“Perhaps. There are people I can speak to, who might have seen him, might have some idea where he is.”
Nergui wondered whether he should be calling back to headquarters, getting officers out trying to round up some of these contacts, ready for their return. But he was worried that any sudden flurry of activity might drive Badzar to ground long before they arrived. At the same time, he could not guess at the possible implications of any delay. In the circumstances, the prospect of a four hour drive through the night was not an attractive one.
In the event the drive was even worse than he had anticipated. There was only a single route from here to the city-it could hardly be dignified with the title of road-composed from years of horse and motorized traffic pounding down the hard earth. It was badly rutted along its length, the ground broken and pitted, and Doripalam had to drive carefully, peering into the light of the headlamps, to avoid being caught in any of the larger holes. In the darkness, it was impossible to gain any more speed, and Nergui found the slowness of their pace increasingly frustrating.
He sat in the back of the vehicle with Cholon. Cholon was chewing his fingers, looking anxious, with no evidence now of the superficial confidence with which he had greeted them earlier. It was as if he had been hiding some truth from himself, and now could no longer pretend.
“What do you know about the killings?” Nergui said. He was still trying to piece together the story in his mind, wanting to understand why Cholon should have harbored these suspicions. This could all, he thought, just be nonsense-evidence perhaps of Cholon’s disturbed state of mind rather than his brother’s. Perhaps they were merely chasing phantoms, in this endless, dreamlike passage through the empty night.
“Only what I have seen in the newspapers. They get brought to us out here, though usually a few days old. I saw the story about the Westerner killed in the hotel but didn’t think much about it. It seemed a world away. I saw he was working for the mining companies which didn’t surprise me. It is a corrupt world.”
Nergui listened, feeling every bump in the interminable road. “And you read about Delgerbayar’s killing?”
“That was when I first began to wonder-I saw the picture of the policeman in the newspaper. I wasn’t certain-just as I still wasn’t when you showed his photograph to me-but I thought he was one of those who had visited the camps. And by this time I knew the stories of the attacks out here. So I began to wonder-I had seen the way that Badzar looked when I had last seen him. I was not surprised when you turned up.”
“But you have no real grounds for suspecting that your brother is… involved in this?”
Cholon shrugged. “No, of course not. But I know my brother. We were close. I would not be here-I would not be betraying my brother-if I did not feel that something was dreadfully wrong.”
Nergui sat back in his seat, watching the ceaseless passing of the rough terrain outside, just visible in the car lights. “You know there have been other killings?”
Cholon turned to Nergui, his mouth open. “Other killings? The same as the two I read about?”
“We do not know. Some of them have similar characteristics.”
“Characteristics? What do you mean?”
Nergui paused, unsure how to take this forward. If Cholon was being honest-and there was no reason to assume that he wasn’t-it was difficult to know how much the truth he could bear. “The details do not matter,” he said. “Let us just say that these were not straightforward killings.”
Cholon looked at him as though about to ask a question. “I do not need to know,” he said. “I do not know anymore what Badzar might be capable of. I do not want to know.”
“There have been a number of killings,” Nergui said. “Three more in the city, as well as Delgerbayar and the Westerner, Ransom. Possibly connected. We do not know for sure. And there were two more murders down in the south, in a camp near Dalandzadgad. The last two were different, and we have a suspect who is not your brother. But we think there might be a link.”
“I don’t understand.”
Nergui laughed mirthlessly. “Neither do we. Not at all. The common thread here is mining, mineral production, probably gold. That is the only factor that may link the killings, if they are linked at all. I do not know if your brother is involved. If he is, I do not know if he is the sole perpetrator of these killings.”
“And I thought you were omniscient.”
“At the moment, I would settle for knowing just one thing, anything, about this case with certainty.”
The truck rumbled on, Doripalam still silent, leaning forward over the steering wheel as he peered into the sparse light from the headlamps, occasionally twisting the wheel jerkily to avoid a pothole. It was as if they were suspended in time, as if the awful reality outside the vehicle did not exist.
“There is one thing more,” Nergui said at last.
“What?”
“There is a police officer, a detective, sent over from England. He came to investigate the death of Ransom, the Westerner.” Nergui stopped, suddenly realizing the weight of fear that lay in his heart. “He has gone missing.”
“Missing? How can a visiting policeman go missing?”
“How could one of our own senior officers be brutally murdered? None of this makes sense. All we know is that the officer was walking from the British Embassy to his hotel late last night. And that he never got there.”
“And you think-?”
“It is like everything else in this case. We do not know what to think. But we have to fear the worst.”
“I cannot-I do not know what to say.”
“You will appreciate,” Nergui said, “that this is no longer simply a police matter, if it ever was. This will become a major diplomatic issue. I do not know what the outcome will be. But, whatever it is, we need to resolve it quickly. Do you think you can trace your brother?”
“I don’t know. There are people he may have gone to. Places he might be. But it is all guesswork. I don’t even know for sure that he is in the city.”
