Tom Callaghan - A Spring Betrayal

I felt Saltanat’s hands take hold of me.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Nothing,” I lied, despite the evidence. I wondered what I could say. I could hear the hesitation in her voice, knew that even ice maidens have fears, insecurities. As do Murder Squad inspectors.

“I’m just tired, I’ve got a shoulder that looks like it’s been chewed by wolves, an entire police force looking for me, and I’ve been to Jalalabad and back without any sleep.”

I sensed her pull away from me, felt a wave of guilt mingled with irritation.

“I’m also not twenty-one anymore,” I added, just to reinforce an already obvious conclusion.

I looked around to see her already wrapped in a towel. Her face was set, stubborn.

“I’m aware of that, Inspector,” Saltanat said, her words clipped and impersonal, spat out like bullets. “And I may not be twenty-one either, if you ever decide that you are.”

She stalked out of the bathroom and shut the door, in the way a braver man than me might call angry. I turned off the water and tried to dry myself on the handkerchief-sized towel Saltanat had been kind enough to leave for me. For the ten thousandth time in my adult life, I realized I knew nothing about women.

I waited until it was likely that Saltanat was dressed, aware no woman likes being seen half-naked while in the middle of a quarrel. I emerged to see her in yet another all-black outfit, reloading her Makarov.

“I’m sorry,” I said, and I was. “I’m confused, happy you’re here, worried I’m putting you in danger.”

It wasn’t even close to the whole truth, but when has that ever helped explain things? Memories can betray the present just as easily as providing something to cling onto.

Saltanat sat back on the bed, lit a cigarette, and watched as I pulled on my socks. I felt less than graceful, but at least she wasn’t pointing a gun at me. The way she cocked her head as she looked at me said I was partially forgiven, but she wasn’t going to say so right away.

“Sit down and I’ll stitch that shoulder. Again,” she said. It didn’t hurt any less than the last time, which surprised me, since she’d already made the holes. Perhaps she took a little extra time to pull the thread tight. But I knew better than to complain.

“You’ve got a plan, I hope,” she said, helping me button my shirt.

“Let’s look at the situation,” I replied, meaning I didn’t. I went through the motions of lighting a cigarette to buy myself a little time.

Saltanat raised an eyebrow, to show she was ready and waiting.

“Our strength lies in what Graves doesn’t know. Right? If he knew there were just the two of us, a soon to be ex-cop and a member of the Uzbek security services, he’d just laugh. He can stomp us out whenever he wants; nobody is going to stop him or protect us. He puts the word on the street, and one spring morning, some govnosos we’ve never seen before walks up and puts three .22s in the back of our heads.”

I drew deeply on the cigarette, feeling the nicotine hit me hard.

“Nothing we can do about that. But if he thinks he’s up against a rival gang, then we have a chance. Are we trying to take over his heroin routes? Or muscle into the bars and clubs he owns? Or maybe we just want a nice healthy payoff? We’re using the snuff films as our leverage.”

I paused, thinking I sounded quite plausible, even to myself.

“The point is, he’s confused. He doesn’t know where the attack is coming from, or why. He’s on the defensive. Any of his allies might be his enemy, and he doesn’t know it. Who can he trust, who might betray him?”

“That’s all very well,” Saltanat interrupted, “but what are we going to do?”

“When you don’t know what to do next, you get a very big stick, whack it everywhere, see what emerges from the shit you’ve caused.”

I reached for my bag, rummaged through it until I found what I wanted.

“Time to give our friend a very big whack.”

Saltanat looked scornful.

“And how do you propose to do that?”

“With one of these,” I said, then showed her the hand grenade nestled snugly in my hand.

I’d pretty much passed out on the twin bed nearest the door, my Yarygin on the bedside table, a chair under the door handle. Saltanat took the other bed, and when I woke up, went into the bathroom to get dressed. Still not forgiven, then.

Breakfast was hot meat samsi at the hotel bar, served by Rustam with his usual charm and conversation. Otabek was still upstairs, asleep. Ten minutes later, we were driving back into the center of the city, roads crowded with traffic, pavements dense with people on their way to work. A blue cloudless sky proclaimed everything was fine, harmless. Saltanat drove, while I cradled the grenade in my lap. A bottle of vodka weighed heavy and dangerous in my jacket pocket.

“Where did you get the limonka ?” she asked, using the nickname that comes from the grenade’s lemon shape.

“Back when I was still a lowly uniformed police officer, I arrested a dealer with a weight of travka and a couple of these. The weed made it as far as the station evidence custody room, but I thought it might be dangerous to store explosives down there. And more dangerous once they found their way back onto the street. Custody officers don’t get paid a fortune. So I kept them.”

“Do they work?”

“Well, you can’t really do a test firing. I hope so. But it doesn’t have to make a big bang to let Graves know we’re serious. Like the Makarov bullet you once gave me. It’s the thought that counts.”

“While you’re playing at being a hero of the Great Patriotic War, I’m going to take Otabek to my embassy. I have a colleague, Elmira, who’ll make sure he’s safe until we’ve got this sorted out, one way or another.”

I nodded agreement. The kid deserved a lot better than life had dealt him so far. And I couldn’t help remembering the way he’d looked when we went back to Rustam’s hotel, any spirit beaten out of him, like a sheep to a ritual slaughter.

We were close to the house, so we pulled over. It didn’t make sense for the Lexus to be spotted, and the number plate noted. We arranged to meet at the far side of Ala-Too Square, and Saltanat drove off. I pulled an ornate black-and-white felt kalpak hat over my ears, turned the collar of my jacket up, did my best to transform myself into one of the down-at-the-heels men with no job or purpose that wander around every city. It wasn’t hard.

I wondered if I’d see Saltanat again, then stripped my mind of all irrelevancies and crossed the road. The concrete walls were just as high as I remembered, and the broken glass on top still as evil-looking. The metal gates were shut, and no sound of life from the house inside. There would be guards on the lookout, so I dawdled along, bottle of vodka in hand, faltering a little, just another alkash who drank his breakfast.

I drew level with the gates, pulled the pin on the grenade, tossed it over the gates. Nothing fancy, no movie-style dramatics, the way you might throw an empty cigarette packet aside. I lurched forward as if I’d caught my shoe on the edge of an uneven pavement, caught my balance the way drunks do, walked on.

One, two, three, four…

The explosion wasn’t particularly loud and it didn’t blow open the gates. But it was noisy enough, and I heard shrapnel clatter and bang against the metal. A thin smudge of blue-black smoke trickled uncertainly over the gate, and I heard shouting and curses. From the sound of it, I’d managed to cause some major damage to the bodywork of the car, maybe even to a no-neck or two.

I turned the corner, crossed over the street and up an unpaved alleyway, doubled back toward Chui Prospekt. I put the vodka down on the ground, a present for the next drunk who woke with a thirst and wondered where his next glass was waiting.