Tom Callaghan - An Autumn Hunting

It was then I heard the unmistakable clatter of a helicopter. Whoever they were, money was never going to be a problem.

I don’t care for helicopters. When I’m in one, I have to concentrate through sheer willpower on keeping the thing from tumbling from the sky and smashing into some mountainside. The winds are unpredictable in the Tien Shan, especially in the autumn. Sudden unexpected gusts sweep the loose snow from the peaks, hurling it into the air, reducing visibility to zero in seconds. And it’s at that moment the mountains are transformed into giant, jagged and razor-edged teeth, ready to bite down in anger at the temerity of anyone foolish enough to intrude on their territory.

I still had no idea who I was going to meet, but I knew they must be reckless. That didn’t do much for my confidence. The rotor blades grew louder, dropped in pitch as they slowed down, finally stopped.

In the sudden silence, my stomach rumbled, and I wondered why Aliyev hadn’t brought food. Either the meeting was going to be a short one, or no one would be leaving alive, so why bother?

I watched the two guards in the room as they checked their Kalashnikovs, flicked the safety catches into the ‘fire’ position, positioned themselves at opposite sides of the room slightly in front of us, to command a complete field of fire. Ex-military, had to be, maybe lured out of the forces by dollars or the adrenalin of danger. There’s a perverse comfort in knowing the men with weapons are trained not to panic and spray the room and everyone in it with sudden death. I only hoped our visitors would be as well-behaved.

We waited in silence, alert for the sound of boots on the gravel path outside. I moved to behind the wooden table, ready to topple it onto its side for shelter in case whoever walked through the door came in shooting.

‘Aliyev?’

A voice from outside, shouting from a safe distance. I glanced over at Aliyev, saw him nod to the guards. The one nearest the door pulled back the bolt, let the ill-fitting wood swing open. The guard peered outside, seemed satisfied with what he saw, beckoned Aliyev to join him.

In the doorway, Aliyev cupped his hands, made sure anyone outside could see he wasn’t carrying.

‘I’ve got two guards with me. And the inspector. Please join us. With two of your men, obviously.’

I moved to one side, so I could look beyond Aliyev in the doorway. At first, I saw no one, then a patch of green detached itself from the larch trees opposite, became recognisable as a man wearing camo. Two more figures emerged, both similarly armed as Aliyev’s men, pointing the business end of their Kalashnikovs in a vague direction not too far from us.

As the man moved closer, I could see he wasn’t Russian, not even Kyrgyz. He had the dark colouring and flat cheeks of the Chinese who live over the other side of the mountains near Urumchi, skin weathered and baked by the desert. Uyghur maybe, or Dungan, with a dash of Han Chinese thrown in for good measure. Thick black hair swept back from his forehead gave him a powerful, confident look, a man used to giving orders and having them obeyed.

I watched him approach, until he stood a couple of metres away from the entrance, his men flanking him, their eyes watchful, cautious.

‘Yusup,’ Aliyev said, holding out his right hand in greeting. Yusup raised his right arm in response, and even from where I stood, I could see three of the fingers on his hand were missing. He said nothing, but nodded his response to the greeting.

‘We’ve always got along in the past, Yusup,’ Aliyev said, his hands palm upwards, a peaceful gesture. ‘You’ve had your business interests, we’ve had ours, and where they’ve coincided, we’ve reached an agreement, divided the territories up.’

Aliyev stepped outside the building, the wind catching at his hair, his jacket open to show he was unarmed. I followed him, the guards close behind. When Aliyev spoke, his voice was mild, conciliatory.

‘Neither of us wants a war. Dead bodies draw the attention of governments, yours and mine, and I imagine your prisons are every bit as brutal as ours. If any of us even succeed in making it as far as a cell, that is.’

Yusup continued to remain silent, but nodded his assent.

‘We know you need our trade routes to get to the Russians, the ones not already dosing themselves on home krokodil , that is. And we permit that, for a price, and up to a point. But now you’ve started to shift the “serial killer” into this country, and it’s got to stop.’

Without turning round, Aliyev must have guessed at the puzzled look on my face.

‘Carfentanil, Inspector. Hundreds if not thousands times more potent than heroin. Known in the USA as “serial killer”. For once, that’s an understatement.’

I thought back to the dead girl I’d found in her decrepit apartment, saw her body being turned into stewing steak, wondered if the man standing before us was her source, her executioner.

My fists tightened in anger, nails digging half-moons into my palms, and I knew I would enjoy beating him to death. Slowly, making each blow count, painful but not fatal. Cheekbones splintered, the ribcage torn apart like a tree struck by lightning, teeth scattered on the ground, dripping with blood.

You’re never going to stop people damaging themselves, with booze, nicotine, sex, drugs. But some things go beyond tolerance if you witness them yourself. I’ve always prided myself on self-control, even in the face of the horrors I’ve witnessed, so this visceral unexpected rage left me gasping. As a policeman, it would have been my duty to arrest him. As a human being, I thought the best thing to do was to put him in the ground.

‘We both supply drugs, Aliyev, you don’t have a moral high ground to preach from,’ Yusup said.

‘I don’t supply “serial killer”,’ Aliyev answered. ‘And I don’t supply drugs to my people.’

‘Which is why they come to me,’ Yusup said. ‘Or they buy once your product has reached Moscow, which naturally jacks up the price. So to feed themselves, they cut it so the next junkie down the line has to take more. Which costs more. So they steal, rob, mug… you know the story.’

Aliyev smiled.

‘As far as I’m concerned, the Russkies can shoot up with whatever they want. There’s no love lost between us. If they’re stupid enough to give me roubles to help them kill themselves, I won’t sit on my hands and shake my head. Of course, I sell. But not here.’

He paused, cupped his hands, blew into them for warmth, looked up at the sky, at the clouds starting to gather and shroud the mountains.

‘Anyway, the market here isn’t big enough to make the risks worthwhile. Especially if someone decides to trample on my turf.’

Commercial interest and self-preservation disguised as patriotism. I hated it, and I was trapped in it. For the first time I was grateful Chinara was dead and buried: my wife would have been ashamed of me.

A sudden breeze grew in strength and threatened to become a gale, scuttling along the treeline, pulling down leaves and sending them spiralling up into the air. I could taste the electricity in the air, smell the sharp, fresh scent of the ozone promising rain that would turn to snow up in the mountains. Issyk-Ata didn’t strike me as the sort of place you’d want to weather out a storm overnight.

‘I won’t sell them carfentanil either. One lethal and all too easy shot, you’ve lost a customer, so the money turns to a trickle. When you don’t have enough money for everyone to dip their beak, people get confused, nervous. They decide you’re weak, ready to be overthrown, and the safety catches on their guns are released. And after that, the first shot starts war.’