It was becoming hopeless, Nergui thought. He was losing whatever touch he might once have had. The plodding methodical police work was going on in the background, but seemingly going nowhere, and still managing to miss the few things that might be important. And here he was, rushing off on pointless wild goose chases, desperate for anything that might give him a lead, clutching at any straw. But he was surely experienced enough to know that such leads were almost always illusory. He could almost feel this lead melting away as he reached for it. And increasingly his judgment seemed flawed. Perhaps he should have stayed up at the mine, spoken to more people, tried to find out precisely what it was that Delgerbayar had been up to. Instead, he had gone racing back to the city, for what? Someone who might have nothing to do with all this, and who could be anywhere. It was madness.
And underneath all that, he realized, as the truck rumbled on through the night, was something else, something that was driving him on into this insanity. It was the feeling, deep down in his bones, that Drew was still alive but that, unless Nergui could find some means of playing against the most extreme odds, he would not be alive for much longer.
Blackness. Emptiness.
He had no idea how long he had been here. Even with the return of consciousness, time seemed to have stopped. The sensations that should have given him some sense of progression-hunger, thirst, the aching of his body-seemed to have been suspended. He was aware of the hard surface beneath him, and of the imprisoning bands around his ankles, wrists and neck, but it was as if he were somehow detached from this reality.
Even the horror that had overwhelmed him when he had first realized his position had, for the moment at least, abated. Something-psychological, physiological, he did not know-had calmed his mind, allowed him to think rationally.
It was insane. The whole thing was insane. Why should anyone attack him? Why had he been brought here, wherever this might be? Why should anyone want to imprison him?
W
as this a kidnapping? His policeman’s mind was working automatically now, suppressed the fear, thinking back to his negotiator training, trying to work through the possible scenarios, the potential options available to him.
If this was a professional kidnapping, perhaps politically motivated, then his chances of survival and release were much higher. There would be some demand which the authorities might or might not be able to concede. There would be some form of negotiation. His survival would be guaranteed for a time, as the kidnappers would not lightly sacrifice their only bargaining counter. Perversely it was encouraging that so far he had been kept, literally, in the dark. If his kidnappers did not allow him to see their faces or have any information, they would have nothing to fear from his eventual release. Professionals, he reminded himself, whatever their motives might be, did not like to kill unnecessarily.
If the kidnappers were just small time crooks who were aiming too high, his future was highly uncertain. If things became too difficult, they would simply want to cut their losses and get out. And central to cutting their losses, he realized, would be his own elimination.
Suddenly, the real panic struck him, blasting chills through his body like an icy wind. He arched his back, pushing and pulling against the ties that held his limbs, struggling and struggling and struggling, unable to make any headway. And then all his detachment collapsed, and he was nothing more than a mindless frenzy of wrestling bones and blood, as he felt himself lost in the blackness, falling into the worst nightmare he had ever known.
The end came equally suddenly. There was a sharp searing light, burning into his brain. He screwed his eyes shut tight, and the light was red, as hot as the sun, agonizing in its brilliance, like hot wires against his eyeballs. He had no breath to scream anymore, and all he felt was a desperate longing for the previous cool darkness. If that had been his death, then surely now he was entering the outer realms of hell.
But then his beating heart calmed, and the pain in his eyes and his head lessened. He still could not see, but he registered that this brilliance was nothing more than light, ordinary light. Black dots and shapes danced in the crimson brilliance, gradually settling back into order.
At last, after what might have been hours, he found himself able to move his eyes. His eyelids remained shut, and he realized that fear had rendered them immobile. Partly it was fear of the brilliance of the light. Mostly, though, it was fear of what sights might greet him when he was able to see again.
He forced himself to try to relax, to breathe more steadily, suppress his sense of panic. And finally he was able, very slowly, to open his eyes.
The sight that met them was unexpectedly banal. Above him, the source of the searing light, were four bright fluorescent strip lights set on wooden beams. Turning his head as far as he could, he could see concrete walls, metal shelving. Cardboard boxes with incomprehensible labels. Some items of anonymous industrial equipment, shaded with dust. A storeroom of some kind.
He was lying on a wooden bench, maybe a work bench. He twisted his head a little more, stretching his muscles to their limits to try to see his arms. His wrists were tied with plastic twine, coiled repeatedly around, fastened underneath the bench itself. His ankles and neck were presumably tied in the same way. He turned his head as far as he could. A water bottle-the kind used by cyclists and runners-had been taped to the bench beside his mouth enabling him to reach the nozzle. He twisted his head and, with considerable discomfort, managed to suck down some of the water.
The room was silent. He stopped moving and tried to listen. At first, he could detect no sound of any movement, other than the seemingly deafening beating of his own heart and the rasp of his own panicked breathing.
He forced himself to hold his breath for a moment, listening hard. And finally he thought he heard it, like an irregular echo of his own heartbeat. It was the soft but insistent sound of another’s breath. He tried to lift his head but it was impossible. All he could see were the beams, the lights, the concrete walls.
