And once the gun barrel was pressed against my spine, it was a lifetime too late to do anything about it.
Chapter 9
“Shut the fuck up,” the voice said, digging the gun harder into my back for emphasis.
“I haven’t said anything.”
“Shut. The. Fuck. Up,” he repeated in the style of every gangster movie he’d ever seen. Which was his second mistake.
I stopped, stabbed my heel onto his right foot, at the same time pushing myself backward and left, away from his gun hand. I raised my left arm and pivoted my elbow in a spin that connected with the side of his head. Hit someone with your elbow properly, using the momentum of your shoulder, and it’s like being smashed with an iron bar. I carried on, dropping my arm so that I could snatch at the gun. But it had already fallen from his fingers as he reeled back. His legs gave way, and he sat down on the pavement, his hand scrabbling for the gun. But my Makarov was already out and aimed, and my hand wasn’t shaking.
“A classic mistake,” I said. “Get too close and I can beat you before your reflexes have time to pull the trigger. Stay half a meter away and you’ve all the time in the world to shoot me if I try anything.”
I looked at him and decided to reinforce the lesson, so I kicked the side of his knee. Not hard, but it doesn’t have to be hard when you wear steel-capped shoes like I do. His scream wasn’t loud but it held a world of pain.
“Get up,” I said. “I want answers, not your blood on my hands. At least, not yet.”
I took a good look at the man as he hauled himself up, using the wall as a support. More a boy than a man, really, late teens at the most.
“Who told you to follow me?” I asked, jabbing my Makarov into his throat to encourage him.
“I can’t tell you. I daren’t,” he said, looking around to see if there was some way he could escape.
“Let me guess,” I said. “They’ll kill you if they find out you’ve told me? Well, maybe they will, maybe they won’t. But you have to ask yourself how you feel about me pointing my gun nice and square between your eyes.”
I could smell the panic on him, a sour amalgam of sweat and alcohol seeping out of his pores. I pushed the gun into his face, sighting down the barrel, and that was when he pissed himself. I almost felt sympathy when he started to cry, heaving sobs that made him shake as if having an epileptic fit. He didn’t look old enough to shave, judging by the few straggling wisps of hair on his chin. Some hit man.
I pushed his gun further away from him, then picked it up, checked it. Loaded, and I wondered who would send a hopeless amateur after me. Maybe they didn’t know who I was, thought I was just some tourist hoping to get laid. Or maybe they were enemies of Tynaliev—God knows he had enough of them.
“I’ll ask again, one last time, who told you to follow me?” I said. “Otherwise your mother is going to be a very unhappy woman.”
“The man you were drinking with in the bar,” he said. “The Chechen. He wanted to know where you were staying—gave me five hundred dirhams to follow you and find out.”
I nodded. I’d had an idea it might be Kulayev, either working on his own behalf or following Tynaliev’s orders to keep an eye on me.
I pocketed his gun. You never know when a spare comes in useful, and I didn’t know anything about the history of the Makarov, whether it was hot or not.
“Think of this as your lucky day or me as your favorite uncle. You get to go home tonight, and not wearing a shroud.”
He nodded, wiped his hands on his jeans.
“I suggest you go on holiday tomorrow, come back in a couple of weeks.”
I took a step back from him, raised my gun again, watched him hold his hands up in front of his face, as if he could ward off a bullet.
“I tell you now: if I see you again, I’m going to kill you. When I’ve done that, I might pay a visit to your family as well. After all, one of these carries eight rounds. That should sort out any ideas your brothers might have of avenging your death.”
The boy nodded again, to show he understood. It was all bluff of course, but it never hurts to give someone pause for thought. I gestured toward the street with my Makarov.
“Now fuck off.” I gave his ankle a little reminder of what I could do with my feet. He was too scared even to cry out, just hobbled away, looking back over his shoulder, in case I changed my mind.
“Tell Kulayev I’m staying at the Denver Hotel.”
