Tom Callaghan - An Autumn Hunting

‘Injecting addicts die sooner or later, usually sooner. An overdose, an unusually pure shot or a bag cut with brick dust, baby laxative or whatever boosts the street dealer’s profits. So you’re relying on future addicts, the ones who are still sniffing glue or getting drunk on cheap beer, before they graduate to the hard stuff.’

Quang didn’t bother to hide looking at his watch. I knew it was time for me to cut to the chase.

‘What we would like is for you to agree to exit our markets, and allow us to take over your distribution chain.’

As I’d expected, Quang was too intelligent to be angered by this suggestion. He merely raised an eyebrow and waited for me to continue.

‘By leaving the marketplace to us, we get a monopoly that allows us to set prices and quantities, to stabilise the market, to maximise profits. We can make more money per gram, per kilo, per tonne than you can because our network costs are lower.’

I paused, took a sip of water. No matter how often I’d rehearsed the arguments with Aliyev, I still felt my nervousness would scupper any agreement, and a bullet in my brain would be my pay-off.

‘Where we in Kyrgyzstan benefit is that we’re a transit country. The Fergana Valley is one of the most fertile areas of Central Asia. We ship thousands of tonnes of produce all around the region, to the point where the authorities know they can only seize a tiny amount of what we transport. Every shipment from Thailand is scrutinised, regarded with suspicion.

‘With us, the volume is so overwhelming the authorities don’t have a chance. Try to find a kilo of heroin in a truck loaded up with three tonnes of apples, or nuts, or onions, or cabbages. You have to open every bag, and even then, if you find something, who can you arrest? The driver, who swears blind he knows nothing, and probably doesn’t?’

‘Your points are very clear, if I may say so, but I’m still waiting to hear how pulling out of a market benefits my organisation, however low the profits, however great the risk or inconvenience of doing business.’

It was time for me to pull the rabbit out of the hat with a grand flourish, a bow, and hope I wasn’t booed off stage.

‘I’ve already pointed out what we both know – injecting users aren’t a long-term proposition on an individual basis. And the demographic is an aging one as well. We can help you reach a younger consumer, one who doesn’t want oblivion or death. And that’s what we’d like to offer you in exchange.’

Quang studied me for an endless moment, and then gave the slightest hint of a nod and a smile.

‘It all sounds very promising, Mr… forgive, I should say Inspector, should I not?’

‘I think I’m almost certainly a plain, run-of-the-mill mister, thank you. But I appreciate your remembering.’

Quang tapped twice on the table, and the servant from earlier reappeared, so swiftly I assumed he’d been hovering, lurking outside the door.

‘I look forward to hearing the rest of your proposition. But I’d be remiss if I didn’t suggest lunch, a chance to gather our thoughts, refresh our bodies. You are, after all, an honoured guest.’

Quang nodded at the servant, who scurried away as silently as he’d arrived. Turning back to me, Quang stood up.

‘Lunch? In an hour? Perhaps you’d care to rest until then?’

I got the impression nobody refused an invitation from Quang, so I simply nodded.

I’d been shown into a guest bedroom by Quang himself. The room was spartan in contrast to the meeting room, but the bed was a welcome sight. The adrenalin my speech had ridden on was beginning to fade, and I thought perhaps thirty minutes’ rest would revitalise me.

‘Our climate can be rather wearing for people unaccustomed to it,’ Quang had said before leaving the room, ‘especially from your part of the world. Please take some time to relax.’

I unlaced my shoes, took off my jacket, lay down on the bed. An air-conditioning unit ruffled my hair, and tiredness hit me like a club. Even as my eyes began to close, I heard the door open and close behind me. I turned around, half expecting a summons back to the conference table, but what I saw was completely unexpected.

A young Thai woman in some type of kimono was carrying a tray filled with small cut-glass bottles. As I stared at her, she placed the tray on the bedside table, unstoppering the bottles, so the scent of perfumed oils filled the air. Long thin fingers with beautifully manicured and red-painted nails began to undo my shirt, while a shy smile revealed small white teeth.

I began to rise up, to protest, but a hand pressed me back against the mattress.

‘From Khun Quang. Only for most honoured guest. My name Achura.’

Her voice was soft, clear enough without the sing-song Thai accent so that even with my basic English I could understand her meaning.

I put my hands to stop her, protested I was honoured but didn’t need a massage, but that didn’t deter her. I told myself Thai massages were said to be the finest in the world, with several temples containing schools to learn the art. Quang would certainly employ only the most skilful practitioners. And I would have been lying if the idea of having a beautiful stranger stroke my skin didn’t have a certain erotic frisson.

The thought of Saltanat’s opinion made me reluctant, but then I considered she and I had never made promises to each other, that she was a free agent in these things just as much as I. It’s very easy to be noble when temptation isn’t a few inches away, gazing at you with enormous dark-brown eyes, framed with gold and silver eyeshadow and tinted lashes that set off high cheekbones and honey-shaded skin.

Finally I removed my shirt, rolled onto my stomach, felt the delicious coolness of the oils poured onto my back. My body heat released their perfume: jasmine, rosemary, herbs I couldn’t identify, all mingling together into a musk soaking into my skin.

Achura’s hands pressed into the muscles around my neck and shoulders, surprisingly strong, kneading out any tension placed there by the stress of my trip. I shut my eyes, let my thoughts drift away into pure sensation.

The fingers on my back pressed hard then soft, hard then soft, in an unending circular movement. I could understand why people became devotees, swore by its power to provide tranquillity and harmony with the world.

I was drifting off into a state of total relaxation when I felt the hands tap me on the top of my head, a sign the massage had ended. I opened my eyes to find Achura already stoppering the glass bottles, her movements precise and delicate. I watched as she bowed and exited the room, leaving only the perfume of the oils like a fading memory.

A thought struck me and I looked up at the ceiling. The camera was almost impossible to spot, if I hadn’t been looking for it; I wondered if Quang filmed all of his guests, perhaps as a bargaining tool or even for blackmail. I sat up, struggled back into my shirt, thankful I hadn’t been tempted into doing something foolish.

In an earlier case, in Dubai, I’d been drugged and photographed with a woman, both of us naked, posed to look as if we were hard at it. Saltanat had seen through that particular set-up, although I didn’t fancy my chances of appeasing her a second time. It’s never a good idea to cheat on a trained assassin. Thankfully, that was one bridge I didn’t have to cross. But first of all, I had to deal with Quang.

I returned to the conference room, the table now hidden by an extravagant display of Thai food, most of the dishes unknown to me. Quang was already seated at the head of the table.

‘I trust your massage was satisfactory, Mr Borubaev?’ he asked, his face absolutely straight. I wondered if Quang had set me up with the kathoey to see my reaction.