Tom Callaghan - A Summer Revenge

I held my passport up to the glass, said I was expected. Perhaps I should have said summoned.

“Armed?”

I shook my head. The guard beckoned me through the security scanners, jerked a thumb toward the house. I nodded thanks, began the trudge down the path. Just as I reached the door, it opened, and Mikhail Tynaliev stood outlined against the light.

“Thank you for coming, Mr. Borubaev,” he said, the emphasis on Mr., but there was no welcome in his voice. “Please come in.”

I entered the hall the way an apprentice lion-tamer might enter the cage. I had no idea why Tynaliev wanted to see me or why I’d had to bring my passport, but I didn’t imagine it would be anything I’d enjoy. He led me through into his study, sat down on one of the leather sofas. I’d been in the over-decorated room before and I hadn’t enjoyed the experience then.

“Drink?”

“ Chai? ”

Tynaliev shrugged, reached for the decanter by his elbow.

“Still not drinking? Probably a good idea, where you’re going.”

He poured himself an industrial-sized vodka, took a sip, nodded appreciation. He gestured toward a chair beside his desk, one of those fussy faux-antiques with spindly gold-painted legs.

“Missing your old job?”

It was my turn to shrug. Tynaliev looked as formidable as ever, broad shoulders, a head slotted between them with no sign of a neck, hands that could stun a suspect with a single punch. People said he was more than willing to take over an interrogation if answers and teeth weren’t being spat out fast enough.

“I’m able to get you your old job back. If you want it. Unless the bits and pieces of private investigation you’ve picked up are making you rich?”

Tynaliev obviously knew I had enough som in my bank account to buy a couple of cheese samsi for breakfast. What he didn’t know was I missed the chase, the challenge. Being Murder Squad is as addictive as being hooked on krokodil , Russia’s new homemade wonder drug, and probably just as life-threatening. But it goes deeper for me. Someone has to speak for the dead, for the old man killed for his pension, the schoolgirl raped and strangled, the wife who refused sex when her husband came home drunk. Solving a case is like closing the victim’s eyes, so they can finally sleep.

“That’s very generous of you, Minister,” I said. “ Spasibo . If there’s ever anything I can do for you…”

Tynaliev almost smiled. It wasn’t pleasant. “Before you start work again, perhaps you’d like to take a little holiday? Somewhere warm, with beaches? Just for a week or so.”

I looked regretful. “If I could afford it, nothing would be better, but…”

Tynaliev poured himself another equally large vodka. If he’d had a smile on his face, it had melted like ice under a sunlamp.

“Don’t fuck around with me, Mr. Not-Yet-Inspector. Just sit there and listen to what I want you to do.”

I did as I was told. It looked like I wasn’t going to get my cup of tea after all.

“I’m going to tell you a story, Borubaev. A hypothetical story, you understand?”

I nodded. Tynaliev could recite the entire Manas epic—all half a million lines of the long Kyrgyz poem—if it meant I got my job back.

“A senior colleague of mine—no need for names—has fallen in love with a woman much younger than him.”

I nodded, making sure I kept a straight face. I had a pretty good idea of the colleague’s name. Every doctor in the world has heard the “It’s not me, it’s about a friend with a problem” story. And everyone knew Tynaliev’s wife spent most of her time at their dacha , a luxurious country cottage on the outskirts of Talas, while Tynaliev spent most of his spare time working his way through a long line of ambitious and attractive young women.

“This young woman,” I asked, deliberately keeping my voice neutral and professional, “does she reciprocate his feelings?”

“She said so,” Tynaliev shrugged, “and there were the usual presents, trips, restaurants. The problem was, my colleague was— is —married.”

“Always difficult, Minister, even if the wife is understanding.”

Our hypocrisy hung in the air like cigar smoke. Tynaliev took a sip of vodka, looked away, unwilling to catch my eye.

“That’s not the problem, Inspector.”

I was pleased to see I’d regained my rank, wondered if my salary would be backdated. You get tired of samsi for breakfast.

“The young lady in question announced she wanted to go on holiday. Naturally, my colleague was more than happy to help with the expenses, flight, visa.”

“Naturally,” I agreed. “Where was she planning to go?”

“Dubai. For the shopping.”

“And she went?”

Tynaliev nodded.

“And didn’t come back?”

He nodded again, sipped his vodka. He suddenly looked older, less certain of himself. Discovering you’ve grown old will do that to you. Or learning it’s your money and power that lures the girls to your bed, not your looks or charm or the size of your yelda .

“And you want me to go to Dubai to find her? What did she take that’s so important, Minister? Money? You’ve got more than you know how to spend. Documents? Secrets? Something that could harm you politically?”

I watched as anger and pride flickered across his face like summer lightning.

“Inspector, as I said, my colleague…”

“Minister, I can’t help if I don’t know the facts,” I said, one reasonable man talking to another. “If she was your lover, then tell me; I’m not a judgmental man.” I paused, folded my arms. “And if you won’t tell me, then I don’t stand much chance of finding her or doing the right thing when I do.”

“I rely on your complete discretion, Inspector,” Tynaliev said, looking at me as if he’d prefer to rip my throat out.

I decided to alter my approach, so as not to change my status from living to dead.

“What’s the girl’s name, Minister?” I asked.

“Natasha Sulonbekova.”

“Age?”

“Twenty-four.”

Tynaliev opened a drawer in his desk and produced a photograph. A slim young woman in a white bikini stood by the edge of a swimming pool, hands on hips, turning slightly away in best approved model fashion. Her long straight black hair was tied back. She was pouting toward the camera, either for real or in a parody of such poses. I couldn’t help noticing her breasts were larger and higher than a stingy Mother Nature normally provides for Central Asian women.

“Large breasts, Minister. Yours?”

Tynaliev nodded with a slight smile, proud of his conquest despite himself, despite her running out on him.

“Bought and paid for, Inspector.”

I thought about the stupidity of older men when it comes to attractive younger women, then I thought about Saltanat. I hadn’t heard from her since she’d gone back to Tashkent with Otabek, the boy we’d rescued from Morton Graves’s pedophile ring. Were we a couple? I was never sure, and an Uzbek security service officer and a Kyrgyz Murder Squad inspector isn’t an ideal match. But with Tynaliev staring at me from across the room, this wasn’t the time to work out my relationship woes. Time to focus.

“What exactly did Ms. Sulonbekova take from you, Minister?”

“Is that important?”

“Well, am I looking for something the size of an elephant or the size of a pea?”

“I don’t think you can carry an elephant as hand luggage,” Tynaliev said, trying to lighten what must have been a great embarrassment. I gave a polite smile, said nothing, waited.

“It’s a memory stick for a laptop. Small—you could put it in your wallet.”