An Autumn Hunting

by Tom Callaghan

  The girls were all tiny, exotic and very young, but knew how to use a knee or a stiletto heel. It’s a tough life, and even tougher if you’re not prepared for trouble.

  I stared at the crowd for a couple more moments, pushed my way past the hectic street-food stalls cooking fish, shrimp, satay and an array of unidentifiable things. Once I was on the pavement, I walked up a few steps into the bar. Not for the first time in my so-called career, I was on my own, with no one to cover my back.

  At once I was pounced on by a middle-aged woman, clearly in charge of maximising the volume of alcohol the bar sold. She took in my suit, placed me as a possible high-roller, and showed me to a small table far enough from the band to make thinking possible. Three girls in matching outfits that looked like school uniforms hovered nearby, ready to take my order.

  ‘Whisky? Bottle? Walker Red?’ the manageress asked, her smile revealing crooked white teeth with just a hint of scarlet lipstick smeared here and there. I shook my head, knowing the quickest way to get rid of her was to not spend thousands of baht. I didn’t know if that would work with the schoolgirls. I’ve seen vultures up in the mountains looking less predatory.

  I ordered a Tiger, watched her send one of the schoolgirls for my beer, then stalk off in search of more profitable prey. The beer arrived with a menu the size of a telephone directory. I flicked through the laminated pages, sticky with spilt beer and food. I didn’t know how long I would have to wait, or who I was supposed to be meeting. I’d already been warned about the fiery nature of Thai food, so I pointed at a steak, watched the waitress scurry off in search of a cow.

  The meal arrived quickly. One bite told me the cow had spent a lot of its adult life hanging around bars, getting into fights and generally being tough. After a couple of mouthfuls, I pushed the plate away.

  ‘One more Tiger?’

  I looked at the untouched bottle in front of me, shook my head. The waitress touched the side of the bottle, shook her head.

  ‘Too much warm,’ she said, implying only an idiot would drink warm beer. I thought only an idiot would drink in the Lurch Inn at all.

  I looked at the unruly collection of misfits, drunks and lecherous tourists, decided to wait another ten minutes, then leave. Nine minutes later, I sent a text to Saltanat, paid the bill, saw my driver pushing his way through the crowd towards me. He beckoned to me and I followed. It wasn’t as if I had a choice.

  Chapter 32

  To my surprise, we didn’t go back into the main street, but pushed further back into the bar, past the pool table and bandstand, then out through the back door. We were in a large courtyard with open-air bars in the centre and around the sides. Stairs on either side led up to two horseshoe-shaped galleries, with more bars. Dozens of women, many wearing only underwear with a numbered badge pinned to their bra straps, stood gossiping and eating, clearly on a break from working inside the bars. Everywhere the air was filled with the smells of cooking, stale beer, cigarette smoke, the promise of whatever kind of sex turned you on.

  We climbed up the stairs to the top floor, walked along past strangely tall and slim women. The driver nodded at them, shrugged.

  ‘Kathoey. Ladyboy.’

  I’ve always had a certain amount of sympathy for gay people in Bishkek. It’s a conservative city, and obviously feminine men run the risk of being attacked, beaten up, even raped or murdered. It usually wasn’t difficult to find the attackers; the nearest bar was where they would end up with a bottle of vodka, celebrating their bravery in attacking some man who’d done them no harm.

  Bangkok was a different world. I did what I suppose most tourists in a red light district do, and stared. They all looked beautiful to me, and I wondered what happened when someone took a ‘girl’ back to his hotel room and got a surprise. Perhaps no one really cared, that sex was either a matter of personal preference or a way to make money.

  I did my best to ignore the blown kisses, admiring whistles and the tugging at my arm as a girl wearing a scarlet dress slit to her hip tried to drag me into her bar. I noticed they all stayed away from my companion; either they knew he wasn’t interested or they’d spotted the gun.

  We came to a bar that looked derelict; no neon, no curtained door, no girls grabbing customers, insisting they come watch the show. The driver pushed at a glass door covered over with old newspapers, and we entered.

