Michael Walters - The Shadow Walker

“Well, at least we now know that they’ve got interests in the south, which might begin to explain Delgerbayar’s mysterious trip to the Gobi, given that he was on their payroll. And, given the background, even putting aside what we know about Collins and Maxon, I guess I’d be very surprised if they were entirely above board. I’ve no idea what all this is telling us, but we’ve started pulling at some interesting threads so maybe this thing might start to unravel. Though what it looks like underneath is anyone’s guess.”

Nergui looked at his watch. Eight forty. The promised telephone call was due in twenty minutes, assuming that the first call hadn’t simply been a hoax. “Okay,” he said, “we need to get everything set up for this call, if it comes. I want us to start trying to trace the call as soon as it comes in on the switchboard. Tape every word of it. I don’t imagine he’ll be careless if he’s true to form, but we can’t afford to miss a trick. You go and get things set up. I’ll stick down here with Cholon for the moment.”

Doripalam turned, on his way upstairs, but Nergui called after him. “Doripalam, you’ve done well. Very well. I think we’re finally starting to get somewhere. Once we’ve seen whether our phantom caller returns, what do you think about a visit to Mr. Kartashkin? I feel in the mood for a business meeting.”

At first they thought that the call wasn’t going to come. Nergui had positioned himself at a desk which was secluded but within sight of the switchboard operator, so that they could signal to each other if necessary. Doripalam had set up the tape machine and was in contact with the telephone engineer who was going to try to trace the call. The attempt would probably prove futile. The call would almost certainly come from a cell. Although it was theoretically possible at least to identify the area from which the call was being made, this would only be achieved if the caller was considerably more garrulous than on the previous occasion.

Nine o’clock approached and the small team tensed, waiting for a call on one of the external lines. If any other calls came through at the same time, the operator would put them on hold without warning to avoid distraction from the job at hand.

Nine o’clock came and went. At four minutes past, a call came in but it was only someone trying to report a stolen wallet. The operator, true to the plan, put the caller on hold and waited. “Hope he’s still there when I get back to him,” he commented.

“We don’t know how long that might be,” Doripalam said. “How long do we keep waiting?”

His question was answered almost immediately. They recognized the voice instantly from the night before. The tape was already running, and Doripalam had triggered the call trace.

“Nergui,” the voice said. The operator signaled to Nergui, and then transferred the call.

“This is Nergui. Who is this?”

“I’m here to offer you help,” the voice said. “I have something valuable which I think would interest you. I’m seeking only your attention in return.”

“What do you mean?”

“As I say, I have something of value. I am seeking no reward except that you listen to me.”

“This is nonsense,” Nergui said. “I’m too old to be playing games. Tell me what you want or get off the line.”

There was a long pause and for a brief moment Nergui thought that the caller really had hung up. Then he heard the faint sound of breathing down the line. Nergui held the silence, willing the caller to speak first.

“I have McLeish,” the voice said at last. “The policeman. I want to meet you. Only you. I’ll call again.”

“How do I know you’re-?” Nergui began, but the line had already been cut. Nergui slammed the handset down hard, frustrated at the lack of information. This could all still be a hoax, a stupid waste of time. He looked up at Doripalam who began to walk over, shaking his head.

“No chance of tracing it. Far too short. I think they’d got it pinned down to the south of the city, but that was about it.”

“That would put him close to where we were last night,” Nergui said.

Doripalam nodded. “It would, but it’s not much to go on.”

“He must have known we were trying to trace him. That’s why he hung up so quickly,” Nergui said. “He’s a smart one.”

“You don’t think it’s a hoax, then?”

Nergui shrugged. “Well, it could be. But he knew McLeish’s name, and that’s not been in the press so far. So if he’s a fake, he’s a fake with good connections.”

“So what now?”

“We’re no further forward. In fact, it feels like a step back because we don’t know when or if he’ll contact us again.”

“He said he would.”

Nergui nodded. “Well, if it’s not a hoax, then I think we can assume he will. The question is how soon, and what happens in the meantime. We’ve got to keep the momentum here. Make sure that everyone available is on the search for Badzar. We want every building in that area scoured.” He turned to the switchboard operator. “If our friend calls again, put him through to my cell. We’re going out-probably an hour or so.”

Nergui stalked toward the door, grabbing his coat from the chair in passing. “Come on,” he said to Doripalam, “we’re going to pay a visit to Comrade Kartashkin.”

After the sound of the opening door, there was silence. He tensed, straining his ears for what might follow, listening for the sound of movement, of footsteps. But there was nothing. At first, he thought he could hear the faint distant sound of breathing, but it was impossible to be sure.

Panic and despair overwhelmed him. He had been terrified of what might be about to happen, but at least there had been the prospect of some sort of resolution. This was worse. It was as if he was still held in suspension, endlessly paused, waiting for some change that would never come.

That, presumably, was the idea. This was a form of torture. He tried his hardest to suppress his rising panic and to concentrate. Someone had opened the door. Someone was out there. Someone was waiting.

He listened again, trying to distinguish some external sound from the beating of his own heart and the rasp of his own breath.

And then he heard the footsteps again, not close, still outside this room, the same unevenness, the same accompanying scraping. And something else.

The sound of a voice. Little more than a whisper, soft and sibilant. It was impossible to distinguish any words. It was impossible to tell if this was someone talking to himself or to a third party, though only one voice could be heard. It was as if someone was pacing up and down, waiting, counting out time.

And then the footfalls became more purposeful, no longer aimless pacing, but moving as if toward some goal. Were they receding? At this thought Drew felt relief coursing through his body. But he knew that this was ridiculous. Whatever respite he might be gaining could only be temporary.

He was right; suddenly the footsteps returned, growing louder, before he could draw in his breath again. The unevenness was still there, but he could no longer hear the sound of the scraping, just a slow purposeful footfall coming in his direction.

Then a change in the quality of the sound told him that whoever had been pacing around outside had at last entered the room. Watching him as he lay bound on the bench. All rational thought left him. He was helpless, consumed by a primordial terror, every instinct screaming to escape.

He tried to speak, but the words were trapped in his dry throat. He moved his arms and legs agonizingly against the plastic binding and tried again to lift his head, but still could see nothing but the roof and the lights.