An Autumn Hunting

by Tom Callaghan

  The car parked, we clambered out and one man handed Aliyev a new cane. Perhaps when you live the life of a pakhan, you need a constant supply. I watched as one of the bodyguards unscrewed the number plates, took new ones from under the driver’s seat, attached them with a speed that suggested much practice. Aliyev didn’t believe in taking the chance of a random police patrol spotting them and calling in a specialist team of snipers.

  ‘I think I’d better have your gun, Inspector, don’t you? To avoid any confusion or uncertainty.’

  I didn’t see how I could disagree, simply nodded. One of the bodyguards relieved me of the Makarov; I shrugged one shoulder, as if to say my jacket sat better without the gun’s weight dragging one side down. Unarmed, I knew the only option I had was to sit back, win Aliyev’s trust, and work out how to explain what I wanted without getting killed in the process. Simple.

  ‘We’re going to stay here? In this shithole?’ I asked, and the incredulity in my voice wasn’t entirely faked. It might have been safer than the Hyatt Regency in the centre of Bishkek, but it was also a hell of a lot less comfortable.

  ‘Just for a couple of days,’ he assured me, leading the way towards the front door. ‘Just until we can assess the situation properly, decide what steps to take.’

  That sounded like a roundabout way of saying ‘retaliate in blood’, but I nodded as if I agreed. The driver pulled open the farmhouse door, hinges squealing like a village pig being slaughtered, and Aliyev gestured for me to enter. I felt the hair on my neck prickle; it was one of those moments when it’s very easy to put a bullet into the base of someone’s skull, smashing through the spinal column and creating instant death. But I didn’t have a choice, so I stepped over the threshold.

  The inside of the farmhouse lived up to my expectations. It was clear no one had lived there since the collapse of the Soviet Union, perhaps even earlier. The place stank of urine, damp earth and rotting food. Two stained mattresses lay on the floor, not far from an overturned stove. The room looked as if two of the local brown bears had broken in, thrown a wild party, got drunk, then had a running battle, before sleeping it off and skulking back to the nearest nature reserve.

  I turned to Aliyev, catching his arm to steady him as he skidded on the grimy grease-soiled floor.

  ‘Which mattress do you prefer?’ I asked. ‘And would you mind if I slept in the car?’

  Aliyev didn’t answer, merely gesturing to the bodyguards, who used their boots to kick one of the mattresses aside. I had to admire Aliyev’s cunning; the mattress was filthy enough to stop anyone discovering the trapdoor beneath.

  ‘I think we can do rather better than that,’ he said, waving his cane. The trapdoor was lifted, to reveal a flight of steep steps leading down into a cellar. I wondered if this had originally been a vegetable or potato store; it had certainly been cleverly concealed to deter the casual searcher.

  ‘Will you be able to manage?’ I asked, looking down at the cane on which Aliyev was supporting his weight.

  ‘This?’ he said, and handed the cane to one of the bodyguards. ‘I think so.’

  And with that, he stepped over to the stairs, turned around, and climbed down into the darkness with a great deal more agility than I could muster.

  It never hurts to have your enemies, real or potential, underestimate you, and his pretending to be lame had certainly fooled me. I made a mental note to take nothing about him for granted, followed him down the steps, towards whatever fate was lying in wait for me.

  Chapter 12

  The steps went down for three metres, enough to ensure this underground hideout would be soundproof. Fire a gun down there and it wouldn’t be heard outside. It was likely someone had done just that, and not as an experiment.

  The basement was huge, stretching far beyond the footprint of the farmhouse above. Recessed lights illuminated a plain wooden floor, with a long table and chairs at one end of the main room. A corridor at the rear led off to three bedrooms, two bathrooms, a small room stacked with guns, a well-stocked kitchen and a storeroom full of tinned food. The air smelt musty, disused, as if it had been a long time since anyone had come down here. The dust in the air tasted metallic, harsh the way silver foil feels on metal fillings. It made me think of the underground bunker in Berlin that the German High Command retreated to as the Red Army approached to end the Great Patriotic War. The place was sterile, impersonal, but like the basement at Sverdlovsky station, I sensed it had seen its share of begging, beatings and blood.

