Tom Callaghan - An Autumn Hunting

‘Where was his luxury London apartment near Harrods? His Upper East Side townhouse? His Malibu beach house? We might be the most landlocked country in the world, but that doesn’t stop a man wanting a superyacht, complete with helicopter pad and topless blonde models lounging on the deck.’

Aliyev looked around, gave a rueful smile. Perhaps he had once craved such toys, only to find himself in a cellar miles from anywhere remotely civilised.

‘He believed they would grant him the respect he craved. His vanity wouldn’t let him believe that no matter how much he spent, he would never have kulturny ; for the people he admired, he would always be that thug from some godforsaken shithole at the furthest end of the former Union.’

Aliyev threw back his vodka, reached for the glass he’d poured for me.

‘You’d think he’d know better,’ he said, raising the glass in a mock-toast. ‘And now all his money and power are useless. Unless he’s discovered a way of spending it in hell.’

He downed the vodka, wincing as the alcohol burnt his throat.

‘But you still haven’t told me how he planned to acquire all this immense wealth. Or why you killed him. So I think your story is only half-told, Inspector. And it’s that half that’s stopping me ensuring you end up like my predecessor, Maksat. On a slab waiting for Kenesh Usupov’s scalpel to unpick your secrets.’

It was time to come clean. Any more dancing around and I’d waltz right into a grave. I finished my tea, cleared my throat, ready to sing.

And that was when Zakir came over, his face a curious mix of triumph and worry.

‘ Pakhan , the news on the TV? Tynaliev? The minister this gopnik shot? They say he’s alive, seriously wounded but expected to recover, undergoing surgery with the reporters waiting outside the hospital.’

Zakir turned to me, and the hatred in his eyes was unmistakable.

‘You pizda , you useless piece of shit, you couldn’t even kill him.’

And to prove his point, he spat in my face.

The warm phlegm dribbled down my cheek, thick, sticky as glue. I wiped my face with my sleeve, looked up at Zakir, gave the forgiving smile I knew he would hate. I kept my voice level, unconcerned.

‘Look at my face, Zakir. Remember it, memorise every feature, every crease and wrinkle. Because it’s the last face you’ll see before your world goes dark. And I’ll be looking down the barrel of a gun, smiling, just like now.’

Zakir raised his fists, ready to rearrange my face, but his boss held up a restraining hand.

‘Go sit down,’ he said. There was nothing but steel in his voice.

Zakir scowled at me, drew his forefinger across his throat, walked away. I know myself how hard it can be to follow orders, but sometimes you have no choice.

‘You have a talent for pissing people off,’ Aliyev said, ‘and Zakir doesn’t forget insults. Of course, you might not live long enough for him to do something about it.’

I shrugged; there comes a point where the threats start to cancel each other out, and you start to wonder how to turn shit to your advantage.

We spent the next two days like moles, emerging only at night to grab ten minutes of clean air before returning to our cellar. I wondered if it might not become our tomb, depending on who was hunting us. Aliyev had forbidden anyone to smoke, knowing how far the smell can carry on the air, so most of us were bad-tempered in our withdrawal, looking for any excuse to argue or fight. The news continued to carry the latest reports on Tynaliev’s condition, and the less in danger he appeared, the more in danger I became.

Aliyev and I were the only ones interested in showers, so the smell of Kyrgyz thug grew heavier, sickly sweet as rotting fruit. Aliyev had decided to wait to question me further until we were certain Tynaliev would live. Now my future seemed so short, I just lay on my bunk and thought about my past.

My dreams were broken and confused, as if the unfamiliar surroundings prevented me from diving fully into sleep. I relived the mercy killing of my wife, Chinara, as she lay in the hospital bed, cancer chewing the meat off her bones. The pillow placed over her face, the final upraised hand, whether in protest or waving a farewell approval and benediction, I would never know. I would jerk awake at that point, heart hammering, hands clammy, wonder why I never dreamt of the happy times we had together. Guilt binds you with heavy chains and there’s no key to the padlock.

The nights were difficult but the days were harder. Tell nothing but the truth, you don’t have to worry about remembering the lies you told. If you’re doing all you can to keep as many cards as close to your chest as you can, knowing a single slip-up could put you in your grave, the strain becomes enormous. Aliyev was the sharpest interrogator I’d ever come across: a large part of his rise to the underworld throne must have depended upon it. Every few moments, he’d track back to a question he’d asked earlier, to see if I gave the same answers, if the pieces still slotted together. When I’d questioned suspects in the past, it was to find out whether they were guilty or not. Aliyev wasn’t interested in such moral judgements, he just wanted as clear an idea of the big picture as possible, on which to base his strategy and tactics. Right or wrong, good or bad, was never part of his equation.

We kept returning to the central questions: how did Tynaliev intend to become rich; why did I try to kill him?

The answer to the first question was obvious, I told him. Heroin, smuggled across the Tadjik border from Afghanistan, then shipped on to Russia to feed the veins of almost two million ‘antisocial elements’. It’s become harder to get heroin out of Afghanistan and into the lucrative markets in the West via Pakistan, so now it’s a case of go east, young man. The Tadjik borders are as porous as muslin; the mountains make it almost impossible to police. And there’s usually someone to turn a blind eye as the mule trains go past in return for a few engraved pictures of Benjamin Franklin. Life might be cheap in our part of Central Asia, but that doesn’t make living any less expensive.

By the afternoon of the first day’s relentless questioning, my nerves were frayed to the point where I could almost admit to anything, simply to sit back and smoke a cigarette down to the filter in one long majestic drag. Hell, I’d even smoke a papirosh cobbled together from roadside tobacco and the sports page of Achyk Sayasat . But it would be the final cigarette of the condemned man, and I wasn’t quite ready to face my execution yet.

‘What made Tynaliev think he could get away with trying to cut into our operation?’ Aliyev asked, giving me the kind of look that said we both understood the world doesn’t work like that.

‘He didn’t get round to explaining that to me,’ I replied. ‘He might have wanted me to work for him, but that doesn’t mean he was going to share his plan with me.’

‘He must have given you some idea what he wanted you to do? His tame policeman, used to obeying orders, doing as you were told.’

I simply shook my head, knowing any answer would be a lie.

‘Didn’t he realise that if he tried to move into our territory, we would have sent someone to eliminate him? Someone with a better aim than yours?’

My head was pounding, the dull burn you get when all you want is caffeine, nicotine and the chance to close your eyes.

‘He wasn’t too specific,’ I said, as if having a truth reluctantly dragged out of me. ‘I’d be some kind of liaison, with the Afghans, or maybe the Tadjiks. I knew I’d never get my old job back, and I need to put samsi on the table like everyone else.’