Tom Callaghan - An Autumn Hunting

We rode back to Bishkek in a silence punctuated only by the coughs, splutters and general wheezing of the marshrutka engine. After the guards had checked the grounds and house were clear, we sat in the kitchen to get warm. Aliyev made tea and handed me a glass.

Finally, he spoke.

‘You’ve nothing to say about what happened up at the sanatorium?’

I stared at the ceiling for a moment, picturing the smoke drifting up from the trees and across towards the mountains. I remembered the smell of the burning, wondered if any of it was human flesh, dismissed the thought.

‘I hate helicopters,’ I said. ‘Always have.’

Aliyev looked at me, as if examining an unusual and rare botanical specimen.

‘That’s a very pragmatic attitude, Inspector, particularly for a man with a reputation as a white knight.’

I shrugged; when you’re on the run, noble gestures become too great a risk. And I couldn’t help wondering if all the police work I’d done, all the crimes I’d solved, all the villains I’d put behind the walls of Penitentiary One, if it had all been pointless. Perhaps all it had led to was drinking tea with the biggest villain in Kyrgyzstan.

‘I didn’t take any pleasure in eliminating Yusup,’ Aliyev explained, his voice thick with fake sincerity. ‘He would have done the same to me in different circumstances. When you’re in a business like ours, you have to do harsh things.’

He drained his glass, poured himself another half, pushed the sugar in my direction.

‘No woman to take care of us, you see,’ and there was an almost apologetic tone in his voice, as if being on either side of the law excludes you from normal family life. ‘You have no family, I believe, Inspector?’

I shook my head.

‘I know about your wife,’ Aliyev said. ‘A tragedy. And if you’d been working for me…’

‘Yes?’

‘We would have flown her to Moscow. Or Geneva. Wherever the best treatment was to be found. We look after our own, you see.’

I knew Chinara would never have accepted treatment paid for by drug addiction, prostitution, blackmail and corruption, even if it cost her her life. I debated telling Aliyev, decided there was no point. Chinara was dead and buried, and the sun had rarely shone for me since.

I thought about Saltanat, the woman I was half in love with, wondered if she was back in Uzbekistan or somewhere in the field, her cross-hairs already trained on eliminating an enemy of the state. Perhaps I was on her hit list, if Tynaliev’s influence stretched as far as Tashkent.

I wondered about Otabek, the small boy Saltanat and I had rescued from the clutches of a wealthy foreign paedophile, the man I’d later assassinated knowing the only justice he would ever have to face would be when he walked with the dead. Saltanat had taken Otabek away with her, hoping to mend his mind, and I wondered whether he was still mute, suspicious of the adult world, afraid of the horrors that stalked it.

‘It can’t be easy, losing someone to such a terrible disease,’ Aliyev said, and I wanted to punch his sympathy back down his throat until the hypocrisy and pointlessness of it choked him.

But most of all, I knew my anger and resentment and disgust were all aimed at one person, the man who stood every morning with a razor in his hand and avoided staring into his eyes in my mirror.

Using a pillow to end Chinara’s final suffering, I’d spared her some small amount of pain. The world at large would call it a mercy killing. In the deepest caves of my heart, I could call it nothing else but murder.

‘You’re offering me condolences now?’ I asked.

‘You’re not the only person who’s lost someone,’ Aliyev said, a surprisingly gentle tone in his voice. ‘Maybe I’ll tell you about it one day.’

I didn’t reply, stood up.

‘Sit down.’

I remained standing, and I saw the attention of the guard in the room suddenly switch to high alert.

‘Sit down. Please.’

I couldn’t see an alternative that wouldn’t get me shot, so I did as he asked.

‘You need to get out of the country.’

A statement, not a question, and one with which I could only agree.

‘You don’t have any money, any hidden savings, unless you’re not the policeman I take you for.’

It’s all very well being told you’re an honest cop, but honeyed words did nothing to get me out of the shit I was in.

‘Your former colleagues will shoot you down on sight, and if you survive, then the minister will pick your bones clean.’

I nodded.

‘So really, the only choice you have is to work for me.’

Aliyev saw the self-disgust in my face, took a cigarette, sparked it and inhaled.

‘Don’t worry, I’m not suggesting you become a hitman. One simple job and you’re done, with enough money to stay out of trouble as long as you stay out of Kyrgyzstan. Interested?’

‘I’d like to hear more.’

‘Of course, but first let me ask you something. You’re not afraid of flying, are you?’ he asked, and I could hear the concern in his voice. ‘You have flown before?’

‘Sure,’ I said, ‘I just hate—’

‘I know,’ Aliyev interrupted, ‘helicopters. I’m not surprised, after what you’ve seen today. But you don’t have a problem with regular flying?’

‘No.’

‘Good. Because you’re going to be doing a lot of it.’

Nothing prepares you for the sheer scale and noise of Bangkok. People in a raging hurry wherever you go, swarming like ants along the pavements, faces taut and stressed, as if a moment lost meant an opportunity missed. The scent of exotic spicy foods hanging in the thick moist air that drapes itself like a wet blanket around your face. Endless streams of cars beyond counting, drivers hammering on their horns as if the din could make the gridlocked traffic creep forward even a few metres. The high-pitched scream and blare of thousands of vehicles bounced off the glass-sided towers clinging to the roadside. I was overwhelmed by the energy, the ferocious never-ending pace of the city. I felt helpless, a swimmer struggling against a current dragging me inexorably to a waterfall whose journey ended on jagged rocks. I was a long way from Bishkek.

I’d watched the green fields turn to endless rows of buildings from the aircraft window, leaning over in the business-class seat Aliyev had provided.

‘Thailand isn’t like Kyrgyzstan,’ he’d said. ‘Here, we keep our heads down. But in Asia, you need to put yourself about a bit. The best hotels, fine restaurants, a limousine service at your call twenty-four hours a day. You’ll be representing me: that means they have to believe you’re important, a big man in my organisation. No backpacker hostel on Khao San Road and a one-week Rabbit Travelcard for the Skytrain. Who knows, Inspector, once you get a taste of luxury, you might even get to like it.’

I decided not to fight it. And as Aliyev pointed out to me, flying business means you stand out from the crowd of tourists, and being in full sight was the best disguise I could have. One of the guards had taken my measurements, came back a few hours later with a couple of suits, shirts, shoes, and an elegant leather case to put them in. They were the smartest, most expensive clothes I’d ever worn, and I could almost forget the blood and tears staining them.

I’d flown to Bangkok from Tashkent, since heading to Manas Airport would have meant my sure arrest. Aliyev could have fixed me up with a new passport, but I knew my face would be in front of every immigration official, ticket counter clerk and security guard at the airport. A change of name and nationality wouldn’t help.

I’d been smuggled into Uzbekistan in the middle of the night, thrown like a sack of potatoes into the boot of a Moskvitch that had never seen better days. The car had once boasted a suspension and efficient brakes, but those glory days were nothing but a memory. There were a few tense moments as we stopped at a checkpoint, and I had to hold the boot closed, but after a brief exchange of words (and maybe a quick gift of dollars), we were on our way again. I suspected I could probably have ridden across the border on a white stallion, dressed as a ballet dancer from the Bolshoi Ballet, given Aliyev’s connections, but I think the Moskvitch catered to his sense of drama and intrigue. As well as reminding me who was boss.