Tom Callaghan - A Spring Betrayal

“Whose cell phone are you using? This isn’t your regular number. It’s a foreign number.”

I laughed. Even in Kyrgyzstan, we know how to track a mobile’s location, and any of the service providers would be happy to earn points by helping the police. Or anyone else with enough clout.

“There are two police cars packed with menti outside my apartment block. Any idea why?”

There was a long silence before Usupov spoke, in little more than a whisper.

“There was a call last night. Anonymous. A tip-off. Saying you were involved in something pretty bad, that there was some illegal material stashed in your apartment. So Sverdlovsky sent a couple of men around. You weren’t there, otherwise they’d have arrested you. And given you a good kicking down every flight of stairs.”

There wasn’t anything in my apartment that could have been a problem. But anyone who knows how to pick a couple of locks can leave something incriminating and then call it in.

“What was it they found? Drugs? You know that’s not my thing.”

Usupov paused for even longer. When he spoke, there was a note of disgust in his voice.

“We go back a long way, Inspector. I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt. For the moment.”

My stomach tensed, and when I spoke, my voice was hoarse.

“Go on.”

“DVDs. Child porn, I heard on the grapevine. Stuff you couldn’t imagine, the sort that visits you in nightmares. Torture, rape. And murder.”

Saltanat watched as I failed to hide the disgust on my face.

“Kenesh, this is a setup, believe me, I know nothing about this. Maybe it’s because I’m investigating all the deaths in Karakol? Maybe linked to the fake death certificate you had to sign?”

There was a long pause before Usupov spoke.

“They know you’re not in Karakol. Orders are to stop and arrest you. Maximum force permitted, if necessary.”

I knew what that meant. Maximum force obligatory. Whatever it was someone high up thought I knew, they’d make sure I couldn’t spread the word. Relentless rain hammered against the car roof.

“Akyl, if I were you, I’d head for the border. Any border.”

I explained the situation to Saltanat, saw concern cloud her face.

“I’m being stitched up,” I said. “Think about the timing. If I was involved in any of this—and I’m not—I’d know about you arresting the porn mule in Tashkent. The last thing I’d do is raise my head above the parapet.”

Saltanat nodded, seeing the logic of what I was saying.

“But why would someone go to all this trouble?” she asked. “They could simply put a bullet in the back of your head. Or a car accident. A fire in your apartment because of faulty wiring.”

“Kill me, and it doesn’t end there,” I explained. “The case is on file now, so it has to be investigated. And so does Gurminj’s death, now I’ve reported it as suspicious. Some other inspector takes over, and if they were close to uncovering the truth, then they’d have to be dealt with. But if I’m discredited as a notorious pornographer and child murderer it all dies with me. Case solved, the culprit’s shot resisting arrest, end of story, everyone’s happy.”

“So now what?”

“Right now, we need to put some distance between us and my apartment. They’re expecting me to show up. If they’d had any sense, they’d have been waiting inside. Their carelessness gives us a few hours. Let’s head over to the Kulturny, see what your whisperer has to say.”

I slumped down lower in my seat, grateful for the tinted windows of the Lexus. Saltanat handed me a baseball cap from the glove compartment, and I completed my temporary disguise with sunglasses.

The scarred and battered steel door of the Kulturny looked as uninviting as ever when Saltanat parked outside. A steroid junkie disguised as a doorman in a cheap leather jacket slouched against the wall. He looked appreciatively at Saltanat as she climbed out of the car.

“No need to go in there, darling, not if you’re looking for a man. He’s right here in front of you,” he said, patting his crotch just in case Saltanat might have misunderstood him.

Saltanat smiled, walked up to him, pouted, blew a kiss, then kicked him in the balls. As he dropped to his knees, eyes bulging, gasping with shock and pain, she stepped around him and pushed at the steel door. The unlit stairs down to the basement bar looked horribly like a mouth, ready to devour us, and I remembered that there was no other way in. Or out.

I looked down at the doorman, wondering why he looked familiar, then I placed him.

“Your name Lubashov?” I asked.

He looked up at me, wiping a string of vomit from his mouth.

“What’s it to you?” he snarled.

I pulled back my jacket to show I wasn’t in the mood for any shit.

“Your brother?” I said. “Who used to work here? Who got a free ride to the cemetery? Any more tough-guy nonsense from you and you’ll be joining him.”

I raised my hands to show that I wasn’t reaching for my gun, then stuck a finger in his face.

“We’re cool, right? It ends here.”

The doorman simply grunted, turned away to be sick again. Unimpressed by my bravado, Saltanat gestured at the doorway.

“After you.”

“No, no. Ladies first.”

“And what makes you think I’m a lady?” she replied.

I pointed at the doorman, wiping away the vomit on his jacket and almost succeeding.

“You’re not as far as he’s concerned, that’s for sure,” I said, and stepped inside.

The Kulturny might have acquired a new doorman, but otherwise the place remained depressingly unchanged. The dark stairwell leading down to a barely lit hovel. Half the lightbulbs either burned out or simply missing. Two prostitutes in a corner sucking on cigarettes with far more enthusiasm than they ever did for their clients. Boris, the barman, checking the glasses to make sure they were still dirty, and topping up the bottles labeled Stolichnaya with rotgut samogon . And of course, the overlying reek of piss, pivo , and pelmeni that gave the place its unique charm.

Saltanat looked around with her usual impassive glare, pointed to an overweight and balding man leaning against the bar.

“Your squealer?” I asked.

She nodded, and walked slowly toward him. The distance hadn’t given him enchantment, and it got worse as we drew closer. Beads of greasy sweat trickled down his forehead and over his acne-raddled cheeks. It wasn’t warm in the Kulturny—heating costs money and that means less profit—so I guessed he was dripping with fear. He had a thin, mean mouth, like a newly opened scar, and dark eyes that never stopped dancing around in case of trouble. He wore one of those threadbare cheap suits you find in the bazaar, the sort that look shapeless and worn from the moment you put them on, stretched shiny and tight across his shoulders. His bald patch was highlighted by the way his remaining hair was pulled back into a greasy ponytail. I’ve encountered a lot of lowlifes wearing ponytails, and there’s an asshole underneath every one.

I was willing to bet every som in my wallet he’d ask for money before he’d talk. I was equally certain Saltanat would beat any information out of him before a single bill changed hands.

“Kamchybek?” Saltanat asked, her voice surprisingly gentle.

The man nodded, took a long pull at the glass in front of him. A half-empty bottle of Vostok vodka announced it wasn’t his first drink. Rocket fuel to dampen down the fear, anesthetize the nerves. The way his hands shook, I was surprised he managed to drink without adding to the collection of stains on his lapels.

“Who’s this?” Kamchybek asked, his voice a surprisingly high falsetto in such a big man.