Michael Walters - The Shadow Walker

“So where do we go from here?”

“Simple,” Maxon said. “You take Badzar with you, claim the credit. Meanwhile, I look after McLeish while you make the arrangements to get me out of your goddam country.”

Nergui glanced at McLeish. “I don’t know if it’s that simple,” he said. “I’m still a policeman. I don’t know whether I can go along with just letting you go. And that’s putting aside the question of how much I can trust you in any case. If I let you out of here with McLeish, I can’t expect to see either of you again.”

“Jesus, what are the options here? I need to get out of your fucking country as soon as possible. Those bastards are only a step behind me. I’m not going to do anything to jeopardize my escape. But you need to act fast. And as for your fucking scruples, well, don’t you realize you’re the only one left who seems to have them? Your fucking government are behind the Russians on this one all the way. They just want to get the best deal. They happily got into bed with my people when that looked the most lucrative option, and now they’ve just as happily switched sides.”

He paused, suddenly, and then unexpectedly smiled. He turned and gazed at McLeish, who was slumped against the concrete block, looking drained, beyond words. “And, anyway, Nergui, what are your fucking scruples worth? It’s McLeish’s life you’re gambling with, not your own.”

The last comment hit home. Maxon was smart, right enough. While Nergui had been talking, trying to buy time, Maxon had still been one step ahead, taking the opportunity to make sure that he and Drew understood the full significance of what they were involved with. Turning Nergui’s own scruples against him. Pushing the only button that might make him cooperate.

Nergui shook his head and turned toward Drew, not knowing what he was going to say, let alone what he should do next.

It was as if Drew had taken Maxon’s words as a cue. He suddenly seemed to gain new and unexpected strength and flung himself across at Maxon, dragging the metal post and concrete block behind him. Maxon staggered backward, startled by the energy of the sudden lunge. His gun went off, firing randomly into the vaulted spaces above them. Almost simultaneously-and Nergui could never be sure what he had or had not seen-the factory space was plunged into sudden darkness. Nergui reeled at the total blackness, dragging out his gun but afraid to fire. He fumbled in his other pocket for his flashlight, which became frustratingly tangled in his coat.

Another shot echoed around the empty building, and then another. From somewhere just ahead there was a sharp cry of pain, and then a third shot. Then there was a long, agonizing silence.

Nergui rolled across the floor till he felt the cold stone of the wall against his back. His ears and eyes were straining, trying to discern some movement, to gain some clue about what had happened. Finally, moving as silently as possible, he pulled the flashlight from his pocket and, throwing himself into a crouching position with his pistol held in front of him, he shone the light around him.

The room was completely silent now, eerily so after the echoes of the gunshots. Nergui carefully moved the flashlight beam around, and then realized that another flashlight was shining from somewhere across the room.

Ahead of him, Maxon lay on the concrete floor, blood pouring from a bullet wound in his chest. Next to him, Badzar also lay on the ground, his head apparently blown open by another bullet. Behind them, Drew was slumped against the concrete block. For a moment, Nergui thought that Drew had been hit as well. He was staring blankly into the light, his face white, his body shaking. Nergui realized with a deep sigh of relief that he was apparently unharmed.

Nergui shone his own flashlight back toward the approaching light. “Who is it?” he called, first in Mongolian, then in English.

The voice that replied was English, softly spoken, British. “I’m sorry to startle you,” it said. “The darkness was a risk, but necessary.” Nergui could make out a silhouette now, walking slowly toward them. He raised his pistol, prepared for anything that might happen. The approaching figure raised its own gun, but in an unthreatening manner. “Infrared sight. Seemed the best way.”

Finally, the figure stepped into the beam of Nergui’s flashlight.

“Wilson,” Nergui said. “You realize I will have to arrest you for murder?”

Wilson nodded thoughtfully. “Whatever you say, Nergui. Though I think a simple thank-you might have sufficed.”

Outside, the snow had begun to fall again, thick and fast from the night sky. Nergui sat at an angle to the window, watching the falling flakes caught in the streetlights of Sukh Bataar Square, barely listening to the conversation.

“McLeish is all right, then?” the Minister asked, tapping together a sheaf of official-looking papers. As always, his desk was immaculately clear, except for an old-fashioned blotter and inkwell. Nergui suspected that the sheaf of papers was similarly decorative, something for the Minister to leaf through when he wanted to appear busy.

Nergui pulled himself away from the hypnotic swirl of the snowflakes and looked back at the Minister. “Physically, he’s fine. We had the police doctor check him over. He sustained a few minor cuts and bruises in the original kidnapping, and he’d been without food or water for some time, but there wasn’t any serious harm done. He’s been patched up and given a decent meal, so he should be okay.”

The British ambassador was sitting in the Minister’s other armchair, flicking aimlessly through a thick file on his knee. Nergui had no idea whether the file had any significance, or whether this was just another piece of window dressing. He was beginning to realize how little of this world he really understood.

“Still, I imagine it must all have been something of an ordeal?” the ambassador said.

“You might say that,” Nergui said. This was, he presumed, another instance of that famous British understatement. Or possibly just crass stupidity. “He was very shaken. Who wouldn’t be? As to the long term impact, well… I’m no expert.”

The ambassador nodded. “The police are well versed in those matters. I’ve spoken with the UK Home Office. They’ve got well-established procedures for posttrauma counseling, all that stuff. We’re having him flown back tonight on a specially chartered flight via Vienna, so we can get him out of here before the world’s media cotton on to what’s happened. He’ll have access to the best treatment as soon as he gets back.”

“That’s good to hear,” Nergui said, sincerely. “He’s been through hell. I don’t think we can begin to imagine what it was like.”

“Though fortunately Maxon wasn’t the killer,” the Minister said.

Nergui turned to look at him, his mouth half open, biting back his instinctive response. “I suppose it depends on how you look at it,” he said, finally. He paused momentarily, then continued. “Speaking of which, what happens to Wilson?”

The Minister hesitated, then looked to the ambassador. “Professor Wilson’s been handed over to our custody. We’ll take care of him,” the ambassador said, smoothly.

“Which means what?” Nergui asked.

“Just that,” the ambassador said. “We have it in hand.”

Nergui looked from the ambassador to the Minister. Both faces were untroubled, giving nothing away. He shrugged. “Well, I’m sure I can depend on your country’s integrity, ambassador.”

The Minister nodded. “Quite right, Nergui. I think we can all be justly pleased at how this has all worked out, in the circumstances. Especially you.” Nergui decided just the merest undertone of threat in the last two words.