  The room smelt of mould, dust and abandonment, with just a lingering hint of sex on the damp air. A stage formed the centrepiece of the room, with metal poles at regular intervals for the girls to dance around. A few dusty mirrors hung on the walls, some engraved with beer signs. Empty bottles, cigarette butts and the remnants of used tissues littered the floor.

  The driver led me to the inner door, pushed it open, jerked his thumb for me to enter. The room I found myself in stood in complete contrast to the squalor on the other side of the door. Discreet lighting highlighted the stylish conference table, the black leather chairs, the massive flat-screen TV where a constantly changing parade of exchange rates and share prices scrolled upwards. The man at the head of the table stood up, gave me a hands-pressed-together wai visible enough to suggest welcome, minimal enough to show he didn’t give a damn for my approval.

  ‘Please, Mr Borubaev, take a seat, make yourself comfortable before we start. Whisky? Or perhaps you prefer vodka?’

  His Russian was flawless, educated, much better than my thick accent. I shook my head and sat down. The man was Thai, perhaps in his early forties, immaculately dressed in the kind of suit I’d only ever seen in the windows of high-end stores in Dubai. As he moved, the colours of the material seemed to change, from a deep blue to a grey-silver. The watch on his wrist was the thickness of a ten-som piece, his cufflinks the fluorescent crimson of Burmese rubies. I was in the presence of serious money, someone who wasn’t afraid to display the fact. Dark hair swept back from a face that could have been lifted from a centuries-old temple, black eyes that pierced yet gave nothing away. He could have been an army general out of uniform, a leading politician, a high-ranking policeman. He looked invulnerable, supremely confident, in absolute mastery of himself and his power.

  ‘My name is Quang,’ he said, patting himself lightly on the chest. I bowed my head, acknowledging the courtesy shown in telling me his name.

  ‘It means “good reputation, brilliant”,’ Quang said, in a matter-of-fact tone that told me he wasn’t boasting. He paused then said, ‘I understand your name – Akyl – means the same?’

  ‘Not brilliant,’ I replied, ‘merely clever.’

  I didn’t add that the Boru part of my family name means wolf. I’d been known to my former colleagues back in Sverdlovsky station as ‘the clever wolf’ because I would solve a murder by stalking, biting and never letting go until I’d brought my prey down. I didn’t want Quang to get any ideas I might be dangerous to him or his people.

  To him, I was simply a renegade mid-level foreign cop, a useful idiot, a glorified messenger boy sent to broker negotiations, agree a deal, or wind up floating face-down in the Chao Praya river. I was very happy for him to think that. If death were to come and attack me, it wouldn’t really matter to me who administered the coup de grâce, the man sitting in front of me or Aliyev back in Bishkek. Dead is dead; anyone who investigates homicides will tell you it’s a simple truth. Sometimes I even believe it myself. The only issue is how long it takes and how much it hurts beforehand.

  I hadn’t noticed the elderly man sitting in a dark corner, massively overweight, wearing a torn plain black T-shirt and shorts. His feet were bare, and a pair of sandals rested beside his chair. He hadn’t spoken and we hadn’t been introduced, but I knew he must be important. In South-East Asia, the person who doesn’t speak is often the one who makes the major decisions once a meeting is over. But I knew any discussion like that would take place without me present.

  ‘You managed to rest on the flight?’

  ‘It was very comfortable,’ I said, wondered how long it had been since
I’d last told the simple truth.

  ‘I was surprised you didn’t want to stay at one of Bangkok’s luxurious hotels.’

  I nodded my understanding at his puzzlement, did my best to explain.

  ‘The Royal Thai Police have a well-known reputation for extreme thoroughness,’ I said, choosing my words carefully, ‘and your prisons have a worldwide reputation as well. I’d rather stay somewhere simple, just a tourist here to see the sights, try the food, maybe even sample a little of the local nightlife.’

  I winked, did my best to appear dazzled by all the smooth brown flesh I’d seen on display outside, and it must have been a pretty accurate impression, as Quang smiled his understanding of a man’s needs.

  ‘You’ve never been to Bangkok before?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘It is the centre of the world, Mr Borubaev. Art, culture, history, business, love, despair: you find it all here. Then, once you’ve exhausted all those possibilities, there is always the opportunity for pleasure.’

