Tom Callaghan - An Autumn Hunting

It was still dark when Saltanat shook me awake from a dream in which Achura kept advancing towards me, a grim smile on her face, while I pumped bullet after bullet into her with no effect.

‘I’ve put the do-not-disturb notice on the door, so we’ve got at least until noon to get out of here, and out of Malaysia,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve already booked our tickets while you were asleep.’

I sat up and looked around the room. I knew that half an hour after we left, I’d remember nothing about it, and it struck me I’d lived a lot of my life in just such a fashion. And the things I did remember were precisely those I wanted to forget.

‘You’ve got time for a shower,’ Saltanat said, throwing a towel at me, ‘or I’m not sitting next to you on the plane.’

‘Where are we going?’ I asked, heading for the bathroom door. ‘Or is it a secret?’

‘It’s time to end this. I’m sure you’ll be pleased. You’re going to Kyrgyzstan.’

‘I wonder how Quang enjoyed his first night in captivity. A very different Bangkok Hilton to the one he’s used to,’ I said, with a certain malicious satisfaction.

‘Money talks, you know that, sometimes in whispers, sometimes by banging on the table, shrieking in indignation at the top of its voice. A comfortable cell, food brought in from outside, a lawyer arriving to negotiate his release,’ Saltanat said. ‘He’ll be out and organising repairs to his property while we’re still in the air. Getting the army to do the work, I wouldn’t be surprised.’

With our diplomatic passports, we were through and sitting in a coffee shop in a matter of minutes. I was pretty certain there wouldn’t be anyone from Quang’s team stalking us; presumably they’d be waiting until Achura reported the two farang problems had been suitably disposed of.

‘You still haven’t told me why we’re going to Kyrgyzstan. You said yourself I’m going to end up in a grave there.’

Saltanat sipped at her coffee, pulled a face.

‘How do people manage to make coffee as weak as this?’

‘I’m sorry the coffee isn’t to your liking, but to get back to what I was asking…’

Saltanat put her cup down with a clatter that almost made the barista drop his mobile phone.

‘Simple. Quang will be out of his cell and back in business in a few hours. He agreed a deal with you, and for all he knows, you’ve passed that information on to Aliyev. Right?’

I nodded.

‘Well, he has to honour that agreement, or his reputation gets a hammering. Once suppliers, dealers, his whole network get the impression he can’t be trusted to keep his word, then it’s only a matter of time before he’s deposed.’

‘OK,’ I said, not entirely sure Saltanat wasn’t looking too much on the bright side.

‘Then there’s the problem he faces if the government legalise yaa baa . He needs a new product, and the simplest, cheapest and most profitable way to get that is through Aliyev. So Quang might be pissed off with you, especially after you killed his girlfriend, but as far as Aliyev’s concerned, everything went well.’

‘Suppose Quang decides he wants my head in return for keeping to the deal?’ I asked.

‘Aliyev needs you as well,’ Saltanat said. ‘Think about it. You’re famous as the ex-cop who shot the Minister of State Security. You’re living proof Aliyev can go anywhere, do anything, with complete immunity. The government can’t stop him, the army can’t catch him, and the security forces are too busy wondering who’ll be blamed for the assassination attempt.’

She finished her coffee. The waitress came to collect our cups.

‘How was your coffee?’ she smiled.

‘If it hadn’t been so weak, it would have been disgusting.’ Saltanat smiled in return, stood up, shouldered her handbag.

The waitress gave me a puzzled look, unsure whether she’d just heard a compliment or an insult. I stood up, shrugged, and joined Saltanat. It was time to go home.

The journey to Tashkent gave the sense of being trapped out of time in a miniature world, an identikit copy of every flight I’d ever taken. Saltanat was quick to fall asleep, her hands folded over her belly, protecting a child that wasn’t yet showing. I couldn’t spot any signs of her pregnancy, but then I wasn’t any kind of expert. I envied her the ability to simply shut her eyes and lose the world. I just stared out of the window and felt the minutes drag along like dying men. A seven-hour flight, followed by a long drive to Bishkek to put my head in the lion’s mouth, didn’t cheer me up.

We were picked up at the airport and driven into Tashkent by a burly man in his thirties, who, judging by his deference, was one of Saltanat’s junior colleagues. I’d been to the city before, but never spent time there. I wondered if I was going to get an insight into how Saltanat lived when she wasn’t on a mission. But it wasn’t to be.

‘Akram will drive you towards the border,’ Saltanat said as the car pulled up outside the massive Chorsu Bazaar. Even outside the blue-domed building, I could smell the perfume of spices and herbs in the air, the sense of being back among people I understood, whose food I ate, whose hopes and fears I shared.

‘Arrangements have been made for you once you’re across the border at Osh, and you’re booked from there on an internal flight to Bishkek. After that you’re on your own.’

‘I was wondering about staying with you for a couple of days,’ I said.

Saltanat shook her head.

‘I don’t want to upset Otabek,’ she said. I understood; when Saltanat and I rescued the little boy from the paedophile who meant to kill him, he’d been mute with terror. Seeing me might only revive memories best forgotten.

‘This is where you live?’ I asked, keen to find out more about her, but she shook her head.

‘I’m taking the metro home; it’s the fastest way to get around the city, and I have things to do. I’ll see you in Bishkek in two days’ time. Noon, by the statue of Kurmanjan Datka, not too far from the White House. I’ll text you to confirm.’

As always with Saltanat, there was no discussion, merely a statement of intent. I didn’t have any choice in the matter. I wound down the car window as she started towards the station, never looking back, determined as ever. I wondered if this was yet another of her ploys to ensure I knew as little about her as possible.

‘I love you,’ I called out as she plunged into the crowd.

I wasn’t sure if she heard me.

It’s an eight-hour journey from Tashkent to Osh, but we broke the journey at Angren, where I found a back-street barber, had my hair trimmed to a coarse stubble. It wasn’t much of a disguise but the best I could do. We crossed the border without any problems, my fake passport simply held up and waved through without even being examined. As we drove towards the airport, Akram spoke his only words of the journey.

‘She gave me this to give to you,’ and handed me an envelope. I opened it, finding nothing but a one-way plane ticket from Osh to Bishkek. No note, no message, no slip of paper with a mobile number. I felt as if I’d been summarily dismissed from her life.

At Osh Airport, Akram nodded a curt goodbye and drove away back towards the border. I felt more nervous on home soil and at an airport. Security is always more stringent there, and there was the chance a vigilant police officer patrolling the building might recognise me. It was only when we were in the air on our forty-minute flight that I was able to relax a little.

Outside Manas Airport, I looked around for the most dilapidated taxi I could find. The driver had been one of a handful who gathered outside the arrivals hall; international flights with their collection of rich and gullible tourists offered much better pickings. I gave him the address of my apartment on Ibraimova, haggled for a few moments over the price, with much swearing and threats to walk away, finally reaching an agreement. In some countries, haggling is almost a game; in mine, it’s done in all seriousness, the difference between a meal on the table or hunger.