Tom Callaghan - An Autumn Hunting

Once inside, I straightened my jacket, surveyed myself in the mirror.

‘How did you know I was here?’ I asked, innocent curiosity in my voice.

‘Mr Quang has a lot of friends, who like to keep him informed,’ was the neutral answer. I was pretty sure no one had spotted my detour to the sixth floor, but I guessed I’d know soon enough.

A parking valet brought the limousine around and I clambered into the back, making sure I caught my foot on the door edge as I did so. Maybe I was overdoing it, but then the driver had probably had experience of drunken Russians before.

‘Now we go to a club, yes?’ I suggested, tapping the side of my nose.

The driver said nothing, but steered in the direction of my hotel, which suited me just fine. I needed time to plan ahead for my next meeting with Quang, to work out how to keep Aliyev happy, how to avoid the wrath of Tynaliev, and, most importantly, what I was going to do about Saltanat.

At the hotel, I gave a stiff and formal nod to the driver, before making my way unsteadily to the doors.

‘Seven tomorrow morning,’ was all the driver said. I assumed that was when I’d been summoned back to thrash out a deal with Quang. After that, I’d just have to trust to luck and what natural cunning I possessed. But sleep was a long time in arriving, coming as it did complete with dreams of pain and death.

In the morning, sober, I felt as rough as if I’d necked a bottle of samogon the night before, a headache drumming at the back of my eyeballs like a miniature metronome. Lack of sleep and fear will do that for you. All night long, I’d dreamt of a gun barrel pressed against my forehead, or watching helpless as a faceless interrogator brought a red-hot iron closer and closer to my face. It was almost a relief to wake up.

My watch said six thirty so I made myself a cup of vile coffee, grabbed a shower, found clean clothes in the wardrobe and put on my suit, which now smelt of spilt beer, cigarette smoke and sweat.

I wondered where Saltanat was, if I’d get to see her before I left Thailand. Maybe she simply wanted to make sure I left on my own two feet and not in a box, before getting to work on the job she’d been sent to do. I was stranded in the dark myself, without a clue or a plan. And although that was nothing new, I wondered if my luck was wearing very thin.

The air outside was hot and humid, wrapping itself around my face like an old wet blanket, but my mind felt as if I was walking on a frozen lake, each foot wondering if this was going to be the step that plunged me forward through the ice. The driver was waiting for me, his usual silent self, without even a grunt as greeting. I clambered into the back of the car, sat back, closed my eyes.

I loosened my tie, undid the top button of my shirt, then felt something in my jacket pocket. Slowly, so as not to arouse the driver’s attention, I checked the shape, and realised I’d forgotten to hide the burner. I knew there was no way I could allow it to be found when I was searched before seeing Quang. It would set off all his alarm bells, and any deal we might have made would immediately be cancelled, along with my breath.

The regular Bangkok morning traffic meant we were crawling down Sukhumvit at glacier speed, and I waited until I could see an opportunity to get out of the car. I hammered at the glass partition separating me from the driver, until he turned round. Hand over my mouth, I made the universal sign for ‘I’m about to hurl my stomach all over your nice clean car’, then pointed at a particularly shabby-looking soi , one of the alleyways off the main road.

The driver must have been thinking of having to clean vomit off the leather seats, because he pulled over and opened the door. I staggered out, rushed into the bar opposite, one hand on my belly, the other over my mouth.

I lumbered into the toilet and bolted the door behind me. Once inside, I could imagine vomiting for real. The hole-in-the-ground pedestal was cracked and chipped, and from the look of it had recently been used by someone who’d also decorated the walls. The place stank, not just of shit and vomit but mud, blood and God knew what else.

I only had a minute or so before the driver came to find me. I slipped the burner’s SIM card into my shoe and dropped the phone into the murky depths. Anyone who wanted to fish for it was welcome to keep it. On the way out, I poured myself a glass of water from a jug on the bar, sluiced it around my mouth, and, when I was outside and the driver could see me, spat it out into the gutter.

I raised my hands in apology, climbed back into the car.

‘Foreign food,’ I said, as if that explained everything. The driver gave another of his customary grunts and we moved away from the pavement back into traffic. I was pretty sure I’d be searched again, but thought I wouldn’t have to take my shoes off. Keeping the SIM card meant I could buy another pay-as-you-go phone and contact Saltanat when the opportunity arose.

I remembered enough of the buildings we passed to guess we were returning to Quang’s villa. This time, I intended to miss out on the hospitality, especially the massage and the food. All I wanted was a quick discussion, an agreement of terms and a provisional start date, a handshake and then a trip to the airport. I was planning to go back to Tashkent; I had no idea what I would do there, or how long I would stay. Saltanat’s news had put everything into confusion. I knew I’d have to cross the border to talk to Aliyev, but after that? A lifetime dodging cops and bullets, I imagined.

We made good time, and the driver pulled up outside Quang’s gates just before eight thirty. I went through the same procedure as before, the driver paying particular attention to the contents of my pockets. Dumping the burner had been my smartest move since I arrived in Thailand. Finally he was satisfied I wasn’t armed, and the gates swung open to admit us.

A servant led me to a small conference room at the back of the villa, spartan and furnished only with a small desk and two chairs. Coffee and water arrived, and then Quang himself.

‘Mr Borubaev, I trust your dinner at the Landmark was satisfactory?’

I wondered if Quang had someone in the restaurant report to him; after all, it wasn’t as if he couldn’t afford to pay off a waiter or two. I decided to play it safe.

‘Actually, no. I got there, felt ill, spent the next hour in the bathroom, I’m afraid. Kyrgyz cooking is very plain and simple, so my stomach isn’t acclimatised yet. I just had a drink at the bar, and then your driver very kindly took me back to the hotel.’

Quang nodded, as if that tied in with his intelligence reports.

‘You’re feeling recovered now?’

I smiled, nodded perhaps too vigorously, felt my early morning headache planning a return.

‘Quite. One hundred per cent. I’m hoping we can finalise the arrangement we discussed yesterday, so I can send word to Mr Aliyev before the end of the day.’

Quang steepled his fingers, stared at me with unblinking black eyes. Finally, after an uncomfortable moment, he nodded.

‘Very well, we shall begin. I share your hopes as well.’

For the next six hours, we danced a complicated series of steps, each offered or rejected with exquisite politeness. Quang was obviously well aware of the financial implications any government legalisation of yaa baa would cause to his business, while I was all too aware of Aliyev’s punishment if I failed to hammer out a deal.

The major stumbling block was on agreeing the size of the discount we would give when selling the spice. I suggested five per cent was a very generous amount, given he would have no start-up costs, no additional bribes to pay, no import problems. Quang was initially adamant he would only consider the loss of the Russian heroin market for a ten per cent discount of the spice. He insisted that quality had to be guaranteed, along with a set volume each month, to be increased as the market grew. I felt as if I was watching capitalism at its most naked, wondered if communism had been such a bad thing after all.