Tom Callaghan - An Autumn Hunting

‘Once we get a little further away, we’ll have to ditch the car,’ I said. ‘No way Quang wouldn’t have installed a tracking device and we don’t have time to find it.’

Saltanat nodded. ‘We dump this at Nana Plaza, leaving the keys in the ignition. Some low life is bound to think it’s his lucky day and go for a joyride. I wouldn’t like to be the one who has to explain to Quang he’d only “borrowed” his car.’

‘And then? I’ve seen enough of hookers, ladyboys and farang drunks for one trip.’

‘Taxi to the airport.’

‘I don’t have my passport with me,’ I said.

She reached into her jacket, passed me an envelope.

‘You do now.’

The green Uzbek passport looked genuine; with Saltanat’s connections, it probably was. I flicked through the pages. Whoever forged the paperwork had been thorough – a dozen visas from as many countries filled as many pages.

‘So now I’m called Alisher Nabiyev. And I’m thirty-six years old.’

She looked sideways at me, narrowly missing a tuk-tuk, smiled.

‘You must have had a very hard life,’ she said.

‘The way you drive, I’ll be ten years older when we arrive,’ I replied.

‘Shut up, keep your head down, don’t stare out of the window like you’ve never seen cars before,’ Saltanat ordered, forced her way though an impossible gap between an elderly bus and a truck overloaded with vegetables.

I winced in anticipation, shut my eyes, decided that was the only way to travel until we got to the airport.

Suvarnabhumi International Airport is one of the biggest in the world; however, Saltanat knew her way, led me through several levels towards passport control.

‘We’ve got diplomatic passports,’ she explained, ‘so we get priority and entrance to a special lounge until our flight takes off.’

‘Where are we going?’ I asked. ‘Not that I have any say in it, obviously, but I’d prefer to go somewhere where no one will look for me. The South Pole, maybe.’

‘Kuala Lumpur,’ Saltanat said. ‘Our tickets say we’re coming back tomorrow; that explains why we don’t have any luggage. But, of course, we won’t be returning.’

‘Surely Quang’s men will be on their way here,’ I said, ‘and I don’t think they’ll want us to leave.’

‘Our flight goes in ninety minutes. They won’t expect you to be travelling with a woman, and you’ve got a diplomatic passport under a false name. Unless you think you’ve got time to shave your head as a disguise, there’s not much more I can do.’

As we joined the queue to go through passport control, Saltanat turned to me.

‘You got rid of the gun, right?’

I looked around, spotting the universal symbol for a men’s bathroom.

‘Back in a minute.’

I disassembled the gun in the relative privacy of a cubicle, dropped the pieces into a large cleaning sack, rejoined Saltanat.

Once we were through all the formalities, Saltanat led me to one of the business class lounges. Any other time, I would have been delighted to look around, eat and drink, relax away from the crowds. But all I could think of was getting on the plane, wondering if Quang had the influence to get us dragged off the plane and out of the airport. I looked over at Saltanat, sipping her second glass of champagne.

‘Drinking?’ I said.

She raised an eyebrow, put her glass down and gave me a look that pretended to be serious.

‘Worried about the baby?’ she asked, the mockery in her voice all too evident.

‘I was thinking more that we ought to get out of Thailand before you set a course for getting drunk,’ I replied.

‘So you don’t want me to have an abortion, then?’ she asked, all mockery in her voice gone.

‘Can we talk about this later?’ I asked. ‘I’m tired, stressed beyond all belief, I’ve just headbutted a ladyboy, I’ve watched you kill a man, and then sat through some of the worst driving since the car was invented. Right now, I’m not capable of a serious conversation about anything.’

‘Kairat’s a nice name for a boy, don’t you think?’ she asked. ‘And Aizat if it’s a girl.’

I decided not to answer, treating myself to a freshly squeezed orange juice. For a split second, I could almost taste the vodka I would once have decanted into the glass, half juice half Stolichnaya, cubes of ice chiming against the glass, chill on my lips, the burn at the back of my throat. I used to drink vodka most evenings to calm my nerves after a murderous day. Chinara didn’t approve, but she understood my need to escape the day’s blood, brains, stupidity and hate. I hadn’t had an alcoholic drink since her death, but right then, I couldn’t remember why I thought that was a good idea.

‘You’re worried about Quang finding us here,’ Saltanat stated, sipping once more from her champagne flute.

‘You’re not?’

‘Why should I be? I’ve only just met you, don’t know you, just striking up a conversation to pass the time if anyone asks. If they drag you away, I’ll just say, how strange, he seemed like such a nice man.’

‘And they say romance is dead.’

Saltanat finished her champagne, held up a hand to beckon the waitress to top up her glass.

‘Right now, Quang’s got more important things to worry about than some Kyrgyz nobody killing one of his staff and disappearing into the night.’

I looked at her, saw the slight smile on her face.

‘You’ve fucked him over somehow, haven’t you?’ I accused.

‘Put a temporary spoke in his wheels, put it like that,’ she said, and this time couldn’t resist grinning. The shock of just how beautiful she was hit me afresh, the way it did every time when she let drop the mask of professional indifference.

‘What did you do?’

‘You’ve heard of Photoshop, I suppose?’

‘I may be an old-fashioned ex-cop but I do sometimes live in this century,’ I said. ‘I’m not living in a yurt up on the high jailoo in the mountains. I’ve even got a mobile phone.’

‘Since you’re so up to date on computers and world affairs, you can tell me: what do the Thais respect more than anything else?’

‘Money?’ I ventured. Saltanat shook her head.

‘Majesty. The Royal family. The King,’ she said. ‘It’s one of the bonds that holds their society together, perhaps the biggest, and the punishments for criticising, mocking or suggesting the Royal family be abolished are truly punitive. It’s a crime called lese-majeste. Up to fifteen years in prison for each offence, and believe me, a Thai prison makes a Kyrgyz penal colony look like a holiday camp.’

The idea made me shudder; a few years ago, the Kyrgyz prison system made worldwide headlines when the prisoners stitched their mouths closed with wire to protest at their conditions. How could a Thai prison be worse? I wondered, then decided I never wanted to find out.

‘What have you done?’ I asked, slightly terrified at the deviousness of the mind of the woman I loved.

‘About two hours ago, someone sent an anonymous email to the chief of police here in Bangkok. From an untraceable address via a privacy-guaranteed foreign server.’

‘Go on.’

‘There were several grainy photographs attached, all of which showed a very well-known and powerful drug dealer at home. Taken from a distance with a telephoto lens, without the subject’s knowledge. Terrible photographs, but at least they’re in focus.’

Saltanat held her hand up to her mouth and did her best to look shocked, and I couldn’t resist a smile myself.

‘They won’t show them on TV, for obvious reasons: they would risk criminal charges themselves. Photographs of Quang proudly standing in front of a poster of the King and Queen, on which someone had given them both a huge moustache and beard. Another which showed the King’s head transposed onto the body of a porn star at work. A female porn star. And others; you get the idea. Completely offensive, completely insulting, completely fake.’