Tom Callaghan - An Autumn Hunting

I noticed Quang had demoted Aliyev from the status of superior to that of colleague: perhaps he had decided dealing with me would be preferable. Or that by rejecting the proposal, perhaps even killing me, he would be sending a message to Aliyev to stay clear.

‘Obviously, I want to discuss this matter with my advisors,’ Quang continued. ‘They will have questions to ask regarding their particular roles. And naturally, we need to know the mechanics of the operation, how you bring the spice into the country, for example.’

‘Whoever heard of anyone smuggling drugs into Thailand?’ I said. ‘We’re used to moving quantities across borders, but you will, of course, appreciate that the exact specifics are our concern. The more people know our methods, the easier it is to get caught.’

For the first time, Quang smiled, and his normally austere face took on a sudden charm. ‘If you wish to keep a secret, tell it to only one other person, then kill them?’

‘Something like that,’ I agreed. ‘Even better if you don’t tell anyone.’

‘How long do you intend to stay in Bangkok, Mr Borubaev?’

‘Only a few days, until I hear of your decision,’ I said.

‘And then? Back to Kyrgyzstan? My understanding is you would not be welcomed with open arms by your former colleagues.’

Quang knew about me being on the run. It made me easier to manipulate. He must have known a cell or a bullet were all that would be waiting for me back home.

‘You might find Bangkok a congenial place to settle, somewhere to base your part in the operation. Unless you have a passion for snow and ice, that is.’

I knew Quang was thinking of me as a potential hostage, someone to punish and make an example of if things went wrong. He overestimated my importance to Aliyev and the Circle of Brothers. A cell in Bishkek would come courtesy of my former colleagues, a bullet courtesy of my new ones.

‘I gather you’ve already enjoyed some of the pleasures my city has to offer,’ Quang said. ‘Apparently you have excellent taste.’

I smiled as if to suggest a liking for commitment-free paid-for sex. I thought of Saltanat, wondered where she was, if I would be able to contact her. A familiar sense of hope for our future together was, as usual, replaced by the despair of knowing it would never happen.

‘I hope to take further samples,’ I said. ‘My country is considerably more conservative in such matters.’

‘Please make yourself comfortable while I organise your transport to your hotel. More tea?’

I shook my head, and Quang left the room. I wandered over to the far wall, where one sculpture had caught my eye when I first arrived. A sandstone bas-relief, an elaborately clothed slender and beautiful woman was shown in a highly stylised dance position, the grace and sinuous poise of her figure captured in a moment of ecstasy. The surface of the stone was weathered although the details of the sculpture were still clear, and I imagined it had once been part of a temple. I couldn’t hazard a guess at its age, but it was a thing of beauty.

‘You have such things in your country?’

I turned round; the elderly man was standing staring at me, amused at my interest in the bas-relief. His accent was so strong, I wondered if I had misheard, then shook my head, wondering how to explain that a nomadic people didn’t have the skills or interest to spend time carving stone.

‘Twelfth century, Cambodian, from the temple complex at Angkor Wat. An apsara , a celestial dancer, a female spirit of the clouds and water, you like it?’

I nodded, raising one hand to stroke the dancer’s cheek.

‘I brought it here myself, many years ago, just as the Khmer Rouge were being driven out. I had to kill four men to do it. One with a rope around his throat. Two with a dagger. And the last one, I used my hands. And the apsara has danced here for me ever since.’

I looked down at the old man’s hands with a new respect. They were large, raw-knuckled, capable of inflicting immense pain. I had the feeling he may have lost some of his speed but none of his power and ruthlessness. Quang’s father, perhaps? I didn’t think we would ever have enough trust to confide personal matters to each other.

The elderly man cracked his knuckles with the sound of snapping chopsticks, gave a gap-toothed smile, settled back down in his chair. He folded his hands across his huge belly, appearing to go back into a deep sleep.

Suddenly the room felt more like a prison or a dungeon than an elegant home of taste and luxury. The celestial dancer had been courted and won with blood, and everything else in the room was tainted by the hopeless misery and addiction that had paid for it. I felt the food I’d eaten rise in my throat, wondered if I was about to vomit. Suddenly I hated everything I had become, everything Chinara would have despised.

‘You’re pale; are you feeling faint?’

Quang had returned, was standing by my side, looking solicitous.

‘It’s nothing. The long flight, very little sleep last night, and, as you say, the climate is very different to the one I’m used to.’

‘I hope our lunch hasn’t disagreed with you. Just simple peasant food, I’m afraid, not what you’re used to.’

I thought of the bowls of rice greasy with mutton fat I’d been served in yurts all over Kyrgyzstan, and decided Quang had no idea what simple peasant food was.

‘It was delicious,’ I assured him, watching his superior smile.

‘Your driver is waiting for you outside the main gate. You’ll forgive me if I don’t walk out with you. Spy drones, satellite cameras looking down, perhaps even a sniper waiting to pin his cross-hairs to my forehead. I rarely leave here; last night was an exception I made for you. I’m sure you agree, caution adds years to your life. All the same, I do sometimes feel as if I’m in a prison.’

Not like any prison I’ve ever been in, I thought, and shook his hand. Something about him had reminded me of Aliyev for quite some time, and I finally realised what it was. Neither man seemed capable of understanding the suffering of others, of realising their involvement in its cause. I had to leave before my face betrayed me. Some of the most evil people I’ve encountered in my work – and I use the word ‘evil’ very carefully indeed – have been almost telepathically sensitive to the moods and thoughts of other people, as if their senses were finely tuned to pick up the merest hint of betrayal. Of course, there are also the things of which they seem completely unaware, like pity, compassion and, of course, love.

And some of us are aware of the dead who watch us from the shadows, hoping to see how we avenge them so they can sleep.

Dead is dead.

Except when it’s not.

On the drive back to my hotel, I wondered how successful my pitch to Quang had been. Nothing concrete had been decided; Quang was obviously as cautious as Aliyev in his business dealings. But I felt certain we would reach some kind of agreement. The possible legalisation of yaa baa would have a major impact upon his profits and, by extension, on his ability to control law enforcement, the army, rival suppliers. That worked in our favour. On the other hand, removing access to the Russian market might seem like the first step in a takeover bid, which could only lead to war.

The journey back took for ever, not just because I was impatient to contact Saltanat, but because we’d hit rush-hour traffic. I now realised traffic jams in Bangkok lasted around the clock, but this one seemed particularly slow. I even wondered about getting out and walking, but the thought of the heat and humidity made an air-conditioned limousine with leather seats my preferred option.