Tom Callaghan - An Autumn Hunting

‘I’ll skip the party,’ I said, gestured towards the door. ‘But I would prefer not to ride back in the shit wagon with those three clowns.’

I could sense the ment by the door stiffen with anger, but there was nothing he could do about my insult, not in front of the minister. Tynaliev nodded and gestured towards the door.

‘Sir’s limousine awaits,’ he said, his face deadpan. I wondered if he had a sense of humour after all. Maybe it only crawled from under a rock once every ten years.

At the door, the ment held up his hand, wanting us to wait while he checked everything was clear outside. After a few seconds, he was back, a puzzled look on his face.

‘Strange. No sign of the officers. At least one of them should have been outside the door at all times.’

Almost before the words had left his mouth, he yawned. One of those cavernous gaping affairs that suggest you haven’t slept for a week, or you’re monumentally bored. Or at least, for a second or so, it looked like a yawn. Then a noise like an unexpected cough was followed by a thick crimson rope that belched out of his throat and across the doorframe.

I was first to react to the ment having been shot: I pushed Tynaliev hard against the wall, out of sight of the windows. The wounded policeman lay sprawled at my feet, his jaw hanging by his ear, torn away by the impact of the bullet. His left heel drummed a relentless tattoo against the floor, his chest snatching at the air in a vain effort to breathe, as the blood pumped out of his neck and the light faded in his eyes.

‘An ambush?’ Tynaliev said, more to himself than to me.

‘Well, it’s not a group of walkers on a nature tour, looking for rare tulips,’ I snarled, trying to focus beyond the shock and horror of the man dying at my feet. ‘Who knew you were going to be here, without your usual protection squad?’

Tynaliev shook his head, shock already replaced by a look of calculation.

‘No one that counts,’ he said. ‘No one who could organise something like this.’

‘Only one answer then,’ I said, and pointed down at the body. ‘He knew, sold you out, arranged for a team to be waiting here.’

Tynaliev considered that for a moment, reluctantly nodded. He aimed a kick at the man’s stomach, careful not to get blood on his shoes, then gathered up phlegm and spat on the broken face. The thud of shoe leather against dead meat made me want to retch, but I knew there was no time for indulgences. I took the man’s Makarov from its holster, trying not to get his blood on my fingers, only partly succeeding.

‘We’ve only got a few seconds, Minister,’ I said, pulling him away from the body. ‘Is there another way out of here?’

‘How the fuck would I know?’ Tynaliev said, anger raising his voice. ‘My team work out such things. I have more important things to do.’

It might have been unimportant to you once, I thought, but it could be a lifesaver now, and not just his life but mine as well.

I pointed at the gun on his hip, a Makarov like the one in my hand.

‘You can use that?’ I asked.

I saw a fleeting glimpse of uncertainty on Tynaliev’s face, as he wondered if I was part of a team sent to kill him. Then his jaw set in the suppressed rage that had terrified so many people in the Sverdlovsky basement. If he was about to die, he was determined he wouldn’t be the only one.

‘It’s been a while,’ Tynaliev said, ‘but you don’t forget how to point and pull a trigger.’

‘Maybe it’s not you they’re trying to kill,’ I suggested. ‘After all, I was the one they think shot the pakhan , not you. Maybe I’m the target.’

‘Does it matter?’ Tynaliev shrugged. ‘You ever hear of the Circle of Brothers leaving any witnesses alive?’

I nodded; our home-grown mobsters make the Italian Mafia look like teenagers celebrating the end of the school year. We had no way of knowing how many men we were up against, or where they were. Perhaps on the slopes on either side of the hotel, hidden in the treeline, or maybe across the road, crouching beneath the vehicles we came in. There was only one way to find out.

‘You’re parked nearby?’ I asked. ‘And you’ve got the keys?’

Tynaliev shook his head, pointed down at the body. I fumbled through the dead man’s pockets. Keys in hand, I stood up, edged towards the open door. I could already feel cross-hairs on my forehead.

‘When I say “Run”, move as fast as you can. And keep behind me.’

‘You want to shield me?’ Tynaliev asked. ‘Why? You’re not my bodyguard. You’re not even police any more.’

I shrugged. Old habits die hard, I guess, and this was one where I might also die quickly.

‘Don’t argue,’ I said, and took a couple of deep breaths.

We burst out of the doorway like Olympic sprinters, albeit elderly, slow and overweight ones. I was waiting for the bullets to punch holes into me, but we reached the Mercedes parked nearby without a shot being fired.

The car sat heavily on its tyres, thanks to the armour-plating and bulletproof glass Tynaliev would have insisted upon. Once we were inside, we would be safe from anything less than a bazooka. I pressed the button on the key fob, heard the locks retract. A second button started the engine. We were crouching on the passenger side, but I figured a crawl across the leather seats would beat standing up and running around.

The world takes on a peculiar clarity at such moments, a sense that the regular rules of time and motion have been displaced, replaced by something altogether more vivid and disturbing. Birds are suspended in mid-air, leaves hang as they fall to the ground, the branches of the trees are caught in a perpetual wind that never varies. You could almost see the bullets on their way to take your life, have time to sidestep them and watch them smash harmlessly into the ground.

All nonsense, of course, but imminent and painful death has a way of clearing out irrelevant thoughts. I waited but only silence came from the treeline. Whoever had fired the sniper shot was probably long gone, with no possibility of pursuit. I heard a car further down the track, looked to see a police car careering towards us, bouncing from side to side as it smashed over the potholes in the road. Presumably, Tynaliev or someone had triggered an alarm system that brought a high-speed rescue.

It was time.

‘Stand up,’ I said to Tynaliev, gesturing with the gun. As he started to rise, I pulled at his collar, dragged him off-balance, and with a sidestep and a twist, I was behind him, one arm around his throat, my gun at the side of his head.

‘What the fuck?’ he snarled, trying to get out of my grasp, but I simply tightened my grip.

‘Sorry, Minister,’ I said. ‘We’ve been through so much together. But, well… orders are orders, as I’m sure you’re the first to appreciate. After all, you’re the one who gave them to me.’

I fired a shot into the air at random, felt the mechanism jam, snatched Tynaliev’s gun from his hand to make sure I wasn’t unarmed.

I let go of him, pushed him forward so he stumbled, regained his balance. I dived across the passenger seat, pulled myself forward by the steering wheel, found the pedals with my feet. I started to move out, but not before following the orders I’d been given.

And shooting the Minister for State Security twice in the back.

I didn’t wait to watch Tynaliev dying, or for the police to start shooting. Instead, I took the road back to the city as if I were escaping a tornado or an earthquake. If a babushka had been crossing the road as I sped through the nearby villages, there would have been one more tombstone in the local cemetery the next day. But I reached the outskirts of Bishkek and slowed down without adding to the day’s casualties.