Tom Callaghan - A Summer Revenge

The taxi dropped me outside my apartment on Ibraimova, and I rode the wheezing creaking lift up to my front door. The rooms felt dark, claustrophobic after the hotels in Dubai, as if no one had lived here for a very long time. I looked in the fridge and discovered some out-of-date sour milk and a piece of cheese that looked like a science project on mold. There didn’t seem much point shopping for groceries until I found out whether I’d survive my meeting with Tynaliev. I decided to postpone a shower until I’d rested my eyes and lay down on my bed for five minutes.

Four hours later I was woken out of an uneasy, sweat-soiled sleep by a hammering on my front door. A summons to meet the great man, obviously. I opened the door to find two soldiers standing there, hands resting loosely on their service weapons. The sergeant started to speak, but I held up a hand to silence him.

“I know, the minister wants to see me. Ten minutes to get ready, change my shirt, shave, OK?”

The sergeant merely shook his head, jerked toward the lift with his thumb. The private backed him up by tightening his grip on the butt of his gun. I sighed, shrugged and locked the door behind me.

The lift was too small for four people, and I could smell the garlic on their breath, maybe even a breakfast beer or two. A military jeep parked outside the building had aroused the interest of some schoolchildren and three of the old ladies who acted as unofficial caretakers. Their headscarves fluttered in the breeze as if giant butterflies had settled on their shoulders as they nudged each other and speculated on the worst.

I sat in the front passenger seat, the private driving, the sergeant behind me in case I made a sudden move. I had the sense that he’d been told not to be overly concerned about my health if I decided to make a break for it. I sat tight; where was I going to go?

The air was crisp and I could feel the last of the summer heat spill onto my skin over the windscreen. We headed out of the city center, down Manas and Frunze, turning right at Jibek Jolu past the Russian Orthodox church, its golden spires winking at God in the sunlight. We were on our way to Tynaliev’s house, and I wondered if I’d be making a longer stop at the church on my way back. We passed all the old familiar landmarks, the shops, the small houses with pale blue painted trim on window and door frames. I devoured them all with a fresh intensity, as if seeing them for the first time, as well as possibly the last.

Suddenly an irrelevant thought struck me: I never did discover who had mutilated Marko Atanasov’s corpse. And then I had to laugh out loud; it was obviously one of the string of girls he’d used, abused and set to work. Did it matter which one? Not in the sum of things, and I hoped she’d got away with it. He was a candidate for death at the very minimum, and no one would spend a dollar to light a candle for his soul. There are those you can find justice for and those who deserve everything they get.

I went through the usual security checks to get through the gate at Tynaliev’s house. Guards with no more emotion in their eyes than wolves patted me down, made me walk through the scanner not once but twice, before declaring me clear to enter the minister’s presence. This was where the final throw of the dice would be.

Tynaliev’s study was as overheated as I remembered it, the man looking too big for the ornate reproduction furniture. The room had all the trappings of an upmarket Tsarist whorehouse, but I decided not to voice the thought.

“You got back on the morning flight?”

“ Da .”

“Yet you didn’t report to me straight away.”

“Five in the morning? I didn’t think it worth disturbing your sleep, Minister.”

“And you came back alone. Against my express instructions.”

This time I didn’t answer.

“So where is the bitch? Dead? Rotting in a Dubai prison?”

I swallowed hard, and I wasn’t pretending to be terrified.

“She fled the country, Minister.”

Tynaliev stared at me for a long moment, his face unreadable. As I watched, his hands bunched into fists that could smash a jawbone or fracture a skull.

“And the money?”

“That’s the good news, Minister. Well, mostly good news.”

“Go on.” His voice was clipped, precise, but I could sense the rage lurking below the placid surface, the way a snow leopard blends into the rocks, invisible until it attacks.

“The girl got away with some of the money, but I managed to recover most of it. It should be back under your control now. Here are the new codes. Only you have access to them, but you’ll still want to change them.”

“How much?”

“As I say, nearly all of it.”

“No. How much is missing?”

I realized that the blow to his dignity, to his sense of invulnerability, would nag at him far more than any relief at getting his money back. After all, he could always get more, but gaining a reputation for having been deceived would damage his power.

“About a million dollars, Minister,” I said, and the enormity of the sum slapped at me for the first time.

“And she has it?”

“Yes, Minister.”

“Not you?”

“No,” I said, hopeful that not even the security forces knew about the three bank accounts and passports that had my picture but someone else’s name. I’ve never been on the take, but it’s always wise to invest in precautions.

Tynaliev held out one massive meaty hand, and I wondered for a second if he wanted to shake mine. Then I realized that he wanted the codes. I gave him the SIM card, watched him unlock a desk drawer, place it inside. He started to close the drawer, then changed his mind, pulled it open again, took out a pistol and laid it on the cream-colored paper blotter on his desk. The gun looked practical, incongruous in that setting and eminently deadly.

“I suppose you’re expecting me to congratulate you?”

“No, Minister. I know I didn’t succeed in getting you everything you wanted.”

“So what do you want?”

“You did promise me my old job back,” I said, hating the whine in my voice.

Tynaliev picked up the gun, sighted down the barrel, rested his finger on the trigger.

“You know an awful lot about this business,” he said. “Information that would be very useful to my opponents. It might be a lot more secure if I simply draw a line under the whole affair.”

His eyes never left mine, unblinking, scouring my mind, wondering if it was time to dispose of me.

“Of course you could kill me,” I said. “No wife, no relatives, no one to grieve or ask difficult questions. But it wouldn’t be the wisest thing to do, if you want my opinion.”

“Really?” he said, genuine curiosity fighting with the desire to pull the trigger.

“Natasha left documentation behind,” I said. “Details of transfers, accounts, amounts, who and when and where.”

“I see,” he said, and I saw the knuckle on his trigger finger whiten. “And let me hazard a guess: if anything happens to you, this goes to the media?”

I didn’t want to speak in case the fear spoke for me. So I simply nodded.

Tynaliev looked at me the way a snake gazes at its transfixed prey. “You really leave me no alternative, Inspector,” he said, his voice cold and condemning.

And he raised the gun.

“I don’t take kindly to being blackmailed,” the minister said. “It sets a precedent which could give me grief further down the road. Yet on the other hand…”

Tynaliev lowered the gun, and I could feel the rats gnawing at my belly lie still, attentive but uncertain.

“You’re not in touch with the woman?”

I couldn’t speak, shook my head. Watching your death approach does that.