  ‘Where does the power come from?’

  ‘We have a concealed generator a little way away, and reserve batteries, of course.’

  ‘You could withstand a siege here,’ I said.

  ‘The point of building this was so we wouldn’t have to,’ Aliyev replied. ‘My predecessor, the late unlamented pakhan, believed in showing the world how tough he was, how he would end in a blaze of glory. He’d consider this a cowardly way to live. Well, look how he ended up. Face down in a snowdrift, his jaw shot away. Me? I prefer to stay alive. Once you’re in the grave, you can’t spend money, drink, eat, fuck. From the outside you wouldn’t have seen anything other than a squalid and decrepit ruin. Which makes this safe.’

  ‘But once you’re down here, you’re trapped. All the police or army have to do is sit up top and starve you out.’

  Aliyev simply gave an enigmatic smile, so I guessed there would be a hidden exit, a tunnel with an entrance emerging a few hundred metres away. With the kind of wealth and influence he had at his disposal, digging it would have been no problem, and the workmen would be too afraid to talk. When Genghis Khan was finally buried, all the people who’d built his tomb were put to death, to ensure his body could never be found. I imagined Aliyev would have reminded everyone of that, as a precaution against loose tongues. We Kyrgyz have never been called talkative people; good money together with the threat of a painful death clamps most mouths tight shut.

  I headed for the bathroom, used the chemical toilet, checked my mobile: no signal, not that I expected one, which explained why they hadn’t confiscated my phone along with my gun. Back in the main room, my new friends were watching the television news, the sound turned down low.

  Aliyev beckoned me over to the table, pointed to a seat. I sat, uncomfortably aware my back was towards the bodyguards. Aliyev sensed my unease and smiled as he poured out two shots of vodka, pushing one towards me.

  ‘I’d rather have tea, if it’s all the same to you,’ I said. ‘Vodka doesn’t agree with me.’

  ‘I’d heard you’d stopped drinking after your wife died. Strange, most men would drink more.’

  ‘I wasn’t celebrating.’

  The pakhan thought about my comment, simply shrugged. Perhaps I’d shown him a weakness he could later exploit, or a strength he needed to know.

  I wondered how much more information was in the dossier Aliyev had obviously compiled about me, or whether it was just common knowledge among the low lifes I’d dealt with in the past. Either that, or he had filled the beak of someone at Sverdlovsky station. The look on my face must have been enough for Aliyev to seize his advantage.

  ‘I know a lot about you, Inspector. You don’t hold your palm out for breakfast money, your bank balance wouldn’t keep a sparrow alive, and you occasionally fuck some Uzbek tart. I don’t have positive proof you killed Maksat Aydaraliev, but I know his last meeting was with you. Your old boss, the chief, the one who was “killed in a tragic accident” – I’m sure you know more about that than the newspaper stories revealed.’

  Aliyev raised his glass in an ironic salute, drained it, pushed the bottle away. He obviously didn’t subscribe to the traditional belief that once opened, a bottle had to be emptied.

  ‘You’re an intelligent man, Inspector. Resourceful. A man of principles, but willing to have those principles bent from time to time, if the cause is worth it. Which raises a few questions in my mind.’

  He cocked his head to one side and raised an eyebrow, as if deb
ating some unusual problem, or trying to solve a difficult crossword puzzle.

  ‘Questions I hope you can answer,’ he continued, ‘so I can settle any nagging doubts I might have. I’m sure you’ll agree that’s only reasonable.’

  He steepled his hands, then pointed his forefingers at me. I was relieved he wasn’t aiming a gun, but that was short-lived. Because a forearm coiled itself around my throat, forcing me back into my seat, and I felt the cold metal kiss of a gun barrel just behind my right ear.

  Chapter 13

  Aliyev leant forward, his gaze suddenly brutal, driven. Now I saw the strength of will that had lifted him to the heights of the Circle of Brothers.

  ‘I’ll ask you one question at a time; I wouldn’t want to confuse you. But I will have the truth, you understand? Otherwise the consequences may well be fatal.’

  I managed to nod my head, the arm around my throat making it hard to speak.

  ‘To begin, who told you to lure me to Derevyashka? Who was responsible for the bomb that almost killed me?’