  Quang must have pressed a button under the table, because the door behind me opened.

  ‘You must be tired, and indeed, you shouldn’t spend your first night here talking business. My driver can help you find a suitable companion for the evening. More if you require variety. Whatever your tastes prefer, my organisation will be delighted for you to indulge yourself. And, of course, I’m pleased to meet you.’

  Quang and the older man both stood up, preparing to leave. At the door, Quang turned and looked at me, his gaze quizzical, slightly mocking.

  ‘When we next meet, Mr Borubaev, it would greatly improve our mutual trust and advance our talks if you came unarmed.’

  As they walked out of the door, the driver seized my arms, forcing them behind my back. I thought no one had seen me liberate my steak knife in the bar, but as it fell from my sleeve onto the table, I realised just how closely I’d been watched.

  The driver released my arms, took away the knife. Perhaps he was going to return it to the kitchen. I hoped so: I didn’t want to get the schoolgirls into trouble.

  ‘I know you understand Russian,’ I said, ‘so if you don’t mind, I’ll make my own selection for a bedfellow. Maybe even go home alone.’

  The driver simply grunted, shrugged, gestured at the door. A few minutes later, we were back inside the Lurch Inn, and I was inspecting the merchandise while the merchandise cast their eyes over me.

  Small barely budding breasts, breasts that highlighted a plastic surgeon’s skills, flat stomachs, long, lean legs. Women whose hard faces suggested they were kathoey, ladyboys, eyes drowning in mascara and desire. Tiny women in lace underwear, promising everything, revealing nothing.

  Suddenly the idea of a woman in my bed became erotic. The thought that I could lose myself in a stranger’s body and not have to explain anything, to forget my dead wife, not have to justify being on the run was immensely appealing.

  I looked around the bar, saw a woman drinking a whisky and ice in a long glass, smoking one of those long slim white cigarettes that feature in porn movies at the start of a seduction. She was beautiful enough, disdainful enough, to pick and choose and charge the earth. I wasn’t the only man in the room watching her. Every male was eyeing her, wondering if he had the courage to approach.

  With a brave face, and the knowledge I had a lot of Aliyev’s money in my wallet, I walked over. She stubbed out her cigarette, fished out another from the pack and turned to wait for me to provide a light.

  She put her hand on mine, ostensibly to steady it, but the electric spark was as unmistakable as the flame of my lighter. The thin, red silk blouse, the tight white jeans, the strappy shoes with impossibly high heels, all suggested she normally played for pay at much higher rates than she was going to find in Nana Plaza. Long ice-blonde hair was tied back from her face and hung down her back, the way Chinara often wore her hair. A quick wave of guilt hit me at the memory, but high cheekbones, jet eyes and a generous mouth swept my past away like a tsunami.

  ‘You speak Russian?’ I asked, in case anyone was listening.

  ‘Malenky,’ she replied. Little.

  ‘Ty ochen’ krasivaya,’ I said, as if stumbling over even a simple sentence like ‘You’re very beautiful.’

  If she understood, she showed no signs of being flattered. She tapped the ash from her cigarette onto the bar floor, pushed her drink away and prepared to stand up. I lightly touched her arm, and she looked at me as if I had some unpleasant skin affliction.

  ‘Five thousand baht?’ I said, trying to sound as if it was my final offer. She looked annoyed, held up the fingers of both hands. Ten thousand. Expensive. But I decided that if I was going to die in the next few days, it would be with the satisfaction of having slept with a truly beautiful woman.

  She considered, nodded, waved at a cruising taxi as we walked out. My driver pointed to his car, keen to make sure I got back to my hotel safely. But the woman shook her head. Climb into the back of a limousine with tinted windows and who knows who or what’s waiting for you inside.

  As the taxi pulled away to get back on to Sukhumvit, I could almost swear the driver smiled his approval at my choice of bed companion.

  The taxi swung over potholes, through red lights, with the car horn on full auto. I stared at the woman’s profile, the ever-changing lights of the shops we passed adding mystery to her features.

