Tom Callaghan - An Autumn Hunting

We floated down the river until the sky began to lighten in the east, and it was no longer safe to be on the water. I scrambled over the side, gasping as the water’s icy bite gnawed at my legs. I dragged the dinghy the last metre or so into the bank, stretched my hand out to help Aliyev, remembered he could walk perfectly well.

He slashed the side of the dinghy to deflate it and we watched it slowly settle into the water. With any luck, it wouldn’t be found until we were long gone, with no reason to connect it to us.

‘Now what?’

‘We walk.’

Two hours later, the sun was up, a thin mist rolling across the farmland in front of us. There wasn’t any sign of civilisation ahead, and I wondered if Aliyev had any idea of where we were going.

‘There’s a road about three kilometres ahead. I’ve arranged a pickup from there, made the call while you were asleep,’ he said.

An hour or so later, we reached a narrow track that gave every appearance of being abandoned.

‘Now we wait,’ he said, and gave a rare smile, coloured by a gold filling towards the back of his mouth. I found it reassuring that the pakhan had endured Kyrgyz dentistry along with the rest of us. No expensive private dental work in Moscow for him. A man of the people, as long as the people are also criminals. I sat down with my back resting against a tree, trying to ignore the chill seeping into my legs and sodden feet.

I must have dozed off again for a few minutes when Aliyev woke me. For a few seconds I wondered where I was, then remembered my strange nocturnal cruise along the Chui.

‘Time to go, Inspector.’

‘You’re taking me with you?’

‘Of course,’ Aliyev said, his grin hardly reassuring. ‘You’re much too important to leave behind.’

The waiting truck was held together by rust and some army-green paint. An exhaust pipe gave out an occasional tubercular cough followed by a cloud of blue smoke. I gave Aliyev a look of surprise.

‘What dim-witted rural ment is going to stop a broken-down shitheap like this?’ he said. ‘Everyone knows a pakhan wouldn’t travel anywhere in anything less than a Mercedes.’

He led the way towards the truck, with me walking off to one side, keenly aware of the rifle aimed at us from the half-open passenger window. I didn’t want to get in the line of fire if this turned out to be a bid for a new leader for the Brothers. I could tell Aliyev had the same thought, as he let his gun swing seemingly nonchalant by his side, eyes alert to a possible ambush.

He only relaxed when he saw the driver and his passenger, recognised them as loyal men. Or possibly his feet hurt as much as mine did.

‘You’re riding in the back, I’m afraid, Inspector,’ Aliyev said. ‘Don’t worry, there are enough holes in the sides to see you get lots of fresh air. And the boys will have cleaned out most of the goat and sheep shit.’

I opened the back door, took a deep breath. The boys could have done a better job, but I didn’t have much choice. I climbed in, heard the bolts scrape shut behind me. Thin shafts of light streamed in through bullet holes on one side of the truck. I picked the least dirty part of the floor and sat down on the bare metal.

I managed to doze off, in spite of the unyielding floor and the constant buffeting from the unmade road. When I woke, the noise of traffic outside and the comparative smoothness of the road told me we were back in Bishkek. I assumed we were going to yet another of Aliyev’s safe houses – in another life, he would have made a great property developer. Finally, we ground to a lurching halt and a fist hammered on the back door. The hinges screamed and the light poured in; I wondered if it would be accompanied by a spattering of bullets.

‘Out.’

A gruff voice I didn’t recognise, so I pulled myself to my feet, lurched to the door, lowered myself onto the ground. We were in an enclosed courtyard, with high brick walls and solid metal gates. The two-storey house was nothing special to look at, but all the windows had steel shutters, and the front door looked capable of withstanding anything short of a shell from a T-42 tank.

Half a dozen men stood nearby, hands close to their weapons, watching for the first signs of threat. Aliyev shrugged at the look on my face.

‘They don’t know you, Inspector. You’ll understand trusting a police officer doesn’t come naturally to them.’

‘These days, it doesn’t come naturally to me either,’ I said.

‘I’m sure the penalties for failing to kill a state minister are much lighter than if you’d actually succeeded,’ Aliyev said. ‘Perhaps better marksmen in the firing squad?’

We both knew if Tynaliev ever caught up with me, I’d want to die a long time before he finally obliged.

‘What have I got to lose?’ I shrugged. ‘Whoever kills me, they can only do it to me once.’

‘It’s how they do it that counts,’ Aliyev said, and I sensed the shark’s fin break out of the water, circling in search of prey.

‘Something to eat?’ he said. ‘Then perhaps we resume our chat? I find your insights illuminating. Like reading the mind across the other side of the chessboard.’

Except you’re not the one facing checkmate, I thought.

We walked towards the house, the door swinging open as we grew near.

‘I made a few calls on the way here,’ Aliyev said, gesturing for me to enter before him. ‘You’ll be surprised to hear we weren’t the only survivors of last night’s troubles. I’m not sure how they managed to get away, but it should be enlightening to find out.’

The hall was as gloomy as I’d expected, brown-painted walls, pairs of outdoor shoes and felt slippers scattered in one corner. A large mirror hung slightly askew on one wall, the backing silver tarnished and chipped away in places. A diagonal crack split my refection in half, obliterating my left eye.

‘Not the Hyatt Regency, I’m afraid, but at least it’s above ground,’ Aliyev said with an almost-sincere apologetic smile.

‘No one trying to kill us either,’ I said.

‘Give it time.’

That wasn’t the most comforting comment I’d ever heard, but the house looked impregnable enough. The only question was who would come looking for us. The police and Tynaliev’s security team? The attackers at the last safe house? Aliyev’s rivals in the mob? Quicker and easier to compile a list of people who didn’t want us dead. But at least I’d made it into the inner circle, the first small step towards what I had to do.

As I stood in the hall, avoiding the accusing stare from my reflection in the mirror, I heard footsteps on the wooden staircase at the far end of the room.

Then all questions of who might want to see me dead at some point in the future faded away. Because I knew the man who stood in front of us, fists clenched at his sides, was very keen to see me dead there and then.

‘ Privyet , Zakir,’ I said. ‘Good to see you escaped too. You couldn’t make me a cup of tea by any chance, could you?’

For a second Zakir looked confused, almost childlike, as he tried to work out what lay behind my simple request. Then, as the full force of my insult hit him and he snarled with rage, my boot connected with the side of his kneecap. Hard. His bellow of anger morphed into a howl of pain as he stumbled against the wall.

When it comes to fighting, whoever gets in the first, unexpected blow almost always wins. Do it like you mean it and it usually takes just one. You don’t bother waiting around to discuss exactly what’s troubling them; strike first.

‘You’re quicker off the mark than I’d taken you for,’ Aliyev said.