Tom Callaghan - A Summer Revenge

“Just some juice, thanks, if you have any.”

She came back into the room, carrying two glasses.

“Mango juice. Very refreshing.”

Another button on her blouse had mysteriously come undone, and she saw me looking.

“Let’s sit down and get to know each other,” she said in the kind of voice that makes a man’s throat tighten. I knew it wasn’t the only effect she was hoping for.

Once we were sitting down, she was all business.

“Let’s get your donation out of the way first, shall we? Just to avoid any misunderstandings?”

She placed her hand on my shoulder, slid it down my back toward my waist, nails light as feathers, sharp as blades. And it was then she felt the cold and unmistakable shape of the Makarov.

I looked over at her, smiled, made sure she realized she was in a whole new realm of trouble.

“OK, Natasha,” I said, “let’s cut the shit.”

The look of shock on her face was quickly washed away by comprehension. Whatever else Natasha Sulonbekova might have been, she wasn’t stupid.

“You’ve been sent here by Mikhail, I suppose,” she said, taking cigarettes out of her bag. Her hands trembled slightly, so I did the honors with my lighter.

“By the minister, yes,” I said. “And it’s not a job I volunteered for, believe me.”

“What’s your plan? ‘Mysterious suicide of Asian woman in luxury apartment’?”

I looked around the room. No designer furniture, no stylish ornaments or pictures, nothing to show anyone had ever lived here. I’m no expert, but this wasn’t what I’d call luxury.

“Tynaliev doesn’t want you dead. Or if he does, he knows I wouldn’t carry out the wet work.”

Wet work; it’s a phrase from the good old Soviet days cleverly designed to make you realize you’re nothing more than a mass of blood and meat held together in a fragile bag of skin. An unimportant mess to be cleaned up and hosed away.

She took a long drag, held the smoke deep, sent bluish gusts down her nostrils. The elegance with which she did it reminded me of a wild horse in winter on the jailoo high plains between Bishkek and Osh. The same sense of living in the moment, of apprehension, fear, exhilaration.

“I’m sure he wants his memory stick back,” she said, looked contemptuous. “Even more important to Mikhail than the stick between his legs. Twig, more like.”

This was the sort of talk that might have earned her a bullet at some unspecified time in the future, but whatever else she was, Natasha wasn’t a coward.

“There’s a reason they call them state secrets,” I said. “Because they’re not meant for prying eyes.”

“Is that what he told you? That I’d stolen state papers? And you believed him?” The incredulity in her voice was matched only by contempt that anyone could be so gullible.

I didn’t reply; I learned a long time ago that silence drags the truth out of most people.

“They’re secret all right. But his secrets, not the government’s.”

I couldn’t say that I was surprised by the revelation and nodded for her to go on.

She took another long breath, stubbed out the cigarette. I noticed the bright red lipstick smeared on the butt.

Natasha took a long drink before handing me the second glass. I had to admire her poise. I picked up the glass, drank, tasted the sweetness of the juice.

“A teetotal assassin?”

“A teetotal policeman. There’s a difference.”

I didn’t add that sometimes you could hold the difference up to the light and not even realize it existed, like cobwebs in moonlight. Silence hung like suspicion in the air, brutal and intoxicating as her perfume. The minutes lasted for decades, her eyes never leaving mine. I felt as if my chest was being skewered by hot pokers.

“It’s money?”

“Well, it’s not going to be a signed first edition of Das Kapital , is it?”

Natasha’s laugh gave me a hint of what she’d be like in bed. I wondered if I was blushing, pushed the thought of her naked as far away from my mind as I could.

“Our incorruptible Minister of State Security? The man before whom all criminals tremble? He’s hidden ten million dollars in offshore accounts, and he didn’t accumulate that through being frugal, buying cheap toilet paper and making a few wise investments.”

I swallowed hard, the saliva in my mouth suddenly thick and sour with bile. I didn’t want to know about any of this stuff. I’m good at catching murderers, not corrupt politicians. I could already feel the cross hairs of one of Tynaliev’s paid thugs burning my forehead.

“And you’ve stolen this alleged ten million dollars?” I asked.

Natasha gave another of her pretty little pouts, but I was more interested in preserving my balls than in using them.

“Actually, I haven’t,” she said. “More like I’ve been responsible for him misplacing them. If you know what I mean.”

“She knew I didn’t—another move to put me on the defensive. And if she was a queen, then I knew who was king. And what he could do to a pawn like me.”

When I spoke, my voice sounded like I’d dumped my throat in a blender filled with pebbles. Fear will do that to you.

“You want a proper drink? Vodka?”

“No. I told you, I don’t drink.”

I didn’t tell her that vodka had given me the courage to kill my wife as she lay dying of cancer. Only one woman knew the truth, and I didn’t know if I’d ever see Saltanat again.

I drank down the rest of the ice-cold mango juice, sat back, waiting to hear her story, her confession. But I had a curious sense that rather than doing the questioning, I was the one being interrogated.

The ceiling lights were harsh, unforgiving, like the lights in the basement at Sverdlovsky station. The brightness pressed into my eyes like knuckles. My heart was racing, dull percussion hammering in my chest. The room seemed to sway, as if a minor earth tremor was taking place on a nearby continent. I screwed up my eyes, blinked, discovered I couldn’t open them again. Too much effort, too much like staring out into darkness.

The last time I’d woken with such an all-consuming tornado of a headache was after being kicked in the head as a young officer during the new year celebrations in Bishkek’s Ala-Too Square. The fireworks cascading up into the sky that night were matched by those currently racing behind my eyeballs. Whatever had happened to me hadn’t pulled any punches.

I looked around to try to work out where I was: a small bedroom, curtains drawn, with me lying on my back on the bed. A clock on the wall sounded a deafening drumbeat that matched the pulse of my blood. I tried to sit up, felt the tug at my arm that stopped me. Police-issue handcuffs, one end around my wrist, the other fastened to the metal bed frame. They appeared to be the only thing I was wearing. Maybe Natasha catered for a kinkier clientele than I’d realized.

Natasha came into the room, sat down on the edge of the bed just out of kicking range. I tried not to look too worried at the sight of my gun in her hand.

“Rohypnol? In the mango juice, I suppose.”

My voice came out as a harsh croak. My mouth was dry and crusted with spit.

“A girl has to be prepared for any eventuality, wouldn’t you agree, Inspector?”

I shrugged, regretted it as the earthquake in my head started up again.

“I found your passport, made a couple of calls back home. It was easy to find out who you are. Useful too. Mikhail is being sensible, using a cop to find me rather than some half-witted hit man.”

“So now you know I’m not here to kill you, how about losing the handcuffs.”

“All in good time. You know, a lot of people pay very good money to be tied up in my bed. And speaking of money, I didn’t empty your wallet. I may be many things, but I’m not a thief.”