Tom Callaghan - A Spring Betrayal

“Tynaliev wants the matter closed. Nothing’s going to happen to Graves, not with the connections he’s got.”

“And you’re just going to roll over?”

“He wants you out of the country and me back behind a desk.”

Saltanat stared at me, and I sensed something new in her eyes. Contempt.

“It’s all political,” I said. “Graves invests here, everyone makes money, we don’t have to rely totally on the rubles sent home from Moscow. The state survives, the government stays strong. That’s the way it is.”

Saltanat said nothing, moved around the hotel room, pulling clothes out of drawers, off hangers, stuffing them into a large kit bag.

“What are you doing?” I asked, realizing the stupidity of the question even as I asked it.

“Taking your minister’s advice. I’ve had enough of being shot at, hunted, stabbed. Enough of knife fights, guns, the taste in my mouth when I saw those filthy films. And it’s all been pointless.”

“Graves won’t dare start up again. He’ll close down his adoption business, he’ll be watched from now on.”

“Great,” Saltanat said, zipping up her bag. “Maybe he’ll come and move to my country and start making his home movies again. You know he thinks he can get away with anything. And what does the famous Murder Squad inspector do? Shrugs, nods, walks away. So that’s what I’m going to do.”

Saltanat slung her bag over her shoulder, and headed for the door.

“You know, Akyl, I really admired your honesty, even your anger. You chose to do the right thing, even when it could have gotten you killed. You waded through the shit, but you didn’t let it corrupt you. But now?”

She shook her head.

“Either you’re no longer the man I thought you were, or you never were. You’ve got blood on your hands, Akyl, and it’s not just from the bad guys.”

“I love you,” I said. It was all I could think to say, and perhaps it was even true.

“No, Akyl,” Saltanat said, her hand on the door handle, a look of compassion crossing her face for a few seconds. “You might wish you did. But you’re in love with Chinara. So. End of story.”

She stared at me, revealing nothing.

“I’m taking Otabek with me. Someone has to care.”

And then she was gone.

I turned the computer screen away from the Internet café desk, but no one was paying me any attention. I finished typing my letter of resignation, read it through, sent it to the chief of police at Sverdlovsky station, adding a blind copy to Tynaliev for good measure.

Outside, the summer heat was baking Chui Prospekt, dust hanging in the air and coating the pavements. Inside the café, a weary air conditioning unit gave an occasional cough and splutter, doing nothing to cool the air.

I lit a cigarette, ignoring the notices about not smoking, looked at the memory stick in my hand. I plugged it into the computer, opened the video it contained. A couple of days earlier, I’d gone to my lockup to collect a few important items, and also sent money to Karakol to ensure the seven dead unknown babies were given a respectful funeral. They were laid to rest in a communal grave, in the same cemetery where I buried Chinara, a peaceful place overlooking a valley with the mountains in the distance.

And then I turned filmmaker.

The picture was grainy, amateur, shot on a handheld phone. But it showed Graves’s villa, late at night, the walls lit by floodlights, making blurred puddles on the road. The side door opened, and a man emerged, walking toward the car parked outside. The camera zoomed in, and it was Zhenbekov, checking the coast was clear. He was followed by Graves, his height and shaven head unmistakable. Zhenbekov unlocked the car, climbed behind the wheel, while Graves took the passenger seat. The headlights flicked on and the car started to move.

Then the image turned pure white, dazzling, before slowly coming back into focus. The car was a heap of fragments, twisted metal, splinters. The passenger door hung open, crooked on one hinge. A figure staggered out of the wreckage, twisting and whirling around. Graves, but most changed. His clothes were on fire, and burns scarred his head like patches of red and black paint. He had lost a hand, or rather was holding it with the one still attached. The film was silent, but it was easy to imagine the scream coming out of his mouth, shocked by the impossibility of what was happening to him.

He fell to the ground, rolling in an ecstasy of pain, blood splashing from his severed wrist onto the pavement, the way blood flows from a sacrificial sheep at a forty-day toi . Perhaps he remembered the screams and cries in his cellar, relived the pleasures of the knife and whip. Possibly he thought of the wealth and power he was leaving behind. Or maybe he just died, in pain and alone.

I attached the file to another e-mail, a one-off address in another country, and pressed send.

I remembered Saltanat walking away, never hesitating, never looking back.

We create rules to live by, to tell us how to act, to help us sleep at night. And when life shreds them into fragments thrown to the wind, all we can do is carry on.

But there’s always a price, because betrayal comes in many disguises.

First we betray our friends. Then we betray those who love us.

And finally, inevitably, we betray ourselves.

Maybe it’s love that redeems us. Or when we do what we know is right, whatever the consequences.

After a few moments, a reply to my e-mail arrived in my inbox. I opened it, my palms sweaty with anticipation, hope, fear. It was from the foreign address where I’d sent the film.

There were no words, only a short video clip.

A young boy, maybe eight years old, stood in front of the Sher-Dor Madrasah in Samarkand, dwarfed by the towering minarets and the ornate tiger mosaics. Otabek stared into the camera, his hair still cut in that odd lopsided fashion, clothes slightly too big, those of an older boy, but he looked healthy, well-fed. He clutched a woman’s hand, as if for protection, or reassurance. The woman was visible only from the waist down, slim long legs in black jeans tucked into shin-high lace-up combat boots.

He wasn’t smiling, looked guarded, but I could sense some of the fear had left his eyes, that he was no longer consumed by a terror that could pounce at any moment. He raised his free hand to give a tentative wave to the camera, then the screen went dark.

I watched the clip, over and over, until the café attendant tapped my shoulder and told me I’d run out of time.

As with my previous Akyl Borubaev novel, A Killing Winter , I owe a great deal to many people, whose continued help and encouragement is already acknowledged there.

To that list must be added:

In Germany: Sebastian Fitzek.

In Kyrgyzstan: Oksana Itikeeva and Umai Sultanova.

In the UAE: Isobel Abulhoul, Annabelle Corton, Baron Elliot, Michael Judd, Yvette Judge, Maryann Miranda, Meerim Morrison, Nyugen Ngoc, and Martin Tyler.

In the UK: Stefanie Bierwerth and her team at Quercus, especially Kathryn Taussig and Matthew Cowdery; Jakob Tanner at Waterstones; Marcus Wilson-Smith, whose Kyrgyz photos are the redeeming feature of my Facebook page ( www.facebook.com/tomcallaghanwriter).

As before, I owe huge thanks to Tanja Howarth, friend and agent extraordinaire, and my old pal Simon Peters, for criticism, encouragement, and a killing eye for typos.

My biggest debt, of course, is to everyone who read A Killing Winter , and who I hope will enjoy A Spring Betrayal as well.

All the characters and events in this book are entirely fictitious, and any errors, misinterpretations, or distortions of actual events are mine. Kyrgyzstan is a beautiful country with friendly people, and I hope no one will be put off visiting it by reading what is, after all, a crime novel.