  For a moment, thought escaped me. Panic swelled like vomit in my throat. Keeping calm and rational was my only hope of survival.

  ‘Why would I do that?’ I said. ‘I was with you when the bomb went off; I could have been killed as well. Why would I risk that?’

  I saw him consider what I’d said, but the arm around my neck remained as relentless as ever.

  ‘And who says it was a bomb, anyway? They cook with gas cylinders there: an explosion, an accident, who knows?’

  ‘You arranged the meeting. You organised the venue. Maybe you thought it would be a simple hit, a couple of copper jackets in my head, not a bomb to wipe you out as well.’

  ‘What would I have to gain?’ I said. ‘You dead, the next in line steps up to the throne, and the wheel turns just as always. Anyway, you’re no use to me dead. Not with the situation I’m in.’

  Aliyev gave a single low chuckle, one of those laughs without humour that tells you just how stupid he knows you are. He nodded, and the arm around my neck loosened its stranglehold.

  ‘On the run, every cop in the land seeing your head as the route to promotion? You honestly think you’re an asset, not a liability?’

  I took my time fumbling for my cigarettes, ignored his frown, lit up, rocketed blue smoke towards the ceiling.

  ‘I’d agree with you, except you don’t have the full picture. You don’t know why I killed Tynaliev, or how much money’s at stake. More than you’ve ever dreamt of.’

  ‘Suppose you tell me, as we’ve got time on our hands?’ Aliyev said. Not a suggestion, an order.

  ‘My tea?’ I asked. ‘It’s a long story, and talking’s a thirsty business.’

  I sat back and smiled, content to wait. The longer we waited, the longer I carried on breathing.

  ‘Zakir,’ Aliyev called, and the ugliest and scariest of the bodyguards came over. Aliyev told him to make tea, and Zakir obeyed, giving me a scowl that told me he’d rather be tearing my arms off. I made certain to give him an insincere smile as he slopped my cup down in front of me, watched him stomp back to his colleagues. If the killing started, Zakir would be the first one I’d have to take out.

  I sipped at my tea: no sugar, no surprise there. A boiled sock would have tasted better.

  ‘I’m waiting, Inspector,’ Aliyev said, irritation plain in his voice. ‘Delayed anticipation is a much-overrated virtue.’

  ‘You know I’ve done some things for Tynaliev that weren’t exactly part of my official duties,’ I said. ‘Things that could get him into big trouble and me into a shallow grave.’

  Aliyev stayed silent, gestured for me to continue.

  ‘We were like the USA and the old USSR; we both had weapons of mutually assured destruction, even if the minister was far and away the more powerful of the two of us.’

  I took another sip of tea, wondering how plausible the story I’d planned would sound.

  ‘Tynaliev wasn’t a poor man. You have to be very stupid or very honest not to make a fortune in this country if you’ve got contacts and influence, a power base to back you up. But you know how it is with some people. More than enough is never enough, they always need – no, want – more. Money, sex, power, whatever.’

  ‘And the minister wanted what he didn’t already have?’

  ‘Tynaliev was a millionaire, several times over. He knew the secrets of the great and the powerful. He was a very big fish in a pretty small pond. But he wanted to be respected. By the oligarch billionaires who plundered Mother Russia. By the men in power in the Kremlin. A house off Chui Prospekt and a dacha near Talas were never going to be enough for him.’

  I stubbed out my cigarette, shook the pack to make sure I had refills close to hand. I looked over at Zakir and his colleagues, huddled around a TV with the sound turned low. I lowered my voice to little more than a whisper.

  ‘Where was his luxury London apartment near Harrods? His Upper East Side townhouse? His Malibu beach house? We might be the most landlocked country in the world, but that doesn’t stop a man wanting a superyacht, complete with helicopter pad and topless blonde models lounging on the deck.’

  Aliyev looked around, gave a rueful smile. Perhaps he had once craved such toys, only to find himself in a cellar miles from anywhere remotely civilised.

  ‘He believed they would grant him the respect he craved. His vanity wouldn’t let him believe that no matter how much he spent, he would never have kulturny; for the people he admired, he would always be that thug from some godforsaken shithole at the furthest end of the former Union.’

