Tom Callaghan - An Autumn Hunting

Twenty kilometres and several bruises later, I was hauled out of the boot and given the back seat to sit on. I wasn’t sure which was more uncomfortable.

Checking in at Islam Karimov International Airport wasn’t a problem. I used my own passport, expecting my name wouldn’t have been circulated outside Kyrgyzstan. One of the good things about not getting on well with your neighbours: they’re never too anxious to help you catch your domestic criminals.

I had a couple of hours to get through before my flight, so I wandered into the business class lounge, hid behind a newspaper for an hour, and made a free local phone call, got an answerphone, left a message. Then a charming stewardess told us we had ten minutes to get to the boarding gate, only six hundred metres away.

Once on board, I watched out of the window as we taxied to the runway, expecting a jeep full of soldiers to come racing up to stop the flight, haul me off, and hand me over to a Kyrgyz welcoming party, but we took off without incident. The six-hour flight was certainly the most luxurious I’d ever been on, with wide seats and good food. The seat turned into a bed, but even if it hadn’t been the middle of the day, I had too much on my mind to let me sleep.

Aliyev had given me a thorough briefing on who I was to meet, what I was to say, what I could offer, what compromises I couldn’t make. I was surprised he’d chosen me to make the approach, but his logic was supremely easy to follow.

‘The people you’re going to meet are naturally cautious, suspicious of new faces. But when I tell them I’m sending the man whose balls are so big he shot the Minister for State Security in the back – well, that kind of reputation can’t be bought, only earned. And I’ve made sure they know all about it.’

I’m not sure if high praise from a notorious criminal boss counts in your favour in most social circles, but if it meant I wouldn’t be found face-down in a rice paddy, I was willing to accept it.

I was fast-tracked through immigration, and walked to the courtesy vehicle pickup. The airport was enormous, but still felt packed with thousands of people milling around. I was already starting to feel claustrophobic, missing the emptiness and silence of the mountains. But I had a job to do, and I’d never see the Tien Shan again if I didn’t succeed. Perhaps I wouldn’t see anything ever again.

I saw a long black town car was parked by the kerb, dwarfed by the driver who stood in front of it holding a sign with my name on it. In Cyrillic, no less, which impressed me. Clearly, I was meeting people who paid attention to every detail. It’s strangely comforting to see your name printed in letters you can read; God knows what I would have done with the beautiful but incomprehensible Thai alphabet.

The nearer I got to the car, the bigger the driver looked, until I realised I was standing next to a man well over two metres tall, and broad to match. An immaculate black suit, not a chauffeur’s uniform, would have made him look like a highly successful businessman, except I’d already spotted the bulge under his arm. My guess was a Glock Parabellum, and I wondered how I was going to manage without a weapon of my own.

The driver stared at me as I approached, or so I thought, his eyes hidden behind black sunglasses. Finally, I stood in front of him. No reaction, impassive. I think I was meant to be impressed, maybe even a little scared. I reached up and removed the glasses, and as he reacted, I slid my other hand into his jacket, lifted his gun partway out of the holster. His reaction was a half-second too slow, and he froze as I pulled at the gun.

‘If I pull the trigger now, my guess is I’ll hit a lung, maybe go through a kidney or the liver as well. You need less practice at looking scary, more time on the range.’

I let the pistol slide back into place, tucked the glasses into his pocket.

‘I’m Borubaev, and before I get in any car, I like to know where I’m going and who’s driving it.’

The driver glared, and began to lumber towards his seat. I simply stood there, my bag on the ground, my arms folded. Finally, he got the message, reached inside the car, released the boot lid, walked round to pick up my bag and stow it away.

After a moment, he reached for the rear door handle, but as he did so, I stepped forward, opened it myself, slid inside. Always keep men like that uncertain what you’ll do next, whether you’ll smile and ask after their children or start throwing punches and pulling triggers. It means they’ll be alert, which is never a bad thing in a bodyguard.

‘The hotel, sir?’ he finally said, and I nodded.

Against Aliyev’s advice, I’d had him book a small boutique hotel on Langsuan just up from Lumpini Park. It didn’t look like the sort of place where a successful international criminal would stay, and that suited me just fine. Big luxury hotels have lots of security men, CCTV cameras and staff who can spot when someone’s not quite right. It’s also all too easy for someone to find out what room you’re staying in, knock at the door, then put a bullet through the spyhole when it goes dark as you look out.

Langsuan isn’t a long street, at least not by Bangkok standards, with the park at one end and Chit Lom Skytrain station at the other. The road is one-way, so it’s easy to shake off anyone in a car or riding a motorcycle, and with only one entrance, the hotel seemed as secure as anywhere.

We rode the expressway into the city centre to avoid the worst of the traffic jams, stopping only to pay the tolls at regular intervals. The manic jumble of Bangkok revealed luxury tower blocks jostling up against rundown houses, shops with garish neon signs, stalls with a couple of chairs selling street food. I felt tired after the flight, but alive in a way I hadn’t felt for a long time, as if some of the city’s energy had transferred itself to me.

I reached for the wooden box lying on the seat beside me, opened it, recognised the black metal of a Makarov. Thoughtful of someone to provide me with a gun I’d carried for most of my career. Maybe they didn’t want me to shoot my toe off by mistake.

The car windows were tinted, so I checked the gun was loaded, knowing no one outside could see what I was doing. Two spare magazines, more than I needed. That many bullets, you’re either facing an army or about to wind up dead. I put the gun in my jacket pocket: it would spoil the line of the suit, but bullet holes would ruin it.

The gun meant I could finally relax, wonder where I was going to meet Aliyev’s friends, whoever they were. Perhaps I even allowed myself to smile.

I was feeling distinctly less confident by the time we’d reached Langsuan and spotted the discreet sign for the Luxx XL Hotel, pointing down a narrow drive between two buildings. I found the scale of Bangkok intimidating, as well as the sheer foreignness that surrounded me. It’s not easy being out of your depth when there are eight million people all around you who know exactly what they’re doing. But I knew I had to carry on with Aliyev’s mission – if Tynaliev ever found out where I was, I’d be looking at an unmarked grave face-up from the inside.

Tyres crunching on gravel, the car pulled into a small walled courtyard with an elaborate shrine in the far corner. What I know about Buddhism could be written on the head of a prayer wheel, but that didn’t mean I didn’t appreciate the colourful flowers and garlands draped around an image of the Buddha. Two massive plain wooden doors, maybe four metres high, were set back from the courtyard; the entrance to the hotel.

True to stereotype, I waited for the driver to open my door, then followed him into the reception area. A very pretty Thai girl placed her hands together and bowed her head to me, long liquorice-black hair spilling down over her shoulders. I didn’t know whether I was expected to return the greeting wai , so I simply nodded as the driver set my bag down beside me.