Tom Callaghan - A Spring Betrayal

“Working with Ms. Umarova; it served you well in the past,” the minister continued, “but I don’t want it to turn into a double-edged sword. Make sure it cuts away from me. Or mine won’t be the head that it severs.”

I didn’t know what Tynaliev had to hide, or who he was protecting. But warnings didn’t cut much ice with me anymore, no matter who issues them.

“I can’t lift the order for your arrest, Inspector,” Tynaliev said, getting to his feet. “Not without tipping my hand you’re working for me. But I’ll make sure other cases have a higher priority. Once the ‘news’ reaches us that you’ve probably fled the country, I don’t think anyone will be looking too hard for you.”

“I still don’t understand why you’re personally involved, Minister,” I said, keeping my face as expressionless as possible. “It’s not as if you don’t have more important matters to tend to.”

Tynaliev nodded.

“You’re right, Inspector, normally I’d let the police handle the matter. But there’s a problem with this case.”

“Which is?”

Tynaliev stared hard at me, a look saying I was about to take one step too far.

“You’re the policeman. Murder Squad. I’ll let you figure it out.”

He looked around, satisfied with the outcome of his meeting, drained the last of his Baltika.

“You still have my private number?”

I nodded. If Tynaliev didn’t want the police involved, some high-up people might be responsible for the porn, the murders.

“Good. I’m glad we see eye to eye on this. And speaking of seeing…”

I look around to see Saltanat walking toward us, sunglasses hiding her eyes, her face giving nothing away.

“I’m sure Ms. Umarova will be a more entertaining companion, Inspector. But remember, I want to hear from you. Soon.”

With that, he and his bodyguard walked away, leaving me to face a woman I desired, feared, and felt betrayed by.

Saltanat sat down beside me, pulled a bottle of beer from the ice bucket. The babushka uncapped the bottle and Saltanat took a long swallow. She put the bottle down, started to pick at the edge of the label.

I said nothing.

“So you met with the minister then?” she asked.

I didn’t reply, merely looked at her, raised an eyebrow. Saltanat reached over and took a cigarette from my pack, lit it, blew the smoke away as if she were doing her best to keep her temper, and wanted me to know it.

“I obey orders, like you. Except when it suits me not to. Again, like you,” she said, took an angry swig at her beer. “I want to help you. I want to catch whoever put a bullet through Gurminj’s head, and neither of us will succeed in that minor task if Tynaliev wants our heads on stakes in Ala-Too Square, will we?”

I knew pragmatism and acceptance were called for. But pride has a strange way of making us turn away from the sensible path, watching us trek over the mountains instead of through the valleys. So I simply shrugged, feigned indifference, and watched the babushka pour ashlam foo into bowls, the eggs settling on cold noodles, fat glistening in the sunlight.

Saltanat sighed, concentrated on her cigarette. Then the babushka spoke.

“Don’t be a gopnik , you,” she said, her accent thick with the slurred vowels of the south, harsh from a lifetime of smoking strong papirosh and working in the bazaar. “A low-class like you should give one of his balls that a woman like this should even speak to you, not scrape you off her shoe.”

She slammed another bottle of beer down in front of Saltanat, gestured at me with a grimy forefinger.

“You get a devotchka like her once in your lifetime, you, listen to me.”

I risked a glance at Saltanat, and though I couldn’t catch her eye, I could tell by the way her shoulders shook she was amused.

“Listen to me, boy, I know you think I’m just a peasant, a nothing. But I tell you this. I lost a father in the Great Patriotic War, defending Moscow. I lost two sons in infancy. I’ve buried two husbands. If there’s one thing I know, if you can’t find room for someone, then there’s no room for anything else worth having. Go on, laugh at me.”

“Forgive me, Granny,” I said, reached for one of her hands, wrinkled and clawed with arthritis. “I am a stupid man, who doesn’t know when a wonderful person has stepped into his life. You’re kind to teach such a lesson to such a fool. Spasibo .”

I turned to Saltanat, removed the sunglasses that hid her eyes. “I ask your forgiveness for my rudeness, stupidity, bad manners. If it happens again, just pull the trigger before I shoot myself anyway.”

She said nothing, merely nodded, and my heart twisted in my chest as she gave one of her rare smiles, intoxicating, like sunrise sliding across snow. She took my hand and squeezed it, and I felt the burden on my life, the obsession to avenge the dead, lift for a moment. I knew it would return—none of us change that easily or so quickly—but at least I now had someone to keep me company part of the way on my journey.

I paid the babushka for the food and drink, left a generous tip, turned to Saltanat.

“Now what?” I asked.

“Back to the car,” she said, “and then find a hotel.”

We lay fully clothed on the double bed, having checked into the Roza Park Hotel and demanded a suite. I’d produced my police ID, which got a favorable discount as well as the promise that we had the best room in the place. We’d walked up the stairs, holding hands, locked the door behind us, decided it was time to talk.

“I never thought I’d see you again,” I said. “Not after you killed Sariev and disappeared.”

“No?”

“I thought you’d decided ‘Mission Accomplished’ and gone back to your life.”

“I knew I couldn’t stay in Bishkek, not then. I didn’t know what had happened to you, and murdering a serving police officer wouldn’t have gone down well with your people, would it?”

“I don’t think too many people were upset by Sariev taking the long trip. They probably had a ‘free beer all night’ celebration in every bar in Bishkek,” I said.

“Were you angry with me?” she asked, her eyes never leaving my face, searching for signs of hesitation.

I thought about it for a moment.

“Hurt. Confused,” I said. “Scared you might kill me. Afraid you might leave me. Which you did.”

“But I’m back now,” she said, and kissed the corner of my mouth. Her breath was sweet on my face. I pulled her toward me, but she put her hands on my chest, laughing, fending me off.

“We’ve got work to do,” she said, and walked toward the bathroom. “I need to shower. I might even save you some hot water.”

I emerged from the bathroom to find Saltanat already asleep, fully clothed, on top of the bed. I lay down beside her and drifted off into that aimless half-sleep that you fall into in the middle of the day.

It was still light when Saltanat shook me out of a confused dream about being trapped in a maze of thorn bushes. My mouth was dry, sour, and I regretted the absence of a toothbrush.

“We have to go back to Bishkek,” she said. “I’ll tell you about it on the way.”

I winced. I love my country as much as the next Murder Squad detective, but that doesn’t mean I want to bounce up and down for hundreds of kilometers on twisting mountain roads twice a week.

We took the stairs down to the hotel lobby, handed the key in to reception. Outside, we stopped to savor the sunshine’s warmth, the pale blue sky above us.

“The iPhone is state of the art,” Saltanat said. “The e-mails and contact numbers are all encrypted, impossible to crack, supposedly.”