Tom Callaghan - A Spring Betrayal

“Raw material,” I said. “Children.”

We parked a couple of blocks away from the American’s house and walked toward it, on the far side of the street, holding hands, just another couple taking a romantic midnight stroll. If you consider two people dressed entirely in black and clutching high-powered weapons romantic. All the trees had been painted white at their bases, as if the wind had managed to partially uproot them, so we weren’t as invisible as I would have liked. We’d stuffed our ski masks into our pockets; no point in advertising. I kept an eye out for guards, for cameras, but saw nothing. Saltanat had linked her arm in mine, and I was very aware of the pressure of her breast against me. It didn’t help my concentration.

Just before we reached the house, I turned to Saltanat, stroked her cheek, and then kissed her, her lips soft against mine. That way, she could stare over my shoulder and check out any possible trouble. Her hair smelled of cigarettes and shampoo, her mouth tasted of coffee. I just smelled of sweat and fear.

“All clear,” she whispered, her breath hot in my ear. “But how do you plan we get through the gates? Levitate?”

I tried to ignore the effect of her body pressed against mine.

“If you look past the gates, there’s some kind of access doorway. You don’t want to fuss with opening the gates every time you want to go out for a liter of moloko , do you? There’s always a weak spot, a way in—the trick is finding it.”

I put my hand in my jacket pocket, felt the cold metal of my lock picks.

“The Great Borubaev. With his magic, no lock is impregnable.”

“I’d prefer it if you had a key,” Saltanat murmured as we crossed the road, her head on my shoulder, looking up adoringly at me.

I turned to her and smiled, stroked her hair as we reached the narrow wooden door.

“I’ll need you to keep watch; it shouldn’t take me more than a minute.”

Five minutes later, I was still twisting the slender pick in the lock, sweat trickling into my eyes, as I failed to open the door. The longer I took, the greater the odds of being spotted, by the bad guys or some concerned citizen with the police on speed dial. Either way, we’d be in deep shit.

“Are you doing this deliberately?” Saltanat hissed, fury in her voice. I looked over at her, back to the wall, gun down by her side, head turning through a hundred-and-eighty-degree sweep.

“Of course,” I said. “More exciting this way. Like a movie.”

“Shut up,” she suggested, taking the pick out of my fingers and pushing it into the lock.

Thirty seconds later, we were inside.

“Ever thought of turning professional?” I whispered, as we stood in the shadow of the trees.

I put my arm around her shoulders, kissed her again, this time for real. I could feel her breasts against me, fear intensifying my desire. Saltanat abruptly pushed me away.

“Focus. Concentrate. This was your idea, remember?”

I looked around, across the perfectly manicured lawn toward the house. No lights, no sign of life. I’d banked on the Voice needing to keep the lowest of profiles, since even the Circle of Brothers wouldn’t approve of his trade. No ostentatious guards carrying Kalashnikovs, no watchtowers, just the home of a wealthy recluse. The security he would have was probably traveling with him in the people carrier, waiting outside the Dordoi Plaza, impatient for my call. It seemed a shame to disappoint him.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” I said. “You could always grab a burger, you know. Good American cooking.”

“I want—” the Voice snarled.

“It’s what I want,” I corrected. “And what I want is for you to drive to the Russian Orthodox Church on Jibek Jolu and wait for me there. With the rest of the money, naturally.”

I ended the call and took a deep breath. The air tasted of grilled shashlik and fresh leaves, the scent of Bishkek in the spring. I pulled the ski mask back over my face, watching as Saltanat followed suit.

“He’ll have left someone back at both the pickup points, to cover all the possibilities, and to recover his money,” I explained. “So he’s traveling light, on the back foot, his troops spread out.”

Saltanat nodded.

“Doesn’t mean he won’t have left anyone behind to guard the house,” she said.

“So we go quiet, in and out,” I answered.

We ran across the lawn and around the side of the house, guns ready. I’d once raided a drug den that turned out to be guarded by Dobermans, mute because of their vocal cords being severed. That time, my gun had been holstered, which is how I got one of the more interesting scars on my left arm.

A side door led into a kitchen area. I tried the handle.

“Locked.”

“That’s why you need me,” Saltanat said, using the pick. With the faintest click, the lock gave and we were inside. She produced a small flashlight from her pocket.

“What sort of detective are you?”

“The cautious, breathing kind,” I said, watching as she cast the light around the kitchen. The room smelled of damp and neglect, of faded spices and ancient meals. The house was silent, but I had the feeling it was simply lying in wait, that terrible things had happened here.

“What do you think?” she asked. I pointed to a wooden butcher’s block as answer. Perhaps two dozen knives of differing sizes rested together on top, next to a large meat cleaver. The shallow curve in the surface of the block showed where hundreds, perhaps thousands of blows had whittled away at the wood. I picked up the largest knife, the sort butchers use, took a practice swing.

“An awful lot of knives for one house,” I said, and felt the hairs on my arms rise. Saltanat didn’t answer, headed for the inner door. We walked along a narrow hallway, stairs rising at the left-hand side. A recess under the stairs held a small wooden door. I tried the handle. Unlocked.

“A cellar?” I said.

Saltanat looked at me. I knew we were both thinking the same awful thing.

“Only one way to find out,” I said, and opened the door.

I’ve always disliked basements, like the interrogation room at Sverdlovsky station, or the Kulturny. Too many opportunities for pain or punishment, too many chances to wound or maim in the darkness and the silence. I suspected this was going to be just such a place.

Saltanat used her flashlight to show the wooden treads of the stairs, leading away into darkness. I gripped the handrail and made my way down. Suddenly the room was filled with blazing light. I stumbled and almost fell. A bare lightbulb dangled from the ceiling. I looked at Saltanat, saw her finger on a switch.

“You want to give me a heart attack?” I snarled.

Saltanat shrugged, smiled.

“No windows, so why not use the light?” she asked, as the smile on her lips faltered and died. I looked around, saw why.

A large table stood in the middle of the room, thick leather straps attached to each leg. Two narrow runnels ran lengthways toward two rusting buckets. They were stained black, the same black that spattered the whitewashed brick walls. In one corner, a couple of professional lights stood next to a video camera and tripod. A shelf along one wall held various lenses and photographic equipment. This wasn’t a basement, it was an inner chamber from hell.

The room stank of blood and sweat, semen and terror. I could imagine being dragged down the stairs, knowing this would be the end, struggling against remorseless hands that buckled straps to wrists and ankles. And then the sounds of the knives being sharpened.

“We need to get out of here,” Saltanat said, her face white with shock and nausea.

“Give me your phone,” I said, heard the tremor in my voice. “We need pictures, otherwise they can clean this place up and we’ve got nothing.”