But somewhere outside the constrained field of his vision, someone was watching him.
CHAPTER 17
By the time they reached the outskirts of the city, it had started to snow, thick flakes whirling in the glare of the streetlights. There had been some flurries earlier in the week, but this was the first serious snow of the winter. Perhaps it was as well they had traveled back when they did. Being stranded on the steppes in this weather would not be pleasant.
It was nearly one a.m., and the streets were deserted. For the first time, Nergui found the emptiness unnerving. Against the brilliance of the settling snow, the gloom of the unlit side streets seemed threatening. Nergui felt uncomfortable until they pulled into the enclosed parking lot at the rear of the police headquarters. Even then, he looked uneasily behind him as they bundled out of the truck and hurried through the snow to the entrance.
Inside, it was warm and reassuringly prosaic. There were one or two officers on duty, but most were lounging in the rest room, sipping coffee. Nergui led them through and up the stairs to his office. It was only once he was in there, settled behind his desk, with Doripalam and Cholon sitting opposite, that he finally felt fully secure.
What was happening to him? He had been doing this job, or something like it, for most of his adult life. He had a reputation for fearlessness. He was in the police building, surrounded by high level security and staff who would jump at his every whim. And yet here he was, behaving like a skulking rookie, terrified of his own shadow.
For much of the journey there had been no network signal on his cell phone. The networks were good in the cities and towns, but much more sporadic out in the countryside. As they had reentered the city limits, his cell had bleeped obligingly to let him know that there were messages for him. He gestured to the others to go and get coffees for the three of them, then sat down to listen to the messages.
The first, inevitably, was from the Minister. “Nergui, I don’t know where you are,” he said, an edge of threat in his voice. “I’m trusting that you know what you’re doing. But things are starting to get seriously out of hand here. I’m stalling the British government as best I can, but I can’t put them off for long. We need some answers, and we need them quick. Call me when you get in. Whatever time that is.”
Nergui looked at his watch. One fifteen. He knew from experience that the lateness of the hour would be no excuse for failing to contact the Minister. He wasn’t sure, though, that he had anything to report.
The second message, equally predictably, was from the British ambassador. “Nergui,” he said in English, “I’ve been trying to get hold of that bloody Minister of yours. Seems to be permanently in meetings.” Clearly, Nergui thought, the Minister was following the ambassador’s own example. “I know the Foreign Office is in direct contact with him now, but I’d like an update. Nobody’s telling me anything-” Even in these circumstances, it was difficult not to be amused by the plaintive tone. “Give me a call in the morning, Nergui. I really want to know what’s going on.”
That was one, at least, that could be safely left. Nergui waited, and listened to the third message. It was a voice he recognized. Batzorig. “Sir. You’re probably out of cell range at the moment-don’t know exactly where you are. Can you give me a call as soon as you pick this up? I’m not sure, but it might be urgent. We’ve had a message left for us that I think you ought to-”
Nergui thumbed off the phone and jumped to his feet. In seconds, he was out of the door and jumping, three steps at a time, down the stairs to the rest room. He burst into the room, banging back the door. The three officers sitting drinking coffee looked up in surprise. Doripalam and Cholon were at the far end of the room.
“Where’s Batzorig?” Nergui said.
“I think he’s upstairs, in his office. He said to tell you-”
“So why didn’t you?”
The officers looked confused. “Well, he didn’t say exactly-”
“Forget it.”
; Nergui turned on his heel and stormed out of the room and then back up the stairs. Batzorig’s office was at the rear of the building, down the corridor from Nergui’s own. It was a large room he shared with three other officers, though he was the only one currently on duty.
He looked up from his desk as Nergui pushed open the door, and jumped to his feet. “Sir,” he said. “Did you get my message?”
“Just a few minutes ago.” Nergui sat himself heavily down opposite Batzorig. “What is it?”
“Well, it may be nothing, sir. But we received a message this evening. Just came through on the out of hours line, and I happened to pick it up.”
“What sort of message?”
“Well, I was able to record most of it, sir.” There was a facility for recording all incoming calls, no doubt a legacy from the days when surveillance was more commonplace, but still useful nonetheless. “As soon as I realized it might be important. I changed the tape so there was no danger of it being recorded over.”
“Very good,” Nergui nodded. Why was it that all these young officers felt the need to try to impress him? Had he been the same in his younger days? He feared that he probably had.
Batzorig held up the tape and slipped it into a cassette player he had set up on the desk. He had obviously been preparing carefully for Nergui’s return.
For the first few seconds after he pressed the play button, there was nothing but the faint hiss of the turning tape. Then suddenly a voice, low and sibilant, cut in. “-Have something that might interest you. It may be possible to arrange its safe return. But this will require cooperation. I will call again at nine a.m. tomorrow.” There was the sound of Batzorig trying to extract some more information from the caller, but it was clear that the caller had already hung up.
“What time did this come in?” Nergui said.
Batzorig consulted his notes carefully. “Just after ten,” he said. “Seven minutes past, to be exact.”
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