I didn’t bother to tell him which room I had, just in case distance gave him back his courage and he found another gun and bullets from somewhere. I put the Makarov away, the weight reassuring in my pocket, and headed for the Denver. I’d deal with Kulayev in the morning.
Chapter 10
The air conditioning in my room wheezed and rattled like an old man with emphysema, spitting out an occasional gust of lukewarm air. The mattress had been designed to show just how sharp and painful bedsprings could be, while a collection of stains hinted at brief and casual encounters. Getting a decent night’s sleep was as likely as me tracking down Natasha Sulonbekova and persuading her to give up the memory stick.
After a couple of hours trying and failing to beat the mattress into submission, I gave up and sat down on the stained chair by the window. I told myself it couldn’t have been any dirtier than the sheets. I lit a cigarette, watched the blue smoke flutter and weave in the air conditioning. I wondered if there was a pattern emerging in my stay in Dubai, one that would become apparent in the next couple of days. I knew I couldn’t trust Kulayev. My evening encounter with the boy assassin might just have been him checking up on me, but I could have had a bullet lodged firmly in my spine, and I didn’t much care for that.
I was pretty certain that Tynaliev had lied to me, maybe not about his mistress, but about what she’d stolen from him. The talk of secret treaties and foreign powers was so obviously bullshit that I knew I’d be in the firing line once I discovered the true story and got back to Bishkek. My educated guess was that it was about money, bribes, pay-offs, foreign bank accounts. Corruption; it’s one of the few things we do well in Kyrgyzstan. Someone like Tynaliev scooped up more than his fair share, and he didn’t spend it all on plastic breasts.
I let my mind wander; no point in making wild guesses until I’d found out more. So I thought about Chinara and the years we’d had together before the cancer devoured her. Summer weekend trips to Lake Issyk-Kul, swimming in the clear water before opening the bottles of beer we’d put there to cool. Eating pelmini dumplings dipped in a chili sauce that burned our mouths, or giant skewers of lamb shashlik from one of the roadside stalls. Watching her lying on our bed, engrossed in the Russian poetry she loved. And always the laughter, the shared glances, the knowledge, certain and unshakeable, that we’d always be together.
I thought about the unfairness of her death, about the anger I’d felt ever since I stood by her graveside up in the mountains, in the middle of a Kyrgyz winter that had ripped out my heart. I thought about how I’d turned that anger against myself and against the world, killing in a search for justice.
And I knew there would be no peace for me, no place in the world, as long as I let that anger rule my heart.
Dawn trudged up the sky, slowly at first, then speeding up as if afraid of being caught. What little breeze there had been during the night had long since died of exhaustion, and the air was a thick and muddy soup.
I showered, came out of the tiny bathroom, immediately drenched in sweat, needing another shower. I ran my hand over my chin—no reason to shave, maybe the hard man look would prove useful. I tucked the Makarov under my shirt, hid the other gun behind the wardrobe. The mirror told me I looked worn, my back told me I was wearing out. It was going to be a long and brutal day.
Kulayev had told me about a restaurant that served Uzbek food up by the dry docks; nothing fancy but the closest I was going to find to home cooking. I ordered a glass of chai and chicken samsi, surprised to find traditional dishes like manti and pelmeni on th
e menu. Clearly I was going to become a regular customer. The waitress wore a colorful headscarf and a colorless expression, as if serving a Kyrgyz was going to be the low point of her day. No love lost between Kyrgyz and Uzbek, especially not since the rioting in Osh a few years ago. It was one of the reasons I’d never visited Saltanat in Tashkent; I had a pretty good idea what sort of welcome a Bishkek ex-cop would get from the Uzbek authorities.
I stirred a spoonful of raspberry jam into my tea, sipped to savor the sweetness. It was a taste of home, of spring mornings up in the mountains, where your breath steamed in the air, of long evenings smoking and talking with old friends in the Derevyashka Bar. My second day in Dubai and I was already homesick.
Kulayev arrived just after I’d finished my second cup, looking hungover. I waved to him, beckoning him to join me. He sat down, ordered chai, rubbed his face. I winked at him, all boys together. “So how was last night, then?”
