Tom Callaghan - A Spring Betrayal

All of this delivered in a flat, impersonal tone, the more wounding because of it.

There was nothing I could say.

I stared at my reflection in the mirror above the small desk. Eyes empty as bruises on a corpse’s face. Was there any way back to feeling anything other than despair and anger?

“You’ve struck at him three times now. He’s not stupid. You think he won’t be waiting for you to pull another hit? You’ll walk into a trap, and you won’t ever know what hit you when someone gets a .22 to whisper in your ear.”

“What do you suggest, Saltanat? I’m the one on the run from the police,” I said, “the one with nowhere to go. You want to drive me over to Sverdlovsky so I can hand myself in?”

“You really want my advice?” she asked. “Or would that just be the ideal excuse to storm out and get yourself blown away?”

I looked at Saltanat, drawn in by her anger, her crystal-hard intelligence. The sudden thought of living without her was almost intolerable, like having a limb amputated without anesthetic. And, as always, I wondered if there was anything she could find to enjoy in a man like me.

I sighed, nodded, offered a cigarette, lit hers and mine.

“I rely on you,” I said, “more than I should.”

If I was expecting her to melt into my arms, I was mistaken. She squinted at me through the smoke that coiled between us, her eyes determined, suspicious.

“I don’t need bullshit, Akyl,” she said. “I don’t need lies. Not from anyone. And especially not from you.”

She reached over, stroked my cheek in the gesture of a friend rather than a lover, took her hand away, sat upright on the bed.

“This is what we’re going to do,” she said, “and listen to me. Otherwise, you’re on your own.”

For the next half hour, I listened while Saltanat outlined her plan. It made sense as far as it went; she countered every objection, answered every question. When she finished, I looked at her, not pretending to hide my admiration.

“Pretty impressive,” I said.

She gave the smile that had always captivated me.

“It’s the obvious course of action. Or it would be if you weren’t so keen on getting shot.”

I nodded, as if agreeing with her. But I also wanted to put Graves in the ground, preferably after an unhealthy dosage of pain and blood.

“When do you want to get started?” I asked.

“Let’s go and see the adoption people. Who knows, they might even think we’d make wonderful parents,” she said, and smiled as if scenting prey.

The ministry building where the bureaucrats in charge of adoptions huddle is yet another tribute to the glories of Soviet architecture. A depressing stained fake-marble entrance conceals a rarely working elevator that judders to a halt at floors hiding endless narrow corridors. Every second lightbulb is missing or burned out, and those that work don’t dispel the gloom. A shoulder-height smear of dirt reveals where people stand in line for hours, leaning against the wall before closed doors that rarely open. The building smells, unaccountably, of smoked fish, old sweat, and drains. As a place supposed to offer new hope and fresh beginnings, it doesn’t show any enthusiasm for the task.

I followed Saltanat until she stopped at a door somewhat less battered than the others we’d passed. A piece of paper taped to the door read K. SAKATAEV, DIRECTOR. Saltanat rapped sharply and opened the door. An overweight silver-haired man sat behind a conspicuously bare desk, looking up in outrage as we strode in. Before he could open his mouth to speak, Saltanat flashed a credentials wallet, stuffing it back in her bag before he could read what it said.

“Director Sakataev?” she said, her voice hard with authority. “Irina Shaikova, senior investigator for child welfare. This gentleman is Inspector Akyl Borubaev of Bishkek Murder Squad.”

I handed Sakataev my credentials, hoping he wouldn’t know I was on the run from my colleagues. The red-faced man turned white, wondering what crime of his we’d discovered. Even the innocent feel uneasy when two policemen arrive to question them. And in this city, there aren’t many innocents.

“I don’t know what—” Sakataev started to stutter, then shut up when Saltanat held up her hand.

“This isn’t about you, Director. At least, not yet,” she threatened. I looked at Sakataev, wondered if he was in the early throes of a heart attack.

“Just a few questions, that’s all. For the moment,” I said, and gave my least pleasant smile as I did so.

“Naturally, of course, if I can help in any way,” Sakataev said, eagerness to please evident.

“As you know, families are the first to suffer during periods of, shall we say, instability? Which all too often leads to families breaking up, and the children being housed in orphanages,” Saltanat said.

Sakataev nodded, looking relieved that the conversation wasn’t aimed at any scam he might be undertaking.

“When the moratorium on foreigners adopting children was lifted back in 2011, my post was created to protect our children from the risk of trafficking, sex abuse, or organ sales,” Saltanat continued. “I’m sure you agree this was the right policy.”

“I ensure very strict vetting of all foreigners who apply to adopt,” Sakataev said, “and of foreign agencies, naturally.”

Saltanat nodded her approval. I simply folded my arms, leaned against the wall, gave Sakataev the benefit of a policeman’s hard stare.

“The system works very well,” Saltanat confided, “but human nature being what it is, and with foreigners willing to pay huge amounts, there’s always a risk that some under-the-counter deal goes through.”

Sakataev replaced his look of fear with one of sorrow; I didn’t like either one, or the way he kept sneaking a look at Saltanat’s breasts.

“I can assure you no one in my department would ever consider such a thing.”

“However, you understand we have to investigate any cases reported to us,” Saltanat said. I kept my mouth shut, and simply stared at Sakataev a little harder.

“The inspector here has a personal commitment to such cases, and doesn’t leave any aspect unexamined.”

Sakataev opened his desk drawer and started to rummage around. The Yarygin was in my hand at once, not pointed at him exactly, but not in the opposite direction either.

“Slowly, tovarich, slowly,” I said. “Let’s not make any mistakes we might regret.”

His look of sorrow turned into one of terror, the way a rain cloud suddenly scuds over the Tien Shan mountains. His hand shook as he took out a bottle of vodka and three small glasses.

“I thought we might…” he started, and then fell silent.

I replaced my gun, and shook my head.

“Thank you, but no, Director,” Saltanat said. “But please, if you feel you must have a drink, then by all means go ahead.”

Sakataev poured himself a more than generous shot, threw it back, spluttered, and waited for the alcohol to hit.

“I don’t normally make a practice of this,” he said, voice hoarse from the vodka.

I raised an eyebrow, the cynical, suspicious cop who disbelieves everything he’s told on principle. Sakataev noticed, and poured himself another, smaller drink. I walked over, looked through the open drawer, knowing he wouldn’t have the courage to object. There was the usual detritus of pencil stubs, paperclips crusted with earwax, a few scribbled notes with first names and phone numbers. I also noticed a set of car keys on a BMW fob. A framed photograph showed Sakataev posing proudly beside his car in front of an elegant dacha.

“Let me tell you what I’m looking for, Mr. Director,” I said, injecting a tone of menace into my voice. “A list of the foreign adoption agencies here in Bishkek, and the names of your contacts in each one.”