Tom Callaghan - An Autumn Hunting

I looked at the unruly collection of misfits, drunks and lecherous tourists, decided to wait another ten minutes, then leave. Nine minutes later, I sent a text to Saltanat, paid the bill, saw my driver pushing his way through the crowd towards me. He beckoned to me and I followed. It wasn’t as if I had a choice.

To my surprise, we didn’t go back into the main street, but pushed further back into the bar, past the pool table and bandstand, then out through the back door. We were in a large courtyard with open-air bars in the centre and around the sides. Stairs on either side led up to two horseshoe-shaped galleries, with more bars. Dozens of women, many wearing only underwear with a numbered badge pinned to their bra straps, stood gossiping and eating, clearly on a break from working inside the bars. Everywhere the air was filled with the smells of cooking, stale beer, cigarette smoke, the promise of whatever kind of sex turned you on.

We climbed up the stairs to the top floor, walked along past strangely tall and slim women. The driver nodded at them, shrugged.

‘ Kathoey . Ladyboy.’

I’ve always had a certain amount of sympathy for gay people in Bishkek. It’s a conservative city, and obviously feminine men run the risk of being attacked, beaten up, even raped or murdered. It usually wasn’t difficult to find the attackers; the nearest bar was where they would end up with a bottle of vodka, celebrating their bravery in attacking some man who’d done them no harm.

Bangkok was a different world. I did what I suppose most tourists in a red light district do, and stared. They all looked beautiful to me, and I wondered what happened when someone took a ‘girl’ back to his hotel room and got a surprise. Perhaps no one really cared, that sex was either a matter of personal preference or a way to make money.

I did my best to ignore the blown kisses, admiring whistles and the tugging at my arm as a girl wearing a scarlet dress slit to her hip tried to drag me into her bar. I noticed they all stayed away from my companion; either they knew he wasn’t interested or they’d spotted the gun.

We came to a bar that looked derelict; no neon, no curtained door, no girls grabbing customers, insisting they come watch the show. The driver pushed at a glass door covered over with old newspapers, and we entered.

The room smelt of mould, dust and abandonment, with just a lingering hint of sex on the damp air. A stage formed the centrepiece of the room, with metal poles at regular intervals for the girls to dance around. A few dusty mirrors hung on the walls, some engraved with beer signs. Empty bottles, cigarette butts and the remnants of used tissues littered the floor.

The driver led me to the inner door, pushed it open, jerked his thumb for me to enter. The room I found myself in stood in complete contrast to the squalor on the other side of the door. Discreet lighting highlighted the stylish conference table, the black leather chairs, the massive flat-screen TV where a constantly changing parade of exchange rates and share prices scrolled upwards. The man at the head of the table stood up, gave me a hands-pressed-together wai visible enough to suggest welcome, minimal enough to show he didn’t give a damn for my approval.

‘Please, Mr Borubaev, take a seat, make yourself comfortable before we start. Whisky? Or perhaps you prefer vodka?’

His Russian was flawless, educated, much better than my thick accent. I shook my head and sat down. The man was Thai, perhaps in his early forties, immaculately dressed in the kind of suit I’d only ever seen in the windows of high-end stores in Dubai. As he moved, the colours of the material seemed to change, from a deep blue to a grey-silver. The watch on his wrist was the thickness of a ten- som piece, his cufflinks the fluorescent crimson of Burmese rubies. I was in the presence of serious money, someone who wasn’t afraid to display the fact. Dark hair swept back from a face that could have been lifted from a centuries-old temple, black eyes that pierced yet gave nothing away. He could have been an army general out of uniform, a leading politician, a high-ranking policeman. He looked invulnerable, supremely confident, in absolute mastery of himself and his power.

‘My name is Quang,’ he said, patting himself lightly on the chest. I bowed my head, acknowledging the courtesy shown in telling me his name.

‘It means “good reputation, brilliant”,’ Quang said, in a matter-of-fact tone that told me he wasn’t boasting. He paused then said, ‘I understand your name – Akyl – means the same?’

‘Not brilliant,’ I replied, ‘merely clever.’

I didn’t add that the Boru part of my family name means wolf. I’d been known to my former colleagues back in Sverdlovsky station as ‘the clever wolf’ because I would solve a murder by stalking, biting and never letting go until I’d brought my prey down. I didn’t want Quang to get any ideas I might be dangerous to him or his people.

To him, I was simply a renegade mid-level foreign cop, a useful idiot, a glorified messenger boy sent to broker negotiations, agree a deal, or wind up floating face-down in the Chao Praya river. I was very happy for him to think that. If death were to come and attack me, it wouldn’t really matter to me who administered the coup de grâce , the man sitting in front of me or Aliyev back in Bishkek. Dead is dead; anyone who investigates homicides will tell you it’s a simple truth. Sometimes I even believe it myself. The only issue is how long it takes and how much it hurts beforehand.

I hadn’t noticed the elderly man sitting in a dark corner, massively overweight, wearing a torn plain black T-shirt and shorts. His feet were bare, and a pair of sandals rested beside his chair. He hadn’t spoken and we hadn’t been introduced, but I knew he must be important. In South-East Asia, the person who doesn’t speak is often the one who makes the major decisions once a meeting is over. But I knew any discussion like that would take place without me present.

‘You managed to rest on the flight?’

‘It was very comfortable,’ I said, wondered how long it had been since I’d last told the simple truth.

‘I was surprised you didn’t want to stay at one of Bangkok’s luxurious hotels.’

I nodded my understanding at his puzzlement, did my best to explain.

‘The Royal Thai Police have a well-known reputation for extreme thoroughness,’ I said, choosing my words carefully, ‘and your prisons have a worldwide reputation as well. I’d rather stay somewhere simple, just a tourist here to see the sights, try the food, maybe even sample a little of the local nightlife.’

I winked, did my best to appear dazzled by all the smooth brown flesh I’d seen on display outside, and it must have been a pretty accurate impression, as Quang smiled his understanding of a man’s needs.

‘You’ve never been to Bangkok before?’

I shook my head.

‘It is the centre of the world, Mr Borubaev. Art, culture, history, business, love, despair: you find it all here. Then, once you’ve exhausted all those possibilities, there is always the opportunity for pleasure.’

Quang must have pressed a button under the table, because the door behind me opened.

‘You must be tired, and indeed, you shouldn’t spend your first night here talking business. My driver can help you find a suitable companion for the evening. More if you require variety. Whatever your tastes prefer, my organisation will be delighted for you to indulge yourself. And, of course, I’m pleased to meet you.’

Quang and the older man both stood up, preparing to leave. At the door, Quang turned and looked at me, his gaze quizzical, slightly mocking.