Tom Callaghan - An Autumn Hunting

‘You mean in bed or in Bangkok?’

Her voice was serious, professional, the emotionless tones I remembered from our first encounter. But still desirable.

‘Both would be great,’ I said, but Saltanat put a finger to her lips to silence me.

‘I’m here on official state business, and I don’t mind seeing you, maybe even helping you with whatever trouble you’re in,’ she said, ‘but that doesn’t mean I want to get killed on your behalf. Kyrgyzstan was bad. Our time in Dubai was worse. I have a feeling Bangkok may be worst of all.’

‘You heard about Tynaliev being shot?’ I asked.

‘Of course. That’s why I’m here. You probably know he didn’t die?’

I nodded.

‘And you know who shot him?’ I asked in return. Now it was her turn to nod, her face even more serious than usual, her body suddenly coiled, tense.

‘Tynaliev would be pretty unlamented throughout Central Asia if he’d died,’ Saltanat said, ‘but he didn’t. And from his luxury private room at the Hyatt Regency, an entire floor swamped by his bodyguards, he sent a message out to his counterparts, his rivals in Tashkent, Almaty, Dushanbe.’

‘Let me guess,’ I said. ‘The tricky bastard said “Providence has spared me, but my would-be assassin is still at large. This attack says any of us is vulnerable. My friends, this time it was me. Next time, his bullet could be for you. We must deal with him so that no one emulates his folly.” ’

Saltanat said, ‘Actually, that’s a rather more logical and restrained way of putting it. His actual words were, “Gut the bastard and deliver his head and balls.” ’

A dark suspicion began to slither into my mind.

‘The word went out, together with mention of a reward for my head. And that’s why you’re here. To hunt me down. And kill me.’

Just like the first time we met, back in Bishkek as I tried to hunt down the killer of Yekaterina Tynalieva and avoid her father’s rage.

Saltanat’s eyes never left my face, as she reached for her bag.

I felt numb, beyond shock, betrayal written across my face like a blow. I couldn’t move, thought about throwing the glass in my hand at her, couldn’t raise my arms. I felt my balls tighten with fear.

Saltanat’s hand emerged, holding a gun no longer than my middle finger. I stared at its black mouth, knowing that if it spoke, its voice would be the last thing I’d hear.

‘Turn around, Akyl. Please.’

‘Can’t bear to look at my face?’

‘Just do it,’ she said. Was there a note of sorrow in her voice? I couldn’t tell.

‘I’ve always said I wanted to be buried next to Chinara. Up in the mountains, overlooking the valley,’ I said. ‘But that isn’t going to happen, is it?’

I looked at the cheap mass-produced painting on the wall, showing an old lady in a floating market boat selling noodles. Garish, banal, but the colours hit me with a fierce intensity. Hardly the most profound vision of a dying man. But perhaps the best I deserved or could hope for.

And thinking that, I shut my eyes, tensed my shoulders, prepared to die.

The explosion filled the room, but it was the blast of a voice, not a gun.

‘Don’t be such a fucking idiot, Akyl, I’m not going to shoot you. Although I probably should. But that doesn’t mean I trust you either. I need to know what’s going on, and standing naked at gunpoint usually encourages people to speak freely.’

I decided turning around too quickly wasn’t the smartest idea I’ve ever had. Better to answer her questions, and let her deal with Quang, Aliyev and Tynaliev, in no particular order.

‘First of all, why did you try to kill Tynaliev? I know he was a shit, but he owed you.’

‘Owned me, more like,’ I said. ‘And I knew that one night, lying awake at four in the morning, he’d decide I knew too much about him, I might be a threat to his wealth and his position. And an hour later, someone would drag me out of my apartment and into a secluded field to watch the dawn for the last time.’

‘Then how was it you didn’t kill him before he could kill you? Point-blank in the back, I heard. Twice. That Yarygin of yours, it’s not a gun, it’s a cannon. I’m surprised they didn’t find pieces of his liver halfway across China.’

‘I used an old Makarov, not mine, obviously,’ I said, reproach clear in my voice. ‘What can you expect with a piece of shit like that? The amount of vodka Tynaliev drank every day, I was only surprised the bullets didn’t ricochet off his liver and hit me.’

‘If you’d succeeded in offing him, his successor would probably have had you promoted,’ Saltanat said. ‘As it is, you’re in up to your neck. I would never have thought you’d move over to the dark side.’

‘I didn’t move, I was pushed,’ I said, irritated. ‘And is it all right if I turn around now? Talking to a wall gets boring pretty quickly.’

‘Put the glass in your hand down first. And move as if you’re treading on very thin ice. Which, of course, you are.’

Finally, I turned around, pleased to see the gun in her hand wasn’t pointing so resolutely at my heart.

‘Why don’t we get dressed and I’ll explain it all to you?’ I suggested.

‘Sure,’ she said. ‘Pick up your clothes and go shower.’

Half through the bathroom door, Saltanat called out to me, ‘Akyl, you need to lose a couple of kilos. Too many expensive meals with your gangster friends.’

That reminded me I hadn’t eaten proper food since I’d landed, and maybe the thought of sudden death and then reprieve straight after sex had given me a surprising appetite.

‘Maybe we can go out and eat something?’ I suggested, and closed the bathroom door.

But when I came out, Saltanat was gone.

The corridor was empty, of course, and Saltanat was too sharp an operator to have not planned more than one escape route well in advance. The deep-voiced receptionist wouldn’t remember the woman who’d arrived with me, or which direction she’d taken.

I went back into my room, the sharp, almost acrid smell of sex and perfume still riding on the air, felt my stomach turn inside out. A combination of fear, adrenalin, survival and the knowledge that trained killers from every Central Asian country had become bounty hunters racked my body, and I knelt before the toilet vomiting them all out of my system as best I could.

When it was clear I had nothing left to bring up, I stumbled to the shower, stood under scalding hot water, turned it to ice-cold. But the sweat of fear still stuck to my body.

Towelling myself dry, wishing I’d never given up drinking vodka, I noticed a cheap black mobile phone lying on my pillow. Left by Saltanat, obviously, an untraceable pay-as-you-go burner to which only she had the number. I checked the directory; there was only one number stored in the memory.

The phone vibrated in my hand, and a message ran across the screen. It read, ‘Need to talk more.’

I wasn’t sure if my heart could cope with another conversation like the one we’d just had, but I typed ‘Where? When?’ and sent the text. I waited for a few minutes without a reply. I wanted somewhere secure to hide the phone in case Quang or his friends came by, found nowhere. Tired to the marrow of my bones, I said fuck it, slid the phone into my jacket pocket. The best hiding place is in open view. Except when it isn’t. Time to put the bed to less active use.

The driver picked me up early the next morning. Before leaving, I’d hidden the mobile on a high ledge on the balcony of my room. A thorough search would find it, of course, but there’s only so much you can do in foreign territory. Foreign it certainly was; I hadn’t worked out yet whether it was hostile.