in his mind, wanting to understand why Cholon should have harbored these suspicions. This could all, he thought, just be nonsense-evidence perhaps of Cholon’s disturbed state of mind rather than his brother’s. Perhaps they were merely chasing phantoms, in this endless, dreamlike passage through the empty night.

“Only what I have seen in the newspapers. They get brought to us out here, though usually a few days old. I saw the story about the Westerner killed in the hotel but didn’t think much about it. It seemed a world away. I saw he was working for the mining companies which didn’t surprise me. It is a corrupt world.”

Nergui listened, feeling every bump in the interminable road. “And you read about Delgerbayar’s killing?”

“That was when I first began to wonder-I saw the picture of the policeman in the newspaper. I wasn’t certain-just as I still wasn’t when you showed his photograph to me-but I thought he was one of those who had visited the camps. And by this time I knew the stories of the attacks out here. So I began to wonder-I had seen the way that Badzar looked when I had last seen him. I was not surprised when you turned up.”

“But you have no real grounds for suspecting that your brother is… involved in this?”

Cholon shrugged. “No, of course not. But I know my brother. We were close. I would not be here-I would not be betraying my brother-if I did not feel that something was dreadfully wrong.”

Nergui sat back in his seat, watching the ceaseless passing of the rough terrain outside, just visible in the car lights. “You know there have been other killings?”

Cholon turned to Nergui, his mouth open. “Other killings? The same as the two I read about?”

“We do not know. Some of them have similar characteristics.”

“Characteristics? What do you mean?”

Nergui paused, unsure how to take this forward. If Cholon was being honest-and there was no reason to assume that he wasn’t-it was difficult to know how much the truth he could bear. “The details do not matter,” he said. “Let us just say that these were not straightforward killings.”

Cholon looked at him as though about to ask a question. “I do not need to know,” he said. “I do not know anymore what Badzar might be capable of. I do not want to know.”

“There have been a number of killings,” Nergui said. “Three more in the city, as well as Delgerbayar and the Westerner, Ransom. Possibly connected. We do not know for sure. And there were two more murders down in the south, in a camp near Dalandzadgad. The last two were different, and we have a suspect who is not your brother. But we think there might be a link.”

“I don’t understand.”

Nergui laughed mirthlessly. “Neither do we. Not at all. The common thread here is mining, mineral production, probably gold. That is the only factor that may link the killings, if they are linked at all. I do not know if your brother is involved. If he is, I do not know if he is the sole perpetrator of these killings.”

“And I thought you were omniscient.”

“At the moment, I would settle for knowing just one thing, anything, about this case with certainty.”

The truck rumbled on, Doripalam still silent, leaning forward over the steering wheel as he peered into the sparse light from the headlamps, occasionally twisting the wheel jerkily to avoid a pothole. It was as if they were suspended in time, as if the awful reality outside the vehicle did not exist.

“There is one thing more,” Nergui said at last.

“What?”

“There is a police officer, a detective, sent over from England. He came to investigate the death of Ransom, the Westerner.” Nergui stopped, suddenly realizing the weight of fear that lay in his heart. “He has gone missing.”

“Missing? How can a visiting policeman go missing?”

“How could one of our own senior officers be brutally murdered? None of this makes sense. All we know is that the officer was walking from the British Embassy to his hotel late last night. And that he never got there.”

“And you think-?”

“It is like everything else in this case. We do not know what to think. But we have to fear the worst.”

“I cannot-I do not know what to say.”

“You will appreciate,” Nergui said, “that this is no longer simply a police matter, if it ever was. This will become a major diplomatic issue. I do not know what the outcome will be. But, whatever it is, we need to resolve it quickly. Do you think you can trace your brother?”

“I don’t know. There are people he may have gone to. Places he might be. But it is all guesswork. I don’t even know for sure that he is in the city.”

It was becoming hopeless, Nergui thought. He was losing whatever touch he might once have had. The plodding methodical police work was going on in the background, but seemingly going nowhere, and still managing to miss the few things that might be important. And here he was, rushing off on pointless wild goose chases, desperate for anything that might give him a lead, clutching at any straw. But he was surely experienced enough to know that such leads were almost always illusory. He could almost feel this lead melting away as he reached for it. And increasingly his judgment seemed flawed. Perhaps he should have stayed up at the mine, spoken to more people, tried to find out precisely what it was that Delgerbayar had been up to. Instead, he had gone racing back to the city, for what? Someone who might have nothing to do with all this, and who could be anywhere. It was madness.

And underneath all that, he realized, as the truck rumbled on through the night, was something else, something that was driving him on into this insanity. It was the feeling, deep down in his bones, that Drew was still alive but that, unless Nergui could find some means of playing against the most extreme odds, he would not be alive for much longer.

Blackness. Emptiness.

He had no idea how long he had been here. Even with the return of consciousness, time seemed to have stopped. The sensations that should have given him some sense of progression-hunger, thirst, the aching of his body-seemed to have been suspended. He was aware of the hard surface beneath him, and of the imprisoning bands around his ankles, wrists and neck, but it was as if he were somehow detached from this reality.

Even the horror that had overwhelmed him when he had first realized his position had, for the moment at least, abated. Something-psychological, physiological, he did not know-had calmed his mind, allowed him to think rationally.

It was insane. The whole thing was insane. Why should anyone attack him? Why had he been brought here, wherever this might be? Why should anyone want to imprison him?

Was this a kidnapping? His policeman’s mind was working automatically now, suppressed the fear, thinking back to his negotiator training, trying to work through the possible scenarios, the potential options available to him.

If this was a professional kidnapping, perhaps politically motivated, then his chances of survival and release were much higher. There would be some demand which the authorities might or might not be able to concede. There would be some form of negotiation. His survival would be guaranteed for a time, as the kidnappers would not lightly sacrifice their only bargaining counter. Perversely it was encouraging that so far he had been kept, literally, in the dark. If his kidnappers did not allow him to see their faces or have any information, they would have nothing to fear from his eventual release. Professionals, he reminded himself, whatever their motives might be, did not like to kill unnecessarily.