Tom Callaghan - A Summer Revenge

“I had a chat earlier with a member of the Uzbek security forces, just after someone tried to turn her inside out with a sniper rifle. Strange, but she has a theory you’re looking for money to finance a little strife back in Mother Russia. Money that belongs to Minister of State Security Tynaliev.”

The air in the room was stifling, and I could smell raw sewage from the toilet. I watched as something in Kulayev’s face changed, as he started to consider what lie might appease me.

“If I hand you over to her, she won’t be giving you a manicure with a fork, Salman. She’ll take you the whole length of the pitch, flaying you down to splinters of bone.”

Kulayev gave a harsh laugh, as if a clot of blood had backed up in his throat.

“You mean that bitch Saltanat? I heard that she could twist you round one of those perfect fingers of hers, nail varnish and all.”

I gave him the sort of half-playful slap that says mind your manners or there’s worse coming down the track.

“She’s right though, isn’t she? You want to finance a mini-revolution.”

Kulayev looked at me and shook his head in mock despair.

“You’re Kyrgyz, you lived under the Soviets for seventy years. They were no friends to your people, were they? The show trials, the executions, all the other stuff that Stalin used to keep the people of the republics in their place. So when their system finally fell apart and you got the chance to tell them to fuck off, they had no choice.”

He paused, carried away by his rhetoric.

“That’s all we Chechen want, that’s what we’re fighting for. You got what we want: a land of our own, the right to choose how we live.”

It all sounded very noble, in the usual justifying-bombs-on-buses-and-blowing-up-apartment-blocks kind of way. But killing for freedom is a song that gets sour and repetitive too often.

I’ve seen too much TV coverage of the aftermath of such bravery: buildings with their façades lying in pieces across the road, bags and coats abandoned in terror on the streets, women and children with clothes and faces streaked with blood like initiates into a cult of unreason.

I shook my head to clear the images, pushed Kulayev further back onto the bed. He winced as the handcuff chain snapped taut on his wrist, twisting him onto his side.

“How are you going to prove all this shit anyway?” he complained. “Your word against mine.”

I gave one of my less pleasant smiles. When I spoke, it was without a trace of humor in my voice. “I don’t need to prove it, do I? You could say you were using the money to open orphanages all over Central Asia. But Tynaliev didn’t get to where he is—and remain there—because of his trusting, open nature. He’ll smell the lies on you reeking like a long-drop toilet in the summer. See where that gets you. Especially when I tell him you and your friends are planning to wage jihad in Kyrgyzstan and Uzbekistan. He’ll think, better safe than ousted. And that involves you arriving in paradise ahead of the queue.”

I gave him a moment to wonder exactly how Tynaliev might express his displeasure, and put the fork on the bedside table. For the moment it had served its purpose.

If I’d been in Bishkek, I would have been able to interrogate him properly, find out the names of his fellow conspirators, their plans, their contacts in the country. In Dubai I had no authority; in fact, I’d probably broken more laws than Kulayev.

But it all suddenly became irrelevant.

Because my phone rang to show that I had a text message. From Natasha. I read it, twice, wondering how the case had taken a sudden left turn, then stood up and headed for the door. Kulayev watched, rattling the cuffs that chained him to the bed.

“You going to take these off?”

I didn’t bother to answer, just patted him on the cheek and flashed him the smile that always spells trouble.

“Don’t go away now; we haven’t finished our little chat.”

I pulled the room door shut behind me, took the stairs two at a time, headed out into the heat and waved down a taxi.

The real shit was about to start.

My taxi switched from lane to lane as the driver did his best to earn the hundred-dirham tip I’d promised him. I reread Natasha’s text: “In Dubai Mall. Being followed. Come now, please.”

What was she doing shopping when I’d specifically told her not to leave her apartment? I realized the answer was simple: she knew nothing about the threat she faced from the Chechen gang. Surely I had been overcautious in telling her to lock the door? No one knew she was in Dubai, no one knew about the ten million dollars. While I negotiated some kind of deal with Tynaliev, what harm could a little shopping do? Well, I was sure she realized now that she’d stepped into a problem that could potentially kill her.

The cars and trucks in front of us made bewildering lane changes, all without using their indicators, squeezing into the tightest gaps while traveling at high speed. The general rule seemed to consist of a single attitude: I’m important, so fuck off out of my way. I braced myself against the dashboard, gritted my teeth, convinced that my next moment might be my last.

The silver spear of the Burj Khalifa did its best to stay away, looming above the skyline but never growing nearer. Thirty agonizing minutes passed before we drove into its shadow, taking the turn-off for the giant mall. I was out of the taxi before we’d stopped, throwing notes onto the driver’s lap and pushing my way through the crowds.

As I raced into the main entrance, I realized I would have to appear calm, ordinary, invisible. I stopped at a barrow stall and bought a baseball cap with the inevitable I LOVE DUBAI written across the front, pulled the brim low to at least obscure my face from the CCTV cameras. I stood away from the eager shoppers surging through the mall and texted Natasha. “Where?” I made my way toward the escalators and was rewarded with a reply: “Top floor. Bookshop. Bathroom.”

It was a sensible place for her to take cover, assuming her pursuers were men, but it meant I’d draw attention to myself if I tried to get her out. I studied one of the maps, worked out the least complicated route and took the escalator up. No one walked up the escalators, so the journey to the top floor seemed to take hours, the tension inside me rising with each step. It’s one thing to read thrillers, quite another to find yourself trapped in the middle of a real-life one.

I couldn’t help noticing everyone around me seemed spellbound by the size and luxury of the mall, mouths open as if this was the height of civilization. Surely they couldn’t all afford ten-thousand-dollar handbags, watches or shoes? I couldn’t help a sardonic smile at the thought that one of the people who could afford such things was the very person who’d begged me to come and take her away.

When you’re in a hurry, the escalator you take is always as far away from your destination as possible. So when I reached the top floor of the mall, I discovered that the bookshop was a good ten minutes’ walk away. I kept my head down, checking my phone for new messages and doing my best to show as little of my face to the cameras as possible until I reached the shop.

Two security guards stood at the entrance, which might be good or bad for me, depending on how things turned out. They didn’t look like they could outfight me, all smart uniforms and ornate badges, but I didn’t want to draw attention to myself.

I wandered through the door and into a world with more books than I’d ever seen before. In Bishkek there’s not a lot of money around for light reading, escapism and entertainment. Our bookstalls tend to focus on school textbooks and language-learning guides. We probably know enough about violence and corruption without reading about it.