Tom Callaghan - A Spring Betrayal

You set up something like this by arranging the meet to give them the bare minimum time to get there, with not enough time for an ambush, making sure you’re already in place. You wait until they arrive with a shriek of tires, hurl themselves out of an armor-plated Hummer like a Spetsnaz team on high alert, cover the street with Kalashnikovs primed to fire.

But nothing happens, no gunshots from the dark, no grenades thrown from the rooftops. So everyone starts to relax and get sloppy, the adrenaline beginning to flush out of their systems.

They all tense again as the car door opens, always the front passenger door, and the big guy, the number one, the bratski krug , gets out and takes the few steps to the meet door and safety.

That’s when everyone is waiting for the hit. Which is why you don’t do it then. You wait. Wait some more. A bit more after that. And then you hit them.

We were invisible, thanks to the car’s tinted windows and our dark clothing. I reached up and switched off the interior light; no point in giving someone a clean shot.

I heard Saltanat’s breath, sharp and ragged, almost loud enough to drown the way my heart hammered in my chest, death’s knuckles beating on the door, demanding to be let in. I wiped my damp palms on my trousers, wishing I’d wound tape around the butt of my gun for a better grip. I needed a piss as well. Too late now.

Twenty minutes before the rendezvous, so I knew they’d be here in the next five.

Saltanat reached over and squeezed my hand.

“This is the bit I hate,” she whispered. “Waiting. Always have.”

I squeezed back, then stroked the back of her hand. The bones felt thin, fragile, unable to pull a trigger and blow a man’s life into a memory. Appearances deceive.

As I sat there in the darkness, preparing for chaos and death, I remembered Chinara quoting one of her favorite lines of poetry, by some foreign poet, how love was what would survive of us. I wasn’t sure it was true. Because love isn’t the only emotion to linger after we die. Let’s not forget despair and his best friend, hate. And since the cancer devoured Chinara, they’d both visited me several times to offer their sincere condolences.

It was Saltanat who spotted the headlights, growing larger, throwing the trees into light and shadows that spun away, parting before the black people carrier as it prowled the street.

The car pulled up outside the Kulturny, Lubashov snapping to attention. Regular customers obviously, or big tippers. The expected no-necks bailed out of the car, clutching those nasty little Micro Uzis, looking around for potential targets. After a moment, the front passenger door swung open and a giant emerged. He must have been two meters from army boots to watch cap, so he would stand out in most places.

The Voice was a Western man, in his mid-forties, burly but not fat, shoulders threatening to split his jacket apart. His shaven head glowed almost white under the Kulturny’s single light. Simply standing there, he exuded power, strength, ruthlessness. His mouth was wide, determined, like a shark hunting down its prey. His eyes were black coins in his face. We couldn’t have chosen a worse foe.

The Voice looked around, head up as if he’d scented our presence, reached for his phone. I covered the iPhone with my hand, not wanting its glow to betray our position, sliding down in my seat, out of view.

“You’re at the Kulturny?” I asked.

“Yes, where are you?”

“Never mind that, do you have the money? All thirty thousand dollars?”

“Yes,” the Voice answered, emotionless, deadly.

“Take ten thousand and go into the Kulturny. Alone. Walk down the stairs, go into the toilet, stuff the money behind the tank. Don’t look around, don’t talk to anyone. Come back outside.”

“What the fuck?”

I broke the connection.

“What the hell are you doing?” Saltanat asked.

“Don’t worry,” I said, worried. “I have a plan.”

“A plan you’re planning to share with me?” she asked. “Or do I get killed so you can show how superior you are?”

“Saltanat,” I said, hissing the words into a whisper, “trust me, I know what I’m doing.”

The indignant snort from the driver’s seat didn’t say a lot for my powers of persuasion. So instead I watched until the Voice emerged from the Kulturny. Lubashov walked toward him, maybe to ask if there was a problem, if he needed some help. Without breaking step, the Voice backhanded Lubashov across the face, once, twice, not looking to see if the young man fell or not. Lubashov stumbled back, then held up his hands in submission, a clear indication death by gangster wasn’t on his agenda. The nearest no-neck nodded approvingly as the Voice clambered back into the car.

I switched the iPhone back on, and pressed redial.

“Drive to the junction of Ibraimova and Toktogul. There’s a shashlik stand there, with a trash bin in front of it. Place ten thousand dollars in the bin, then drive one block down and wait outside Dordoi Plaza, the big supermarket. You’ll be contacted there.”

“If you’re fucking with me, I’ll have your carcass dripping from a meat hook by tomorrow night,” the Voice said, menace sharp as a switchblade.

“We’re both sensible men, businessmen, we take precautions to secure our interests. I just want your money, you want your secrets back. It’s business, that’s all.”

The people carrier drove off east toward Ibraimova, and as the headlights faded from view, Saltanat rounded on me.

“What the fuck are you doing, Akyl? You want to go and retrieve that ten thousand dollars? You’re crazy.” Spitting out her words.

“I don’t give a damn about the money,” I said. “The first alkashi to stumble in there for a piss can have it, for all I care.”

“Then what are you doing?” she asked.

“The bleating of the sheep attracts the wolf,” I said.

“Very poetic. So?”

“Well, I’m just changing where the sheep’s tethered,” I replied. “And now we’d better get going.”

“Where?” Saltanat asked. “Dordoi Plaza? They’ll be waiting for us there.”

“I hope so,” I replied. “That’s why we’re going to his house.”

“It’s like this,” I explained, as Saltanat drove us back toward Frunze. “While he’s chasing us all over Bishkek, we can do a spot of breaking and entering, try and get ourselves some evidence.”

“We’ve got the videos on the iPhone,” Saltanat said.

“Circumstantial. All we can prove is that someone who had the phone called him. And living where he does, the kind of money he must make, he’s going to have enough clout to close down any questions. If he even gets asked any.”

I reached under my seat, found a bottle of water, swirled some around my mouth to clean out the fear, spat out of the window. On either side of the street, tree branches clutched at the moon. It wasn’t the ideal night for burglary, but then it wasn’t the ideal night for anything except being several hundred kilometers away.

“I think the film clips were used to find potential customers for the DVDs. A sales promotion kit, if you like. And you can bet the salesman isn’t going to be found any time soon. Not with the back of his head intact. Dead men don’t betray bosses. So no use looking for him.”

“What do you think we’ll find at the house?” Saltanat asked.

“They’ve got to make these films somewhere. Somewhere private, secluded, soundproofed. You don’t film this kind of stuff in your bedroom. And there’s one other thing you need access to.”

“What’s that?” Saltanat asked.

I drank some more of the water, feeling it hit my stomach, wondering if I was going to vomit.