A Summer Revenge

by Tom Callaghan

  I realized that Saltanat was speaking, and I dragged myself out of my reverie, shook my head to clear the cobwebs.

  “What about money?” she asked. “You need some?”

  I started to laugh, hysteria grabbing me by the balls. For at least two minutes I couldn’t help myself, and finally just resigned myself to choking. When I managed to control my laughter, I could hear Saltanat asking what was the matter, what was so funny.

  “The thing is, Saltanat,” I said, the occasional giggle still escaping me like doves flying from a cage, “they say that the streets of Dubai are paved with gold. That this is the place where a man can come and make a fortune.”

  “So?” she asked.

  “Well, I came to Dubai. And I’m leaving it richer than I’ve ever been in my life.”

  Chapter 55

  The voice at the other end of the phone was silent for a moment, and I wondered if I’d finally managed to disturb Saltanat’s composure. When she finally spoke, it was in the slow, measured speech of someone unsure of the sanity of the person they’re dealing with.

  “What are you talking about?”

  I managed to calm down long enough to speak.

  “All the way through this thing Natasha has played the game absolutely right. Getting hold of Tynaliev’s unique codes and then changing them so that she had the only accurate copy anywhere in the world. A risk, of course, but not just from the minister and his hit men. If she’d been hit by a bus or killed in a plane crash, some offshore private bank would be ten million dollars better off, and with no one able to collect it.

  “Then she had the equally brilliant idea of having the information transferred from a memory stick onto an ordinary SIM card. A memory stick might raise questions at customs, but everyone has a mobile phone. It wasn’t an ultra-modern smartphone either; a pickpocket would have turned their nose up at it. You know how if you want to hide something really cleverly, you hide it in plain sight, in full view of everyone. That was smart thinking number two.”

  I paused, but there was no immediate response from Saltanat. Finally she spoke: “Go on.”

  “She knew that Tynaliev would send someone after her, someone who might track her down and demand the codes. She never told me so, but Tynaliev must have told her about my role in catching the murderers of his daughter, and so she gambled that he’d send me. And I’m not known for breaking fingers in a soundproof basement room or improving a suspect’s memory with a little light electrocution. So she could take a risk on my not being a complete bastard.

  “Finally, even if she wasn’t aware of the Chechen jihadis, she would know that a lot of people would want some of the millions she’d stolen. Once she’d given the SIM card to me, for ‘safekeeping,’ she could say if she was kidnapped that I was the one holding the codes. She’d distract attention from herself, and maybe even deal with the man sent to find her as well. All brilliantly thought out.”

  “But if it was such a great plan, what went wrong? I don’t understand.”

  “Natasha couldn’t reprogram the codes herself, so she found a dumb boob-struck young geek to do it for her, and rewarded him by pretending they’d had sex when he had passed out. Same trick she played on me. I couldn’t have hacked the codes myself—I can barely turn a computer on—but that doesn’t mean I don’t know someone who could.”

  “So you changed the codes? You’ve had them all along?”

  “Thanks to my friend Ermat, who teaches at the American University in Bishkek. Computer science. And part-time hacker into some of the world’s most secure computer systems. I caught him when I was working Vice, giving a minet to a lady in Panfilov Park who turned out to be a man. I reckoned better to have someone like that owing you a favor than one more disgraced academic. So yes, I’ve got the codes, and I’ve changed them back. So Tynaliev gets back most of his loot.”

  There was a pause, which I took to be admiration. Finally Saltanat spoke: “You never fail to amaze me, Akyl. Every time I become convinced that you’re a bungling idiot who can’t even tie his own shoelaces, you pull something out of your hat.”

  I decided to take that as a compliment rather than a comment on my fashion sense.

  “So you’ve got all the money? Now what? Head off to Rio as well?”

  “And run into a wrathful Natasha? Not something I’d recommend, having recently had her shoot me in the back.”

  “Then what?”

  I wondered about suggesting that she retire, that we go and live somewhere warm and remote and exotic. The idea flared up in my head like gasoline-soaked leaves; all it took was one spark. But I knew that for Saltanat retirement could never be an option. Weapons stashed close to hand wherever we lived, high-tech security systems, perpetual glances in the rearview mirror. It wasn’t how I wanted to live my life.

  So I decided to tell her the truth.

  “I’m not an idiot. If I stole Tynaliev’s money, I’d be as much of a target as Natasha. Maybe even more so, since I know some of his other secrets. I’d be top of his hit list the second he found out. So I’ve taken a small amount for expenses and left the rest intact. I’ll give him the new codes when I get back to Bishkek.”

  “How small an amount?”

  I paused then told her.