He gave a bitter grunt.
“Useless. She got undressed, must have taken a kilo of paper tissues out of her bra. I’ve got bigger tits than she has. Then she just lay there like a sack of potatoes. Finally kicked her out at four in the morning. Total waste of five hundred dirhams.”
I patted him on the shoulder with my right hand, used my left under the table to place the gun tight against his groin. The look of fear on his face was very gratifying, almost making up for having had virtually no sleep.
“Well, while you were playing hide the horse-meat sausage, I encountered your young friend. And his gun. So I want to know what’s going on, and if you don’t tell me, last night will be the last time you ever get laid.”
The waitress brought over another teapot, and I gave her a reassuring smile.
“Spasibo,” I said, not expecting or receiving a response. Kulayev started to wriggle in his seat, but a jab from my Makarov soon set him straight.
“What’s the story with the boy?” I said.
“Inspector,” Kulayev said, his eyes staring into mine, “you’re a lone wolf, everyone knows that. You’ve got your own ideas about right and wrong, and they might not meet with approval from the top. The word is you don’t obey orders when they don’t suit you.”
“So Tynaliev told you to keep an eye on me?”
He shrugged. “More to act as a liaison while you’re here. But yes, there are things you don’t know about that don’t need disturbing. Important people back home have invested a lot of money in Dubai. That boat doesn’t need overturning. We’re not in a pedalo on Lake Issyk-Kul anymore.”
I slid the gun back into my pocket, felt its weight pull at the material. It’s not a good sign when the only reassurances you have come with copper hollow points.
“And the boy with the gun?”
“A mistake. Too young, too enthusiastic. And certainly too stupid. I told him I just wanted to know where you were staying.”
“Didn’t Tynaliev tell you?”
“It’s all need-to-know with him, and he must have decided I didn’t need.”
“But the boy told you?”
Kulayev nodded. “A shit hole, I suppose?”
“I’ve stayed in better.”
Kulayev relaxed a little now that the Makarov was not threatening to emasculate him. He sipped at the tea, frowned at it, added some jam, nodded approval.
“So what’s your plan, Inspector?”
“Any idea where we might track down the lovely Ms. Sulonbekova?” I asked.
“Your best bet is where we were last night, the bar off Bank Street. A lot of the Kyrgyz girls hang out there.”
I thought just how tough it must be to leave your family, probably your mother taking care of your children, a divorced husband who never sends money. You don’t have much in the way of education or work skills, but you need to eat, find shoes for your son, dresses for your daughter. And that’s when the vampires get you.
Maybe you meet them in the local narodni supermarket, where you’re hunting down the special offers, hoping to stretch out the som in your purse to put tonight’s meal on the table, maybe a piece of fruit for the children at breakfast. Maybe you’ve gone to a bar to drink Baltika pivo and forget your worries for a couple of hours. But sooner or later you meet them.
They tell you about their friend who sends home five thousand dollars a month, more than enough to pay for school, clothes, food. She’s going to work for one more year, come back rich and open a business, a florist or a hairdressing salon maybe.
Then the vampire tells you about Dubai, the luxury, the elegance, stores with beautiful designer clothes, smart restaurants. The bars full of rich foreigners looking for a wife or a girlfriend. She tells you how pretty you are, how the men will flock to you like moths around a candle. Of course there are expenses: the airfare, the visa, the rent for an apartment. But she likes you, knows you’ll do well there, get your life back on track after that bastard husband dumped you for that bitch with the bedroom smile. So she’ll lend you the money—no worries paying it back; you’ll earn it in a couple of weeks.
You’re not stupid; you know the kind of work she’s talking about. You don’t earn five thousand dollars a month anywhere in the world as a waitress or a cleaner in a hotel. But you spent years with that bastard husband hauling himself on and off you, usually in two minutes from start to snore. So why not get paid for it, rather than giving it away for free? And then you’re snared.
