Tom Callaghan - A Summer Revenge

Saltanat perhaps decided that I had a right to know.

“He still doesn’t say much. And he has nightmares, wets the bed sometimes.”

I nodded. Otabek wasn’t the only one whose dreams took place in that cellar. Maybe I didn’t wet the bed, but some nights the damp sheets clung to my sweating body like a shroud left in the rain.

“He’s living with you? In Tashkent?”

Saltanat shook her head. “I don’t really think I’m the motherly type, do you? And I’m away a lot as well.”

I looked at my watch.

“He’s living with my sister. And not in Tashkent.” She paused, stared at me. “You’re not thinking of seeing him, are you? Not a good idea.”

“It’s not as if I’d be exactly welcome in Uzbekistan,” I said. “And I’m sure the authorities would have something to say if one of their top agents was playing happy families with a Kyrgyz former police officer.”

I knew that Saltanat was more than capable of taking care of herself. I’d seen her kill her mentor and enemy, Albina Kurmanalieva, in a knife fight in Panfilov Park back in Bishkek. I knew the speed with which she could move, the power and single-mindedness she brought to everything she did.

But power and single-mindedness are sometimes not enough, not for those moments when the unmarked van pulls up outside in the early-morning street, and you hear the dull clatter of heavy boots climbing wooden stairs to escort you to some basement.

“You think I don’t care?”

Saltanat looked at me, as if examining some rare example of wildlife.

“Akyl, you know you don’t care. Not about the living, at any rate. You care about Chinara in her grave; you care about the victims lying in the morgue trays. But living, breathing, flesh-and-blood people? There isn’t room for them in the way you view the world.”

I remembered watching Saltanat carve Albina Kurmanalieva the way a chef carves a joint of meat. I remembered her shooting her colleague Ilya in the head, his brains decorating the wall. I did my best not to think about her remark that she was wondering whether to kill me.

“Morgue trays? You’ve helped fill a few of those in your time, Saltanat.”

“No one who didn’t belong there,” she said, lighting a cigarette, turning away, dismissing me.

There didn’t seem any point in saying anything else.

“Turn your phone back on.”

“It can wait a little longer. We have to force them into realizing they don’t have control.”

Saltanat dropped her cigarette into her empty beer bottle, got up and walked toward the window, stared out at the heat haze that blurred the distance. Then she turned and strode over to me, snatched the phone from me and turned it on. The phone immediately began to ring. Saltanat raised an eyebrow, handed the phone to me.

I stared at the screen for a moment. Natasha’s number. I answered the call.

“Inspector? You were wise to decide to talk to us. And your friend is very lucky that you did.”

My throat was dry as I listened to the voice. Chechen accent, male, middle-aged, the sort of deep, menacing voice you associate with bodyguards and convicted murderers. Or maybe that was just my Kyrgyz prejudice against most foreigners coming out.

“I’m afraid I don’t know who I’m talking to,” I said. “You could be anybody; maybe found the phone in the street or pickpocketed it out of a handbag.”

“In that case, how would I know you’re Inspector Akyl Borubaev?”

“I’m assuming there’s a contacts button, probably has my name on it, together with lots of other people.”

“Ah, a detective who detects. I like that. It has style. Old school.”

The tone of amused contempt gnawed at me, but I kept my voice calm, even. Dealing with criminals is a lot like playing poker: you keep a straight face, never show what you’re thinking, wait for the moment when you reveal your winning hand and scoop up the pot.

“I’m sorry, but since I don’t know who you are, you’ll forgive me if I hang up. I’m expecting an important call.”

“I’m afraid Ms. Sulonbekova can’t come to the phone right now, which is why it’s me talking to you. Please understand I’m not joking when I say she’s all tied up.”

The amused contempt in his voice had been replaced with something steelier, more determined.

“In fact, I’m not sure you’ll be able to meet her again if you don’t cooperate with me. Although I’m sure you’ll be able to identify her. If not by her face, then by her body, anyway.”

I laughed, putting some bravado into the effort.

“I think you’re mistaking me for someone who gives a fuck about some working girl.”

The Chechen voice chuckled. Not a reassuring sound, for Natasha or for me.

“Very good, Inspector. You should have been on the stage, rather than wasting your talents slapping drunks and pocketing speeding fines for breakfast money. You could almost convince me that Ms. Sulonbekova means nothing to you. Except, you see, I know all about our ten million dollars.”

“Your ten million dollars? I thought it was mine.”

“I’m sure we both agree that Ms. Sulonbekova is the rightful owner. Being as how she stole it in the first place.”

“Well, possession is nine tenths of my law,” I said. “And Natasha can’t do much to change that. Neither can you.”

The Chechen laughed. It wasn’t a pleasant sound, more like a broken bottle being scraped along a brick wall.

“I think we should meet and discuss this properly, don’t you? If only for the sake of Ms. Sulonbekova’s future well-being.”

I put a new note of irritation into my reply.

“I’ve got everything I need, and you don’t have anything I want. If you decide to execute her, let me give you some advice. Don’t shoot her in the breast; you could take someone’s eye out with the ricochet.”

The contempt was back in the Chechen’s voice when he spoke.

“You have the mechanism, but we have the codes. Ms. Sulonbekova supplied them to us. Admittedly after quite a lot of persuasion. I don’t know that Minister Tynaliev is going to be quite so smitten when he next sees her.”

“So we both have something the other wants, is that it?”

“I admire your precision, Inspector.”

“Then I suggest we arrange a meeting place. Neutral ground. Away from people, the police, shopping malls, CCTV cameras.”

“I always suspected you were a pragmatic sort of man. A policeman with whom you can do business. And I’ve met quite a few like that in my time.”

I didn’t disguise the anger in my voice when I replied. I’ve not always played by the strict letter of the law, but then, sometimes to get results, you have to step off the path and push through the undergrowth.

“You’re calling me corrupt? You’re a greasy little pizda whose father should have had his balls cut off at birth. You think you’re important, a big man, a freedom fighter.” I spat the words out with as much scorn as I could muster. “If I had any choice, I wouldn’t wipe my arse with you. As far as I’m concerned, the only reason I’ve got to talk to you is financial. I’ll call you tonight, tell you where we’ll meet and when.”

I paused for a second, then gave the coup de grace.

“And, pizda ? Remember something: I’m Murder Squad. I’ve put better men than you in the ground. Which means, don’t fuck me around or you’ll find yourself lying next to them, discussing what a bastard I am.”

Then I broke the connection.

My hand was shaking as I put the phone back in my pocket. I wasn’t sure if it was from fear or anger, but I could feel my heart hammering to be released from the prison bars of my ribs.