Tom Callaghan - A Summer Revenge

“For one of your plans, that’s quite sensible,” Saltanat said, and I could hear the humor in her voice.

I waited for a moment, just in case she decided to invite me back into her bed, but that had been clearly a one-time deal. I said goodnight, switched off my phone, lay down on my bed, wondering if sleep would ever come. When it did, fragments of my life with Chinara and the hours spent with Saltanat rolled and broke against each other, as if their faces and bodies were somehow interchangeable. When I stumbled awake, it was in a confusion that left me nervous, sweating and profoundly weary.

I spent the next day doing all the things tourists do when they are about to go home. I bought a couple of cheap souvenirs, went to the flydubai travel office to confirm my flight, wandered around the Mall of the Emirates staring in shop windows at things I didn’t want and couldn’t afford.

I didn’t bother to look out to see if I was being followed; I could sense eyes on my back, caught the occasional glimpse of someone staring at me in the reflection of a window. The most obvious surveillance is by amateurs who try too hard, pretending to read a newspaper while peering over the top, checking their watch every thirty seconds, or carrying two jackets in case I notice one. I knew how to shake them off within five minutes, but the more convinced they were that I’d given up the hunt for Natasha, the more relaxed they would be.

I’d seen one man lurking in the hotel lobby, saw him go into the travel agent as I was walking away down the street. The girl at the desk would have confirmed I was due to fly back to Bishkek the following evening. Call it getting an alibi in advance.

Finally I’d had enough of window-shopping, and my feet had had enough of marble floors, so I stood in the shadow of a Metro station until a taxi pulled up, clambered into the back, gave the address of my hotel.

In the rearview mirror I saw two men waving for taxis that weren’t stopping. Sometimes you don’t even have to try to disappear. I settled back, began to drift off and tried to drown out the Hindi music that plays in every taxi in Dubai. All I wanted now was a shower and a break in the case.

Someone must have heard my prayers, because that’s when my phone rang. I answered, heard nothing but sobbing, the kind that rips at your eyes, chokes your throat, threatens to overwhelm you. I knew it wouldn’t be Saltanat, so that left only two possibilities: Natasha and Lin. I threw the mental dice, guessed Lin.

“Is that you, Lin? What’s wrong? Where are you?”

Lin, terrified, weeping in despair. I knew she wouldn’t have called me unless it was bad. Very bad.

She sniffed, coughed, started to regain control. I listened to see if any background noises would give me a clue about her location. Nothing.

“It’s all right, Lin. Calm down, just tell me where you are,” I repeated.

“No,” she answered. “Where are you?”

I wondered if this was some kind of set-up from Lev and Jamila Mark Two, or even payback for their deaths. But there was no time to be cautious because I knew time was running out. Perhaps for Natasha it already had.

“I’m near the Mall of the Emirates, Lin. You? You want to meet?”

“Not the usual place, OK?”

Now she had me intrigued, suspicious. I couldn’t imagine that Lev and Jamila had been found so quickly, so it had to be something to do with Natasha.

“Where?” I asked.

“Goodfellas, sports bar, Regal Plaza Hotel,” she said through tears. “As soon as you can get here.”

And then she broke the connection, or maybe it was broken for her. I told the taxi driver to put his foot down, felt the weight of my Makarov in my pocket, wondered what fresh shit was coming my way.

The Regal Plaza Hotel sits next to Al Fahidi Metro, endless streams of people pouring in and out of the station’s four entrances. I walked down one, out of another, crossed the road, strode down the escalator and out again. If any of the amateurs had managed to follow me as far as here, my pushing through the crowds and up and down stairs would have lost them. Some people say tradecraft is overrated, but I’m not one of them. If it only saves your life once, it’s worth it.

I pushed my way into Goodfellas, a bar so dimly lit that it was hard to tell if there were any customers enjoying a mid-afternoon drink. The walls were covered with framed football strips from the major British clubs: Chelsea, Manchester United, Sunderland, West Ham. I’ve been in the same bar in a dozen countries and the only thing that changes is the team name on the jerseys.

A bartender looked up as I walked in, annoyed at being distracted, however briefly, from his mobile phone.

“Orange juice, fresh,” I said and watched him not serve me. I repeated my order, slightly louder this time, in case he was deaf rather than merely rude. He looked up, nodded, resumed texting. I waited another minute, then reached over the bar, took the phone out of his hand.

“I’m very thirsty,” I said in my most pleasant voice, “so thirsty my hands are shaking, and I might drop this phone on the floor. My legs are shaking too, and I might accidentally stand on your phone and break it. And neither of us wants that to happen, do we?”

The bartender scowled and tried to snatch his phone back. I held it just out of reach, dropped it, caught it with my other hand.

“Orange juice. Fresh. Now,” I said, followed by a smile. “Thank you.”

I didn’t have time to stand there and watch empires rise and fall while he made my drink, so I looked around for Lin. In the furthest, darkest corner, underneath a giant TV screen showing slow-motion replays of American football, I saw a huddled figure, face turned to the wall. I admit that’s where I’d be looking if I had to endure the fumblings of the Seattle Seahawks.

I walked over, gently placed my hand on the woman’s shoulder.

“Lin?” I said.

And she turned around.

Her face was hardly recognizable as her. The bruising covered most of the left side, with a furrow cutting a deep groove crusted with dried blood where a ringed fist had slashed down. The right eye was swollen shut, the eyelid a deep purple. An incisor in her lower right jaw was chipped, and her lips were swollen. The beating had been brutal, and not efficient. Someone had taken out his rage and frustration on a woman with no one to turn to, no one to protect her. But as soon as I saw the results of his anger, I knew she had someone to avenge her.

“Pretty, eh?” Lin said, her voice the rasp of a metal file on brickwork. “Any man would be glad to fuck me, as long as it was in the dark.”

I knew what a catastrophe this was for her. Looking like this, there would be no money to send home to the family, no money to repair the worst of the damage. No man would see beyond the bravado and the fake toughness and recognize her worth. As far as Lin was concerned, she would have been better off if they’d killed her.

I put my hand to her undamaged cheek, took her hand as she flinched from my touch. I couldn’t blame her after what another man had done to her.

I went to the bar, asked for some hot water and clean cloths, putting his mobile back on the bar. From my voice, the barman could tell I was in no mood to fuck around, and he obeyed straight away. I cleaned the cut, doing my best not to cause her any more pain, rinsing the cloths over and over again until the water was pink and the ragged edges of the cut looked like bite marks.

“Who?”

“Why does it matter to you?” Lin mumbled, the cut on her mouth distorting her words. “Some tart you’ll forget as soon as you walk out the door.”

“Tell me,” I said, as gently and calmly as I knew how. “Who?”

Lin looked at me, tears starting to fill her one undamaged eye. I could sense the courage that lay behind the fear, the refusal to be broken.