  As the taxi pulled into Langsuan, she turned to me, looked at my face with an unreadable expression, and finally spoke, in a voice as rich and sensuous as honey poured over ice cream.

  ‘Well, Akyl, what shit have I got to get you out of now?’

  Chapter 33

  Back in my room, Saltanat sat on the bed to unfasten her heels, then take off the long blonde wig, revealing ink-black hair. Utterly different from the last time I’d seen her, but still beautiful, unattainable in spite of having been infrequent lovers.

  ‘Nothing to drink, I suppose, Akyl,’ she said. It wasn’t a question, so I didn’t bother to shake my head. ‘Don’t you ever get bored with facing reality head-on, twenty-four hours a day?’ I smiled, didn’t speak. The brutal fact was Saltanat had not only seen as much violence and death as I had, she’d caused a fair proportion of it as well. Working for the Uzbek security services as a ‘troubleshooter’ (their discreet name for an assassin), you don’t spend your days at a desk sharpening pencils, unless you’re planning to push them into someone’s ear.

  ‘So are you going to tell me what this is all about? Why you’ve dragged me here, made me dress up like a thousand-rouble hooker on Nevsky Prospekt?’

  ‘I thought we could have a kind of pre-event honeymoon?’ I said. ‘You know, lie on a deserted beach, the sun warm and sensuous on our bodies, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Bangkok has deserted beaches?’

  ‘The travel agent lied,’ I said, pleased when she rewarded me with a slight smile. ‘But now you are here . . .’

  I plucked up the courage to reach for her, stroke her face, even feel the contours of her head, so subtly different with her new haircut. I felt dizzy with the scent of her perfume, the nearness of her, the way we seemed always to come together, then drive ourselves apart. We’ve both killed people; perhaps that gives a strange sideways view of the world, or relationships, of the amount of guilt an individual can carry.

  We moved closer together, held each other without kissing, her head resting on my chest. I felt strangely lacking in desire, feeling content the gap she always left in my life when she departed was narrowed, however temporarily. She took my face in her hands, kissed me, close-mouthed, ran her fingers along my cheek.

  ‘Shave. Or that’s the only kiss you’ll be getting tonight.’

  When I came back from the bathroom, drying my face with trembling hands, Saltanat was already in bed, her clothes lying on the floor.

  ‘Come here,’ she said. I did as I was told . . .

  It’s a movie cliché that afterwards a couple lie in bed and smoke a cigarette. So we did.


  ‘I didn’t think you’d come when I called you from Tashkent,’ I said, and I wondered if she heard the hint of sorrow, of self-pity, in my voice.

  ‘Texting me to meet you in the bar was pretty smart. A pain in the arse to sit there, rejecting the propositions I got. Five thousand baht, you offered me? I turned down twenty and a weekend in Chiang Mai to end up here in bed with you.’

  ‘I hope it was worth it.’

  ‘Don’t flatter yourself.’

  But she smiled as she said it, and that made all the difference. I took water from the fridge, poured two glasses, gave one to her. Ignoring the sign on the wall forbidding smoking, she lit a cigarette, sent a jet trail of smoke at the ceiling.

  ‘We can go out for a drink if you like,’ I said. ‘I don’t know the area but I’m sure we can hunt down a bar.’

  ‘You’re supposed to be making passionate love all night long to me, remember?’ Saltanat sat up in bed, pouted, said, ‘Me love you long time, too much,’ in a high-pitched imitation-Thai voice.

  ‘How long can you stay?’

  Saltanat gave a noncommittal shrug, tipped ash into her half-empty water glass.

  ‘You mean in bed or in Bangkok?’

  Her voice was serious, professional, the emotionless tones I remembered from our first encounter. But still desirable.

  ‘Both would be great,’ I said, but Saltanat put a finger to her lips to silence me.

  ‘I’m here on official state business, and I don’t mind seeing you, maybe even helping you with whatever trouble you’re in,’ she said, ‘but that doesn’t mean I want to get killed on your behalf. Kyrgyzstan was bad. Our time in Dubai was worse. I have a feeling Bangkok may be worst of all.’

  ‘You heard about Tynaliev being shot?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course. That’s why I’m here. You probably know he didn’t die?’