  “A million dollars? Are you crazy? He’ll have your head stuffed and mounted on his office wall.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because Natasha had a complete file of all the transactions—where he skimmed the money, whose palms he greased. It was on the same card as the codes.”

  “And now you’ve got it.”

  It wasn’t a question.

  “You’re taking a big chance, Akyl.”

  I was silent. There have been days when the loss of Chinara has bitten at me with the ferocity of a chainsaw snapping back, others when the usually placid waters of Lake Issyk-Kul swirl into chaos with a winter storm. Some days the sun is so blinding, I’m dazzled into submission, others when fat flakes of snow make it impossible to see the path ahead. But I’ve learned that the only thing you can do is keep taking steps forward, one at a time. Maybe you test the ground underfoot first, maybe you just stride ahead, but if you want to survive, you simply keep on going.

  “Saltanat . . .” I paused, swallowed, uncertain what I was about to say or how to say it. “I want to see you again.” I spoke into the silence, a lonely man sitting in a half-empty bar in the middle of the night. “I love you.” And realized I was talking to a dialing tone.

  In the distance I could hear planes taking off, delivering their passengers to new destinations, new lives.

  Chapter 56

  After all the events of the previous week, my flight back to Bishkek was uneventful. My temporary diplomatic status brought with it an upgrade and access to the business-class lounge, where I toyed with a couple of sandwiches and stared at expensive bottles of wine and champagne. But my mouth was dry and sour, as if I’d chewed on dried lemons, and the knots in my stomach twisted and turned as if trying to escape. There was an ominous buzzing in my ears, and my teeth ached like I was already in the soundproof basement room in Sverdlovsky police station, waiting for the iron door to open and the beatings to begin.

  Blackmailing Tynaliev into doing nothing was something only a truly reckless, or stupid, man would attempt. But I didn’t feel I had any choice. I’d risked a lot by letting Natasha go; now it was time to take care of number one.

  I tried to sleep on the plane, but with each minute that we drew closer to Manas airport, the more my nerves jangled. Finally, I gave up the attempt and stared unseeing out of the window at the featureless black outside.

  After using the diplomatic channel at immigration, presumably for the last time, I walked out into the cold clean air. It was almost dawn, and the dark had lifted enough to smear the stars into fading specks of light. The first rays of the rising sun picked out the tops of the mountains with slowly growing clarity in the clear air,
rising above humans’ petty squabbles with majestic indifference. They had been here long before us, and would remain long after we were not even a memory. I wondered if this was the last time I would ever see them.

  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.

  Chapter 57

  “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.

  “Did you sleep with her?”

  This time I
found my voice, hoped it wouldn’t betray me.

  “No.”

  He nodded as if I’d confirmed a suspicion to him, given his masculinity some kind of reassurance. Never underestimate vanity of any kind, especially the sexual variety, which lurks deep in powerful men, lying still but waiting to leap and seize your throat.

  “It’s not everything I wanted,” he said finally, staring at me as if I were a schoolboy brought to his attention for stealing apples, “but I suppose you did better than most would have done. And the Dubai authorities don’t know of your involvement.”

  “They have some dead bodies to deal with. Bodies of extremists, terrorists. I don’t imagine they’ll be overly upset.”

  “You’ve no idea where the woman went?” he asked again, staring at me.

  I shook my head, then pretended to reconsider. “Maybe South America? Mexico City? Lima? Rio?”

  If Tynaliev decided to give me a questioning, I didn’t want to appear to be hiding anything. He continued to stare at me, drumming his fingers on the desk, and I watched them dance around the butt of his gun. Finally he reached some kind of a decision.

  “I suppose you want your old rank of inspector?” he said.

  “I’m a bit old to stand outside crime scenes all night,” I said.

  “You’re a bit old to still want to solve crimes,” he replied as he returned his gun to the drawer. “Murders are like trams: there will always be another one along in a few moments.”

  I smiled, felt my shoulders relax slightly. “All the more reason to make sure one doesn’t pass your stop.”

  Tynaliev raised an eyebrow, considered, finally decided.

  “Silence, Inspector, that’s what I expect. Otherwise all bets are off. And then you’ll know exactly what will happen.”

  And with that, he turned away, my dismissal complete.

  Chapter 58

  I could sense the approach of autumn as I walked through Panfilov Park past the Ferris wheel and the ice-cream stalls. The sun was still out, still hot, but there was a sense of transience hanging in the air. The days of summer dresses, sitting in the shade sipping a cold Baltika beer, watching the women from the villages selling buckets of plums by the roadside, were coming to an end. Before long the air would start to bite, a scattering of frost dazzling the morning, and winter just around the corner, sharpening its teeth.