Tom Callaghan - A Spring Betrayal

“With all respect, Minister, why are you standing in the middle of Jalalabad bazaar, talking to a lowly inspector like me? You don’t have more important matters to deal with?”

Tynaliev’s smile didn’t fill me with confidence.

“Inspector, I know you far too well to consider you a mere ment , an empty head in a big green cap and uniform. In my opinion, for what little that’s worth, Akyl Borubaev is a pretty apt name.”

I should explain that my first name, Akyl, means “clever,” and “boru” is the Kyrgyz word for “wolf.” It’s been a running joke with my colleagues for a long time. But to me it’s no joke; staying alive means being clever, and if you’re Murder Squad, no one hunts better than a wolf. Or knows when it’s being hunted.

Tynaliev pulled out the rough wooden stool next to me, sat down. I could smell his expensive cologne, see the immaculate cut of his suit, the brilliant polish on his shoes. Next to him, I looked like a piece of shit.

“I heard about this child porn and your involvement. I was surprised; maybe I’m not such a good judge of character as I think I am, I said to myself. Then I remembered the respect you showed my Yekaterina, the diligence you showed in catching those responsible. So I think you’ve been set up because you’re investigating the Karakol murders, as your girlfriend seems to believe. Or rather, you were.”

He paused, watched as I held up my cigarettes, nodded his permission. The babushka behind the counter started to protest, saying she had other hungry customers to serve. Without taking his eyes off me, Tynaliev gestured and one of the burly unsmiling men nearby handed her a bundle of thousand som notes, leaving her smiling her gratitude and shooing away her regulars.

The cigarette tasted good in the open air, nicotine buzzing straight into my brain. I wondered if this would be the final one for the condemned man.

“How did you know I was here, Minister?” I asked.

Tynaliev smiled and folded his arms.

“Contrary to what the uninformed might think, my counterpart in Tashkent and I see eye to eye in a great many things. Neither of us wants civil unrest, looting, killing, either side of the border. I remembered about the delightful Miss Umarova, and how closely you’d worked with her. So I called her boss, he called her, she carried out her orders. And here we are.”

It was what I’d suspected ever since the minister sat down, but the thought of Saltanat’s setting a trap for me made the lagman rise in my throat. I’ve always known there are no certainties, apart from perpetual change, but that doesn’t stop me wanting something, or someone, in whom I could invest some hope. I wondered if I was going to vomit, and if I could manage to spew on the minister’s gleaming shoes. Not much of a revenge, but all I could think of at the moment.

The minister put his hand on my shoulder, the way a father does with a young son who’s fallen over and scraped his knee.

“Miss Umarova was very specific that she wouldn’t do anything that might bring you harm. She even offered to resign.”

Tynaliev paused and raised an eyebrow.

“In fact, she promised to ‘put a bullet in any fucker who harmed you.’ So I’d say you’ve made quite an impression upon her.”

“What is it you want from me, Minister?” I asked, and didn’t bother to sound polite.

He sat back and looked at me, his eyes narrowed. I knew I should be afraid of him, worried about the click of his fingers that would see me dragged upright, arms twisted behind my back, off to a waiting car, a cell, a grave.

But somehow, I really couldn’t give a fuck.

“Interesting question, Inspector,” Tynaliev answered. “I would have expected you to ask if I could get you out of the rather unpromising situation you find yourself in.”

Tynaliev certainly had the power to make any evidence go away, strangle any investigation. I’d stood by while he disappeared my old boss, said nothing. But you can’t live with fear gnawing away at your soul until the day you decide to stand up and discover you’ve no soul left.

“I have enemies, Inspector Borubaev, I’m sure you’re aware of that. People who’d like to see me fall, and then take my place. Rivals constantly searching for any sign of weakness, ready to put the poison in the right ears.”

I said nothing. It was a story I’d heard before. And it explained why we were meeting in this remote town, rather than in Bishkek, where Tynaliev’s every move would be under observation, where someone would recognize and report me.

“I may not be perfect,” Tynaliev continued. “I have to take strong measures at times, but believe me, Inspector, I’m a thousand times better than anyone who could take my place. No one can accuse me of being corrupt, not putting my country first. And that means my fist in the mouth of anyone who wants me out.”

Tynaliev paused, gestured to the babushka to bring him a bottle of Baltika beer. He wiped the neck of the bottle, took a mouthful.

“You don’t drink, do you?”

I shook my head. I couldn’t imagine that Tynaliev knew why I stayed sober, but he was too clever not to make some assumptions.

“You stopped just after your wife died?” he asked, assuming a look of concern that fit him about as well as a puppet’s mask. “Strange, I would have thought such a tragedy would make most people drink more.”

I knew he was probing, even if we weren’t in a downstairs interrogation room, with me lashed to a chair and my tongue counting the number of loosened teeth.

“Did you drink more after your daughter’s murder, Minister?” I asked, trying to take the offensive, not caring if he felt insulted. I saw his bodyguard stiffen, ready for an order.

“I celebrated when you caught her killers,” he replied, his face giving nothing away, “and I celebrated as they were being punished.”

I lit a cigarette, looked away at the cold beers in a bucket of ice by the babushka ’s feet. Condensation trickled down the dark glass sides of the bottles, the labels sodden and starting to peel away. My mouth was suddenly dry with craving, and I could taste the cold sweetness of the beer, picture the gentle slide toward oblivion.

“Well, Minister, I didn’t have anything to celebrate when my wife died. And I think I’ll be waiting a long time before anyone can capture the cancer that killed her.”

“We’ve both known a terrible loss,” Tynaliev said, and I could hear genuine sorrow in his voice. “We’ve both buried a loved one long before their time. We should let that unite us, not divide us.”

I threw the last of my cigarette onto the earth, and mashed it into the ground with my boot heel.

“What do you want from me, Minister?” I repeated, trying to keep my voice calm and my face expressionless.

“These killings, the children, the orphanage director, I want them solved. But solved in a way that means justice is served, but without publicity, without the spotlight of the press casting all sorts of unnecessary shadows.”

“Nothing that could make you look weak, ineffectual?” I suggested, knowing I was pushing too hard, not really caring. Tynaliev was the leader of a wolf pack, the alpha male. But if he showed any sign of weakness, the younger males would be upon him, getting bolder, nipping his flanks, finally ripping out his throat, leaving his blood scarlet on the snow.

“Precisely. I want justice, Inspector,” Tynaliev said, “and I don’t care what it costs, how you do it. But make sure the shit stays off my boots. No hint I don’t have complete control.”

I didn’t say anything, I didn’t have a choice. But having a protector in Tynaliev could prove useful. It could also prove fatal.