  Aliyev threw back his vodka, reached for the glass he’d poured for me.

  ‘You’d think he’d know better,’ he said, raising the glass in a mock-toast. ‘And now all his money and power are useless. Unless he’s discovered a way of spending it in hell.’

  He downed the vodka, wincing as the alcohol burnt his throat.

  ‘But you still haven’t told me how he planned to acquire all this immense wealth. Or why you killed him. So I think your story is only half-told, Inspector. And it’s that half that’s stopping me ensuring you end up like my predecessor, Maksat. On a slab waiting for Kenesh Usupov’s scalpel to unpick your secrets.’

  It was time to come clean. Any more dancing around and I’d waltz right into a grave. I finished my tea, cleared my throat, ready to sing.

  And that was when Zakir came over, his face a curious mix of triumph and worry.

  ‘Pakhan, the news on the TV? Tynaliev? The minister this gopnik shot? They say he’s alive, seriously wounded but expected to recover, undergoing surgery with the reporters waiting outside the hospital.’

  Zakir turned to me, and the hatred in his eyes was unmistakable.

  ‘You pizda, you useless piece of shit, you couldn’t even kill him.’

  And to prove his point, he spat in my face.

  Chapter 14

  The warm phlegm dribbled down my cheek, thick, sticky as glue. I wiped my face with my sleeve, looked up at Zakir, gave the forgiving smile I knew he would hate. I kept my voice level, unconcerned.

  ‘Look at my face, Zakir. Remember it, memorise every feature, every crease and wrinkle. Because it’s the last face you’ll see before your world goes dark. And I’ll be looking down the barrel of a gun, smiling, just like now.’

  Zakir raised his fists, ready to rearrange my face, but his boss held up a restraining hand.

  ‘Go sit down,’ he said. There was nothing but steel in his voice.

  Zakir scowled at me, drew his forefinger across his throat, walked away. I know myself how hard it can be to follow orders, but sometimes you have no choice.

  ‘You have a talent for pissing people off,’ Aliyev said, ‘and Zakir doesn’t forget insults. Of course, you might not live long enough for him to do something about it.’

  I shrugged; there comes a point where the threats start to cancel each other out, and you start to wonder how to turn shit to your advantage.

  *
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br />   We spent the next two days like moles, emerging only at night to grab ten minutes of clean air before returning to our cellar. I wondered if it might not become our tomb, depending on who was hunting us. Aliyev had forbidden anyone to smoke, knowing how far the smell can carry on the air, so most of us were bad-tempered in our withdrawal, looking for any excuse to argue or fight. The news continued to carry the latest reports on Tynaliev’s condition, and the less in danger he appeared, the more in danger I became.

  Aliyev and I were the only ones interested in showers, so the smell of Kyrgyz thug grew heavier, sickly sweet as rotting fruit. Aliyev had decided to wait to question me further until we were certain Tynaliev would live. Now my future seemed so short, I just lay on my bunk and thought about my past.

  My dreams were broken and confused, as if the unfamiliar surroundings prevented me from diving fully into sleep. I relived the mercy killing of my wife, Chinara, as she lay in the hospital bed, cancer chewing the meat off her bones. The pillow placed over her face, the final upraised hand, whether in protest or waving a farewell approval and benediction, I would never know. I would jerk awake at that point, heart hammering, hands clammy, wonder why I never dreamt of the happy times we had together. Guilt binds you with heavy chains and there’s no key to the padlock.

  The nights were difficult but the days were harder. Tell nothing but the truth, you don’t have to worry about remembering the lies you told. If you’re doing all you can to keep as many cards as close to your chest as you can, knowing a single slip-up could put you in your grave, the strain becomes enormous. Aliyev was the sharpest interrogator I’d ever come across: a large part of his rise to the underworld throne must have depended upon it. Every few moments, he’d track back to a question he’d asked earlier, to see if I gave the same answers, if the pieces still slotted together. When I’d questioned suspects in the past, it was to find out whether they were guilty or not. Aliyev wasn’t interested in such moral judgements, he just wanted as clear an idea of the big picture as possible, on which to base his strategy and tactics. Right or wrong, good or bad, was never part of his equation.