I stood up, stretched, told Kulayev that breakfast was his treat and set off back toward the narrow streets of Bur Dubai. I’d already decided to check out of the Denver and find somewhere that might give me a decent night’s sleep. After all, if Tynaliev was planning a planting party on my return, with me as the one going into the ground, I might as well enjoy spending his money while I could.
Chapter 11
I let the day drag by in a series of giant shopping malls, looking in the windows of shops displaying clothes my annual salary as an inspector could never have afforded, getting thoroughly miserable in the process. I’d never paid a great deal more than lip service to communism, even in the workers’ paradise days of the USSR, but a world where a pair of shoes costs more than a babushka’s yearly pension strikes me as a pretty mean and shallow place.
Finally I couldn’t stand the way everyone stared at my suit and the security guards following me at a less-than-discreet distance, so caught the Metro back toward the Denver. I stopped off in a souk to buy a cheap pair of cotton trousers and a couple of shirts to replace my sweat-sodden suit. Ten minutes back in the fleapit was enough. I put my new clothes in a plastic bag I found under the bed, then headed out into the heat. I wasn’t going to check out, in case Tynaliev got in touch, and if Kulayev thought I was still there, he’d maybe dispense with the tail.
I wondered about checking into the Vista Hotel, but decided against it; too easy for anyone to find me. A nearby hotel surrounded by alleys would allow me to ditch any unwanted interest, even if it meant running through more of Tynaliev’s green. After half an hour of wandering, I found a hotel near the museum catering mainly for Indian tourists, checked in, handed over a month’s salary and took an ice-cold shower. A three-hour nap, and I was ready to face the bar, the girls and the hunt for Natasha.
The room was just as crowded as the night before, reeking of desperation, cheap cigarettes, fake perfume and spilled beer. I spotted Lin over in the corner by the bar, working her well-worn charms on some hapless red-faced, balding, overweight expat. I pushed my way through to the alcove where Lin had told me that the Kyrgyz girls congregated. Four of them, instantly recognizable as Kyrgyz, wearing the standard uniform of ripped jeans, skin-tight T-shirts and shoes with improbable heels and too much glitter. They were all smoking those long thin cigarettes that young women think make them look sophisticated and aloof. The lipstick on their cigarettes was dark as bloodstains.
“Privyet, kak dela?”
They stared at me, as if hearing a Kyrgyz accent was a rarity in a bar like this. Given the price of drinks, it pro
bably was. The girl with the tightest T-shirt and bleach-blonde hair with black roots put her hand on my arm. Perhaps it was her turn to land a fish.
The pounding dance music made it hard to hear, so I mimed drinking and she nodded.
“Red Bull.”
I managed to catch the eye of a waitress, who brought over a drink that smelled of old chewing gum.
“I’m looking for someone,” I said, giving her my most reassuring smile. She shrugged, pointed a finger at herself, raised a mascara-darkened eyebrow. The nails on her hand were painted black, which I found less than reassuring.
“You’re very beautiful,” I improvised, “but there’s one lady in particular I’m looking for. Maybe you know her? Natasha Sulonbekova?”
She stared at the photo I produced, shrugged once more with a disdain that suggested Natasha was maybe more successful in the bar than she was. I flashed the photo at the other girls, who pointedly ignored me. Natasha obviously hadn’t won any popularity contests or they really didn’t know her.
“Why do you want her? I’ll give you a better time, and not too much money.”
Suddenly I didn’t have the patience to sit through another sales pitch. I reached over and plucked the drink from her fingers, ignoring her look of outrage. She reached back for the glass, but I held it at arm’s length.
“You know her?” I repeated. Maybe she recognized the policeman’s stare, remembered nights being questioned at Sverdlovsky station after being picked up for loitering in Panfilov Park. Sometimes fear is a better aid to memory than persuasion. She squinted at me through a thin haze of smoke as the music grew louder and the disco lights on the ceiling began to spin.
“She comes here sometimes, not every night. Suka.” Calling Natasha a bitch, reminding me that in the skin trade it’s every working lady for herself. And the nearer you get to descending into street meat, the more desperate it gets.
A Summer Revenge Page 4
