Tom Callaghan - A Spring Betrayal

I felt Saltanat reach out for my hand, felt her palm press against mine, sexless, supportive. And then we were silent as we walked back to the car and continued our journey.

We spent an uncomfortable night in the car, having turned off the main road and down a track leading to one of the narrow rivers that saunter through the valley. In two or three months’ time, there would be other cars here, tents perhaps, a base for people who wanted to hike through the mountains. But in early spring, the weather is still too cold, and we had the place to ourselves.

Saltanat had cold meat samsi and water for us, even a couple of blankets, and I managed to get two or three hours of uncomfortable half-sleep, filled with images of the gun fight in the Kulturny. The wound in my shoulder felt as if I’d been burned, but it had stopped bleeding some hours ago. Saltanat had done her best to clean and bandage it from the first aid box under the spare tire, but she had nothing to give me for the pain. So while she slept beside me, I stared out of the windshield at the sheet of stars above us, and wondered what to do next.

The dawn crept up over the mountains, a burglar on tiptoe, each movement imperceptible, gradually swelling and filling the sky with the lightest of blues. I looked at Saltanat as she slept, then stared at myself in the mirror. Damaged, bruised, still in mourning, without a future as far as I could tell. So instead I watched the sun begin to color the snow a deceptive gold…

By noon, we were only a few hours from Jalalabad. Earlier, I’d left Saltanat asleep and went to wash in the Naryn River as it danced and kicked its way downstream. The brutality of the snow-cold water on my face punched me into wakefulness, so I unwound the dressing on my shoulder and looked at Maxim’s handiwork. The flesh around the wound was red and inflamed, and I knew I’d have to get some antibiotics. I could feel the muscle tug, and resisted the temptation to pick at the raised dark-brown scab. I’d probably need stitches, but asking a doctor not to inform the local menti of a gunshot wound would need either a big bribe or a quick getaway.

Once we’d finished the last of the samsi , we set off on the last leg of our journey. I’d checked Kamchybek’s iPhone, but hadn’t been able to get a signal, not really surprising, given the mountains towering around us.

“I’ll get my colleague in Jalalabad to see what information he can track down from the cell phone,” Saltanat said. “There’ll be numbers on it that could give us a lead, maybe documents and e-mails.”

“I’m grateful for you getting me out of Bishkek,” I said, aware of course that I sounded ungrateful. “And believing me about the setup with the child porn. Wanting to help me track down whoever killed Gurminj. But the longer we stay together, the more you’re at risk.”

Saltanat frowned; I was treading on the toes of the Uzbek security forces.

“Close to the border, and it’s easier to cross over without drawing attention to ourselves, if we have to,” she said.

“You’ve got agents there? Safe houses?”

“Akyl, just trust me on this, okay?” she answered.

Which was, of course, no answer at all.

The mountains shrank to mere hills, long flanks of grass and meadows on either side of the road. We were entering the Fergana Valley, some of the most fertile agricultural land in Central Asia, land that’s been squabbled over, seized, and retaken for thousands of years. One of the many Silk Road routes ran through here, carrying Chinese silks, spices and sweets from India, and finely crafted Persian silverwork. These days, the trade also includes heroin and krokodil , semiautomatic rifles, and trafficked people. Of course, they’re not being carried by camel anymore. On the other hand, business is a lot more lucrative.

Jalalabad isn’t a particularly large city, or a bustling one. As Saltanat parked the Lexus on Lenina Street, the main drag that runs through the center, it felt like we’d left Kyrgyzstan behind when we’d driven out of Bishkek. Most of the men were wearing Uzbek skullcaps instead of Kyrgyz kalpaks , while the women wore headscarves and long narrow trousers under their brightly colored dresses. Some young women dared to defy tradition and walked bareheaded, but they were few and far between. We were near the main bazaar, and I wondered if that was where Saltanat intended to meet her “people.”

“Why don’t you take a walk, maybe pick up some fruit in the bazaar?” she suggested.

“What about you?” I asked. “You don’t want me to come with you?”

Saltanat simply shook her head.

“I’ll see you back here in a couple of hours, okay?”

And with that, she was gone, slipping into the river of people flowing down Lenina.

I decided to leave my gun in the car, wrapped in one of the blankets and safely stowed under the passenger seat. I didn’t think I’d need that much firepower, and it was too bulky not to be obvious. Instead, I pocketed the Makarov I’d taken from Maxim, headed into the crowd.

The bazaar was packed, stalls clustered together to form narrow lanes, tables piled high with local produce, vegetables, shapeless hunks of raw meat, scrawny chickens hanging up by their feet or still alive, looking anxious in small wicker baskets. There was fruit everywhere, the first of the summer crop, melons, figs, plums, oranges, and, of course, apples. Scientists believe apples originated in Kyrgyzstan, and we’re more than happy to claim credit. We don’t have a wealth of world-changing achievements to our name, but creating a fruit that’s colonized the world has to be one of them.

The sky was a clear pale near-white blue, the inside of a porcelain bowl, and the day was hot for early spring. I ordered a bowl of lagman , our spicy lamb and noodle soup, at a food stall run by a plump babushka . It came with a glass of kumiss , the salty, slightly alcoholic drink we make from fermented mare’s milk. I pushed the glass to one side, concentrated on scooping the noodles out of the bowl.

Then a voice behind me said, “I strongly recommend you leave the gun in your pocket, Inspector Borubaev.”

A strong voice, used to issuing orders, used to being obeyed without question.

Mikhail Tynaliev, Kyrgyzstan’s minister for state security.

I placed my hands palm down on the table, slowly, deliberately. This was no time to be making false moves. When I’d first met Tynaliev to break the news of his daughter’s death to him, he’d been surrounded by security guards, trained to fire first and then apologize afterward. Except they usually didn’t say sorry.

“I can recommend the lagman , Minister,” I said. “Not too spicy, and the noodles are fresh.” I was trying to keep my voice as calm as possible. Not easy when you’re talking to one of the most powerful men in the country, someone who could have you sharing a cell with half the criminals you’ve sent there, or sleeping in an unmarked hilltop grave.

“I’m not here to arrest you, Inspector,” Tynaliev said. I turned to look at him. Broad shoulders, a thick neck and hands that told you he’d done his fair share of slaps and punches down in the basement interrogation room of some police station or army barracks. Black eyes that never blinked. He looked fearless, immortal.

The last time I’d seen Tynaliev, his men were dragging my old boss out of his office and to death. Tynaliev had ordered me to bring him the men who’d killed his daughter, and I’d known better than to disobey. He’d told me he was in debt to me, which really meant he owned me, whenever he chose to reel in the line and hook.