Tom Callaghan - An Autumn Hunting

‘All Photoshopped?’

‘What do you think?’

‘The police will act upon this?’

‘They have to, since the email also went to the editors of all the leading newspapers, including the Royal Thai Government Gazette , with the threat to send them to foreign newspapers if Quang wasn’t arrested.’

‘And the images were Photoshopped? By you?’

‘Do I look like a computer geek to you?’

Saltanat gave me another of her ‘what an idiot’ looks, then bestowed her most ravishing smile at the approaching waitress, pointed at the TV, asked for the news channel. The sound was muted, but since we didn’t speak Thai, that didn’t matter: the images were more than clear enough.

A tank lumbered up to the gates of Quang’s villa, looking like some squat metallic elephant, and didn’t stop when it got there. The gates disappeared under the tank tracks as if made of butter, and the walls on either side disintegrated. Two trucks filled with armed policemen pulled up and we watched as Quang’s villa was stormed with all the methodical precision of an invasion. The tank reversed away, and more of the walls shuddered, shook, collapsed.

A senior army officer held his hand up in front of the broadcaster’s camera, then decided to let the crew continue to film. After a few moments, Quang was led out of the rubble surrounding his home, handcuffed and wearing shackles around his ankles. His normally immaculate suit looked stained and torn, and a bloody bruise on one side of his face suggested he’d been subdued ‘while resisting arrest’. He was frogmarched to the nearest truck, manhandled into the back, disappearing from sight under the green canvas. Several soldiers jumped in after him, and the truck rolled down towards the motorway and out of sight.

‘I don’t think Quang will be looking for you for a while.’ Saltanat smiled. ‘A few nights in Klong Prem Central Prison should keep him out of your hair. We should be long away by then.’

I was silent, wondering just how many bridges I’d burnt, how many I could still cross.

‘You’d better hope you’re worth more to Aliyev alive than dead,’ Saltanat added, putting down her half-drunk champagne. ‘Who knows, you might even be part of their future deal; your head in exchange for a handshake.’

It wasn’t a reassuring thought.

A screen on the wall told us it was time to board our flight. We showed our boarding passes and headed down the tunnel to find our seats. For me, it was still a novelty to turn left on a plane instead of right, but Saltanat handled it with the effortless charm that suggested she’d been born to wealth and privilege. I knew the truth about her growing up in an orphanage, but had to admire the way she slipped into a role with no hesitation. I also wondered if I would ever truly know what lay behind all the façades she adopted to protect herself.

My heartbeat slowed from a frantic drumbeat to a relaxed rhythm as I heard the wonderful clunk of the aircraft door being shut. I watched through the porthole as we slowly began to reverse from the terminal. Even so, I didn’t feel at ease until I felt the wheels rise up from the runway, saw the million lights of the city sprawling below me.

With just over two hours to go before we landed in Malaysia, the tension emptied out of my body, and I fell asleep even before the plane had reached cruising altitude. Saltanat woke me a moment later as we started to descend. For a second I wondered if we’d had to turn back to Bangkok, if there would be a police reception party waiting for us on the tarmac. But Saltanat nodded towards the window. ‘KL,’ she said, and smiled. Perhaps she was as relieved to be out of Bangkok as well.

The diplomatic passport got us through immigration in quick time, and with no bags to collect, we were in the taxi rank in just a few moments. Just to be on the safe side, Saltanat let three people behind us take the next taxi, before crossing the road, with me in tow, and taking the second of the black limousines that hoped for rich customers. I would have been content with a regular taxi, but I knew Saltanat was cautious about any possible danger. The fact she was always alert impressed me yet again.

In the limousine, she made a hotel reservation, using the driver’s phone, with what looked like a black credit card to pay for the booking. I sat back and shivered in the air conditioning, knowing that once I was outside, I’d be drenched in sweat in minutes. The constant changing from tropical to sub-zero temperatures was exhausting: at least in Kyrgyzstan I understood the changing seasons.

‘I need to eat,’ Saltanat said as we paid off the limousine and walked into the elegant lobby of the Concorde Hotel. ‘You?’

I shook my head, the rush of adrenalin had left me too exhausted to do anything but fall onto a bed and pass out into a coma. She spoke to the concierge, received an envelope, headed to the lift, beckoning me to follow, not looking behind to see if I did. And I did; perhaps I really was that tame.

In the lift, I stared at the haggard man who gazed back at me. An ill-fitting suit that looked as if I’d slept in it (which I had), cheap shoes, hair that needed cutting, dark circles under despairing eyes. I was amazed the hotel had let me through the revolving door.

My mood wasn’t improved by the opulence of the suite we let ourselves into. It brought home to me the bitter truth I’d spent my entire career sleeping in flea palaces, paying for tasteless food out of my own usually empty pocket. The Uzbek Security Service obviously had a more generous attitude towards expenses than the Bishkek authorities, maybe because they were guarding rich and influential people. I just spent my time hunting down nobodies who’d murdered other nobodies, usually for the most stupid or trivial of reasons.

I lay on the bed as Saltanat announced she was going to shower and disappeared into the bathroom. I felt exhausted; more than that, sick at heart. I felt I was on a ride that could only end in death at someone’s hands. Too many enemies and too little worth fighting for. Even if Saltanat decided to keep our child, there was no way we could ever be a family. Too much blood and too many deaths, including my own, stood between us and any future. Neither of us were likely to change our ways. Perhaps I’d abandoned any chance of that when I joined the police force. The best I could offer Saltanat was to keep away from her, and I suspected that would suit her just fine.

Out of curiosity I looked at the envelope Saltanat had placed on the bedside table, noticed the flap had come undone. I looked inside, half expecting to see what was there. I wasn’t wrong. A PSM pistol, presumably fully loaded. Saltanat must have had amazing contacts to get an illegal gun delivered to her so quickly. But then, if you’re an international assassin, how else could you do the job? I put the envelope back on the table, lay down on the bed once more.

The sound of the shower running was soothing enough to begin to lull me into sleep when there was a knock on the door. Room service; Saltanat had clearly ordered food. I pulled myself up, opened the door, dazed with sleep. Found the very last person I expected to see.

Achura.

‘Pleased to see me?’ Achura said, pushing her way into the room, kicking the door shut behind her. She was wearing some kind of maid’s uniform, presumably so she could walk around the hotel without attracting attention. I wondered if a naked dead woman was stuffed into a laundry basket deep in the bowels of the hotel; that would be Achura’s style. She kicked off her black stiletto heels, flexed her feet and started to walk towards me.

‘Clever trick with Quang. But I’m not stupid. I knew you were coming to Malaysia ten minutes after you checked in. We have friends at the airline, in immigration, even at the front desk downstairs.’