Michael Walters - The Shadow Walker

If the kidnappers were just small time crooks who were aiming too high, his future was highly uncertain. If things became too difficult, they would simply want to cut their losses and get out. And central to cutting their losses, he realized, would be his own elimination.

Suddenly, the real panic struck him, blasting chills through his body like an icy wind. He arched his back, pushing and pulling against the ties that held his limbs, struggling and struggling and struggling, unable to make any headway. And then all his detachment collapsed, and he was nothing more than a mindless frenzy of wrestling bones and blood, as he felt himself lost in the blackness, falling into the worst nightmare he had ever known.

The end came equally suddenly. There was a sharp searing light, burning into his brain. He screwed his eyes shut tight, and the light was red, as hot as the sun, agonizing in its brilliance, like hot wires against his eyeballs. He had no breath to scream anymore, and all he felt was a desperate longing for the previous cool darkness. If that had been his death, then surely now he was entering the outer realms of hell.

But then his beating heart calmed, and the pain in his eyes and his head lessened. He still could not see, but he registered that this brilliance was nothing more than light, ordinary light. Black dots and shapes danced in the crimson brilliance, gradually settling back into order.

At last, after what might have been hours, he found himself able to move his eyes. His eyelids remained shut, and he realized that fear had rendered them immobile. Partly it was fear of the brilliance of the light. Mostly, though, it was fear of what sights might greet him when he was able to see again.

He forced himself to try to relax, to breathe more steadily, suppress his sense of panic. And finally he was able, very slowly, to open his eyes.

The sight that met them was unexpectedly banal. Above him, the source of the searing light, were four bright fluorescent strip lights set on wooden beams. Turning his head as far as he could, he could see concrete walls, metal shelving. Cardboard boxes with incomprehensible labels. Some items of anonymous industrial equipment, shaded with dust. A storeroom of some kind.

He was lying on a wooden bench, maybe a work bench. He twisted his head a little more, stretching his muscles to their limits to try to see his arms. His wrists were tied with plastic twine, coiled repeatedly around, fastened underneath the bench itself. His ankles and neck were presumably tied in the same way. He turned his head as far as he could. A water bottle-the kind used by cyclists and runners-had been taped to the bench beside his mouth enabling him to reach the nozzle. He twisted his head and, with considerable discomfort, managed to suck down some of the water.

The room was silent. He stopped moving and tried to listen. At first, he could detect no sound of any movement, other than the seemingly deafening beating of his own heart and the rasp of his own panicked breathing.

He forced himself to hold his breath for a moment, listening hard. And finally he thought he heard it, like an irregular echo of his own heartbeat. It was the soft but insistent sound of another’s breath. He tried to lift his head but it was impossible. All he could see were the beams, the lights, the concrete walls.

But somewhere outside the constrained field of his vision, someone was watching him.

By the time they reached the outskirts of the city, it had started to snow, thick flakes whirling in the glare of the streetlights. There had been some flurries earlier in the week, but this was the first serious snow of the winter. Perhaps it was as well they had traveled back when they did. Being stranded on the steppes in this weather would not be pleasant.

It was nearly one a.m., and the streets were deserted. For the first time, Nergui found the emptiness unnerving. Against the brilliance of the settling snow, the gloom of the unlit side streets seemed threatening. Nergui felt uncomfortable until they pulled into the enclosed parking lot at the rear of the police headquarters. Even then, he looked uneasily behind him as they bundled out of the truck and hurried through the snow to the entrance.

Inside, it was warm and reassuringly prosaic. There were one or two officers on duty, but most were lounging in the rest room, sipping coffee. Nergui led them through and up the stairs to his office. It was only once he was in there, settled behind his desk, with Doripalam and Cholon sitting opposite, that he finally felt fully secure.

What was happening to him? He had been doing this job, or something like it, for most of his adult life. He had a reputation for fearlessness. He was in the police building, surrounded by high level security and staff who would jump at his every whim. And yet here he was, behaving like a skulking rookie, terrified of his own shadow.

For much of the journey there had been no network signal on his cell phone. The networks were good in the cities and towns, but much more sporadic out in the countryside. As they had reentered the city limits, his cell had bleeped obligingly to let him know that there were messages for him. He gestured to the others to go and get coffees for the three of them, then sat down to listen to the messages.

The first, inevitably, was from the Minister. “Nergui, I don’t know where you are,” he said, an edge of threat in his voice. “I’m trusting that you know what you’re doing. But things are starting to get seriously out of hand here. I’m stalling the British government as best I can, but I can’t put them off for long. We need some answers, and we need them quick. Call me when you get in. Whatever time that is.”

Nergui looked at his watch. One fifteen. He knew from experience that the lateness of the hour would be no excuse for failing to contact the Minister. He wasn’t sure, though, that he had anything to report.

The second message, equally predictably, was from the British ambassador. “Nergui,” he said in English, “I’ve been trying to get hold of that bloody Minister of yours. Seems to be permanently in meetings.” Clearly, Nergui thought, the Minister was following the ambassador’s own example. “I know the Foreign Office is in direct contact with him now, but I’d like an update. Nobody’s telling me anything-” Even in these circumstances, it was difficult not to be amused by the plaintive tone. “Give me a call in the morning, Nergui. I really want to know what’s going on.”

That was one, at least, that could be safely left. Nergui waited, and listened to the third message. It was a voice he recognized. Batzorig. “Sir. You’re probably out of cell range at the moment-don’t know exactly where you are. Can you give me a call as soon as you pick this up? I’m not sure, but it might be urgent. We’ve had a message left for us that I think you ought to-”

Nergui thumbed off the phone and jumped to his feet. In seconds, he was out of the door and jumping, three steps at a time, down the stairs to the rest room. He burst into the room, banging back the door. The three officers sitting drinking coffee looked up in surprise. Doripalam and Cholon were at the far end of the room.

“Where’s Batzorig?” Nergui said.

“I think he’s upstairs, in his office. He said to tell you-”

“So why didn’t you?”

The officers looked confused. “Well, he didn’t say exactly-”

“Forget it.”

Nergui turned on his heel and stormed out of the room and then back up the stairs. Batzorig’s office was at the rear of the building, down the corridor from Nergui’s own. It was a large room he shared with three other officers, though he was the only one currently on duty.

He looked up from his desk as Nergui pushed open the door, and jumped to his feet. “Sir,” he said. “Did you get my message?”