Tom Callaghan - An Autumn Hunting

Aliyev gave the semi-conscious bundle at his feet a nudge with his toe before tossing the spoon into the half-full sink. A hint of steam rose from the water then the spoon was just a kitchen utensil once more. That’s the frightening thing about torture; how quickly it reverts to normality. Not just for the instruments, but for the torturers as well.

‘For all we know, this house might be surrounded by men Zakir led here. And there’s no tunnel for us to scramble through. So if we’re going to end up fighting, I need to know whose side you’re on, Inspector.’

Aliyev reached over to the next counter, picked up the Makarov lying there, handed it to me.

‘For a start, finish off this piece of rubbish,’ he said, pointing down at Zakir.

I’ve been a serving police officer for too long to have any illusions about the criminals I come into contact with. But I can live with myself knowing I’ve fired my gun in self-defence; otherwise it would have been me lying on the left-hand side in the traditional yurt, the man’s side, waiting for the men to wrap my body and carry me down to the burying place.

I could even argue that shooting Tynaliev was a case of getting in my retaliation first. But killing Zakir would mean overstepping the line I’ve always drawn for myself. It would make me a criminal, perhaps worse than a criminal, a man who betrayed everything he’d ever thought important and honourable. I didn’t know if I could live with myself if I pulled the trigger, watched the begging in Zakir’s one remaining eye fade into indifference.

‘You want him dead,’ I said, ‘you do it. Or maybe you don’t have the stones. I think you’re worried about his face appearing on the pillow next to you before you go to sleep.’

I paused, considering the matter, gestured at the guards in the room.

‘You’ll really win their respect, won’t you? The pakhan who can’t kill. Big man. Until the next big man comes along.’

Aliyev swung the gun in my direction, and I imagined the bullet’s bite as it gnawed its way deep into my guts.

‘You’re betting your life I won’t kill you?’ he asked. ‘Remind me never to play cards with you. It would be too easy to win.’

I took the gun from Aliyev’s hand, pointed it at Zakir’s head. I didn’t take my eyes off Aliyev’s face.

‘This is how a man does it,’ I said, in a harsh, brutal voice I hardly recognised, and pulled the trigger as Zakir gave out a last anguished howl.

The gun dry-fired, as I’d gambled it would, the dull click somehow filling the room. Aliyev was far too smart, far too cautious, to give a fully loaded gun to anyone he didn’t trust, and so far I fell hard into that category. I handed the gun back, shrugged, refusing to look at Zakir and see the misplaced hope in his face.

‘Misfire,’ I said, not wanting Aliyev to think I’d guessed his bluff all along.

‘I’m sure you’re right, Inspector,’ he said, taking a magazine out of his pocket, loading the gun, pulling the trigger.

The back of Zakir’s head took flight across the room, followed by a crimson spray and grey gobbets of brain. The stink of his shit where he’d messed himself was suddenly stronger. I could taste the tang of fresh blood in my mouth, wondered if it was his, realised I’d bitten the inside of my cheek.

‘Perhaps you should stick to shooting ministers of state,’ Aliyev said, waving a head at the others to clean up the mass that had once been a man.

‘I wasn’t even very good at that,’ I said, forcing a grin onto my face.

‘Different people, different skills,’ Aliyev said. ‘Zakir was a stone killer, a one-man death sentence, but, let’s face it, not as smart, not as cunning, as you. And these days, winning is all about brains. That’s why they’re mopping his up off the floor, and you and I are still talking. Betrayal? Disloyalty? You’ve seen where that gets you in my world.’

‘Do you end all your job interviews like that?’

Aliyev spread his hands, palm upward, the universal image of a man misunderstood.

‘I need people who can think, then act. Just one or the other is no use to me.’

I simply nodded; I didn’t tell him that when you’ve handled hundreds of guns for thousands of times over a couple of decades, you can tell at once if the weapon is loaded or not. It’s knowledge you keep to yourself, just in case it comes in handy sometime.

Aliyev ordered coffee, had someone bring me tea, asked if I wanted sugar or a spoonful of jam. Maybe this was also part of the recruitment process. Better than boot camp, at any rate.

I had been wondering when the ‘if I only had the manpower, I could rule the world’ speech would kick in. Every major criminal I’ve ever sent to Penitentiary One has been convinced he’d been caught because of the failings of others. I was pretty certain Aliyev, however smart and resourceful, would share this basic flaw.

No doubt the man was persuasive. His vision and plan stretched far beyond the latest sports car, lavish meals that never ended with a bill, and a procession of beautiful woman who demanded everything expensive they could think of when their mouths weren’t otherwise engaged.

He talked of extending his markets, of importing new drugs for people who wanted to get high but didn’t want to go within a hundred metres of heroin. He spoke of extending the old tried and tested methods – bribery, intimidation, murder – to include social media, news manipulation, innovative delivery routes. And all the time, it came back to the familiar lament: where can I find people who understand and want to be part of the new order, the world according to Aliyev?

‘Men like Zakir and the others are fine when it comes to waving a fist full of som or a fistful of fist in front of some minor border guard. But where’s the nuance, the subtlety? I want an operation that moves without ever disturbing the surface of the waters, you understand?’

I nodded. I did understand. A shark, invisible, moving towards its prey until the final seconds before the strike and the killing. The instant when you know everything is about to end. I remembered the poem Usupov had found on the dead girl once he’d stripped her of her secrets, her hopes, her identity. Tiptoes past kisses still sweet but fading . Life once you start using your veins as a dartboard? Or when you decide to betray yourself and all you’ve worked for?

I could still see the pallor of her skin, count the bites of the syringe, smell the moment of her death. I knew about the children that would never be hers, the home of which she would be so proud, of the husband who stayed loyal.

Either the dead all count, or none of them do.

A philosophy by which I’ve tried to live so far. Maybe one which was going to kill me.

Finally I’d endured enough of the master plan, decided it was time to drag reality back into the picture.

‘I’m flattered you’re telling me all this. But right now, don’t you think we should find out who set out to blow us into scraps of meat at Derevyashka? And whose storm troopers attacked the safe house? Imported mercenaries or problems with your Chinese suppliers?’

Aliyev nodded, slammed his open hand down hard on the table. One of the guards looked over, saw no immediate danger, turned round to stare blank-faced into the unfathomable future.

‘That’s exactly what I’m talking about. Someone who understands the big picture and the details that need to be dealt with.’

Aliyev gave the smile I was getting used to, the one that never considered reaching his eyes.

‘Handing you over to the authorities gets me a lot of concessions. And the minister’s interest in seeing you wouldn’t be held back by being in a hospital bed.’