Tom Callaghan - An Autumn Hunting

‘I’ll sign the release tonight, have it issued to the press. It should be in tomorrow’s papers, but I can’t guarantee you’ll be front page news.’

‘As long as the right people see it and know who it’s from.’

‘Which leaves us where?’

I looked over at a side table, empty except for a photo of Yekaterina Tynalieva, the way she was in life, smiling, happy, not the disembowelled carcass I’d encountered. I made sure Tynaliev saw me looking as well. We both knew the pain of losing someone you loved, and in that moment I felt a degree of sympathy for him. I’d brought the man responsible for her murder to a summary and brutal justice at Tynaliev’s hands. I was too cautious to mention it, but Tynaliev owed me and he knew it.

‘Quang thinks I set him up with the Thai police,’ I continued, ‘which, of course, means he thinks I was acting under orders from Aliyev. Aliyev thinks I deliberately set Quang up to sabotage the deal, probably because I wasn’t offered a big enough slice of the cake. So they’ll battle it out, maybe wipe each other out.’

Tynaliev gave the kind of smile a shark does at the split second before it hits its prey.

‘Which we’ve agreed would be a good result, Inspector?’ he said, emphasising the last word to reassure me of my regained status.

‘Of course,’ I agreed. ‘Although there is one thing that still puzzles me. I can understand why you want to break Aliyev and his organisation. A threat to state security, a major source of corruption and crime, a threat to the harmonious relations we enjoy with our neighbours.’

I paused, decided it wasn’t the time to ask if I could smoke. Instead, I adopted my most innocent and puzzled expression, the look of a small child when told where babies come from.

Tynaliev poured himself a giant vodka, threw it down his throat.

‘Getting rid of two criminal gangs, even if one of them is based abroad, well, that’s a good thing, isn’t it, Inspector?’ Even more emphasis on the last word this time: what’s been bestowed can also be taken away.

I had a pretty shrewd idea someone else would soon be filling the gap, but I wanted to live, at least until Quang or Aliyev, or both, caught up with me. After that, all bets were off.

‘If that’s all,’ Tynaliev said, waving a finger at the door behind me. I thanked him once again. I had my hand on the door handle when he spoke again.

‘I expect your silence on this, Inspector.’ No mistaking the threat. ‘And don’t try to pull the “information lodged with people in case of my death” stunt, like you did after our business in Dubai.’

‘I wouldn’t dream of it, Minister,’ I said. ‘You can never rely on most people to do as you ask them, particularly when you’re past caring.’

Tynaliev nodded.

‘On the other hand, when someone one trusts implicitly hears of one’s death, well, they’re bound to take it very personally,’ I said. ‘I would hate to think of walking around wondering if that headache is from a sniper’s cross-hairs, that sudden stabbing pain in the ribs from a hunting knife. After all, what’s the point of having a bank vault full of money if you’re not alive to enjoy it?’

Tynaliev recognised the threat, shrugged it away.

‘Then we’ll have to keep you alive, won’t we?’ he said. ‘You’ve already quit the vodka, maybe time to bin the smokes as well?’

It was time to show my hand.

‘I’ve never found it easy to give up,’ I said, and he knew I wasn’t talking about nicotine, ‘and I’m not the only one.’

‘The Uzbek woman,’ he said.

I nodded.

‘No parables, no unspoken meanings, Minister. If you kill me, she’ll kill you. She’s the very best at what she does. You probably won’t feel a thing.’

I stood up, headed for the door, watched Tynaliev reach for the vodka bottle. I suppose we all take comfort where we can find it. I only wished I knew where to find mine.

There are always taxis loitering outside Tynaliev’s house, dogs waiting to be thrown scraps from the master’s table. They all know how to reach central Bishkek, and a few of them will have taken reluctant passengers to Sverdlovsky station for further ‘discussions’.

I waved to the nearest one, clambered into the back seat, lit a cigarette to soothe my nerves. Meeting Tynaliev always had that unsettling effect on me, like crossing a field and hoping the bull is in a good mood. The driver glared at me as I lit up, said nothing when he saw me stare back. As a concession, I cracked open a window, let cold air take my smoke away.

The driver continued to glare at me until I told him my destination: the Kulturny Bar. His attitude immediately dissolved into fawning obedience, at the thought of being behind the wheel for a gangster who could give him a thousand som note or a bullet behind the ear, depending on his mood. I couldn’t say being mistaken for a thug made my day worthwhile, but at least it meant I didn’t have to listen to the radio.

I paid the driver off with a five hundred som note, and before he could say he had no change, told him to keep it, left him staring after me still unsure whether I was a mobster or not. He watched as I kicked at the graffiti-smeared door until it opened a crack, then drove off, leaving a thin trail of exhaust fumes to remember him by.

I didn’t recognise the guard at the door, but he’d obviously done enough stints as face patrol security to recognise me. A grunt, a nod of his head, and I was inside, looking down the staircase into the darkness. I’d been inside this shithole too many times, seen too much trouble there, wondered if I’d ever have to traipse down those stairs again, my feet sticking to the soiled concrete.

I walked past the torn and faded poster of the heroin-addicted girl still staring at the camera in dead-eyed opioid despair. Underneath, someone had scribbled a new phone number and ‘ALL HOLES AVAILABLE’. Romance, Kulturny-style. The door didn’t have ‘Abandon hope’ written over it; anyone who entered here had disposed of that luxury long ago.

The main bar stank of sweat, spilt cheap beer and fried chicken, although I’d never seen anyone risk the food. There are limits, even when you’re an alkash putting away two litres of vodka a day. The barman saw me, started to fumble under the counter. Maybe he was just reaching for a clean towel, if the place had such a thing. Maybe. He paused when I raised a warning finger. Perhaps he saw the Makarov under my jacket.

The room was almost empty, apart from a drunk in the far corner, staring into space, trying to remember who he once had been. I pulled up one of the bar stools, inspected the seat for stains, sat down.

‘Inspector.’

No love lost, but no change to the status quo. It felt good getting my old title back, but I thought the gun had more to do with any respect I’d been shown.

‘Vodka?’

‘Two small bottles,’ I said. ‘The good stuff. Unopened.’

He nodded, his face giving nothing away, a good Kyrgyz. He pulled down two half-litre bottles, set them in front of me. I pretended to reach for my wallet, he pretended they were free, shook his head. I picked one bottle up, took it over to the drunk, placed it within reach. He didn’t acknowledge the gift, but I knew if I tried to take it back, a chicken claw of a hand would reach out and stop me. I sat back down at the bar, slid the remaining bottle into my jacket pocket.

‘You don’t want a glass?’

I shook my head.

‘Just get on the phone, you know who to call,’ I said, made my voice brutal and set for violence.

‘You know who he’ll hurt if he doesn’t want to talk to you,’ the barman said, his face taut with anxiety.