Tom Callaghan - A Summer Revenge

“You have a weapon?” Saltanat asked.

“Only a gun, I’m afraid,” I said, “but it works.”

I don’t share Saltanat’s apparent lack of compunction when it comes to killing people. I’ve done it, but only to defend myself, when it’s been the option of me or them on the morgue slab.

We squeezed through a gap in the boards and entered the building. The air was thick with the sour taste of cement dust, and the floor littered with rubbish, empty bags and scaffolding joints. I used the light on my mobile phone to illuminate the room. A raw concrete stair led up to the next floor, and we made our way up to where we could see the road on one side and any vehicles that approached from the desert.

“Time to make the call,” Saltanat said, and I nodded. We were both whispering, although there was no watchman, no one nearby. Perhaps the silence and the stillness of the desert had subdued us, or maybe we were just rehearsing for the trouble to come.

“I’m going to send you some GPS coordinates,” I said when my phone was answered. “I’ll be there in one hour. I’ll wait fifteen minutes, and if you don’t show, just you and the girl, then I’m history and so is the money.”

“You’ll get the girl when we get the money, not before,” the Chechen replied.

“That’s not how it’s going to play,” I said. “No girl, no money. I assume she’s already given you the codes. You just key them in to the number on the card, and you can transfer the money straight away, to anywhere in the world.”

I paused.

“The thing is,” I said. “If Natasha thinks you’re going to kill her, why would she give you the correct codes? Three false tries and the whole thing shuts down.”

I realized I sounded like a commercial for online banking, but at that moment I didn’t want to give them a reason not to bring Natasha along.

“Where are we meeting?”

“At a construction site. Nice and quiet. No inquisitive passers-by.”

“Why not meet somewhere public?”

“Like in Dubai Mall? Where I met your young friend Khusun Todashev? That didn’t end too well for him, I seem to recall.”

The Chechen swore, but it wasn’t the first time someone had called my mother a whore. I waited until he stopped, then carried on as if I hadn’t heard him.

“Todashev was collateral damage, nothing more. I don’t want you getting fancy ideas about avenging him. Just give his family a few thousand dollars and forget him.” I paused, lit a cigarette, dropped the match to join the rubble underfoot. “I don’t want to spend the rest of my life sitting with my back to the wall, seeing who comes through the door. And I’m sure you don’t want to be doing the same, either.”

“There’s enough money for everyone to live happily ever after,” the Chechen said. “I’m sure you agree.”

“That’s the other thing: how do we split the money?”

“I think the fairest way would be straight down the middle, fifty percent for you and the girl. With that kind of money, I’m sure she’ll find you more than desirable, Inspector.”

“I can live with that,” I told him, “and that means you’ll live too. Only one car. Just you and the girl. Text me when you arrive.” I ended the call, threw away my cigarette. The smoke lingered in the room.

“So the plan is wait and see,” Saltanat asked.

“It’s worked before,” I said, “and it’s not as if we’ve got a backup team hiding round the corner.”

Saltanat’s silence told me that she had as little confidence in me as she’d had in the past, probably because she thought rescuing Natasha and Tynaliev’s money was less important than dealing with the Chechen.

The sun had now set, but there was enough light from the moon and the road to make sure we wouldn’t be caught unawares.

“He won’t come alone, you know that,” Saltanat said.

“Of course, but he doesn’t know you’ll be here. And if you can deal with his team, then I’ll take care of the main event.”

“Then I’ll wait downstairs; you can meet the Chechen and your girlfriend up here.”

Despite the rubble, Saltanat’s departure was noiseless as she disappeared back down the stairs. I knew that surprise was on her side, and that she was locked into doing what she did best. But I still wished she’d show some emotion, some sense that she remembered our past together.

I put the thought to one side, checked the Makarov and placed it on the window ledge, close to hand. I knew the Chechen didn’t like Russians, and I wondered if they considered anyone Kyrgyz to be Russian by association.

The noise of traffic on the road didn’t dispel the sense that we were somewhere timeless, mysterious. I wondered what it would be like to sleep out in the heart of the desert, gazing up at the eternal wheeling and cascade of the stars. Then I settled down to wait.

Headlights lit up the ceiling, shadows falling across the rough concrete. My phone vibrated, and I checked the message. They had arrived. I called the number.

“I’m on the second floor.”

I heard a car door open and close, footsteps outside then making their way up the staircase. Finally a man appeared in the doorway. Bearded, dark-haired, mid-thirties, in leather jacket and jeans in spite of the heat.

“Inspector Borubaev, I presume.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know your name, so I can’t greet you properly.”

The man smiled, but with his mouth, not his eyes. “I think it’s best if we leave it that way, don’t you?”

I shrugged, not particularly caring one way or the other.

“Where’s Natasha?”

“In the car. I didn’t think you’d want her clambering around a building site in the middle of the night. Especially not in heels.”

“Then I think we’d better go down and see her, don’t you?”

I picked up the Makarov and showed it.

“This is just a precaution, you understand. I’m sure you’re carrying as well. We take everything slowly and calmly, and we won’t need to use these. Agreed?”

The Chechen nodded. “I’m unarmed; why spoil the beginning of a beautiful friendship?”

“After you,” I said, waiting until the man was halfway down the stairs before following him. My mouth was dry, the way it always is when you don’t know if the next few moments may be your last, and I wished I had some water to swill the cement dust from my tongue.

“You have the SIM card with you?” the Chechen asked.

“All in good time,” I said. “Slow and calm, remember?”

Once we were outside, I could see that the front passenger seat of the Chechen’s car was empty. I wasn’t really surprised; I’d expected a double-cross somewhere down the line. But I could see that the Chechen had a puzzled expression as he looked around in the gloom.

And it was then that I stumbled across the body.

I didn’t recognize the man sprawled on the ground inside the fence, his clothes stained with dust and a Glock in his outstretched hand. Something that looked like a black scarf around his throat, the ends trailing in the dirt. It took me a few seconds to realize it was blood, to smell the raw-meat stink of it.

Saltanat’s handiwork.

The Chechen swore, pulled at the car door, started to open it.

“Don’t move,” I said perhaps unnecessarily, pointing the Makarov at his head. He didn’t follow my advice, and I didn’t have the chance to shoot him because the man hiding in the back of the car started firing.

Either he was incompetent or he was nervous, because he should have been able to pick me off at that distance. Instead, the bullets went high and wide, and I dropped to the ground, rolled back into the entrance of the building. I snapped off a couple of shots, but my aim was no better than his. And now I was out of bullets anyway.