Spring Betrayal

by Tom Callaghan

  Once we’d finished the last of the samsi, we set off on the last leg of our journey. I’d checked Kamchybek’s iPhone, but hadn’t been able to get a signal, not really surprising, given the mountains towering around us.

  “I’ll get my colleague in Jalalabad to see what information he can track down from the cell phone,” Saltanat said. “There’ll be numbers on it that could give us a lead, maybe documents and e-mails.”

  “I’m grateful for you getting me out of Bishkek,” I said, aware of course that I sounded ungrateful. “And believing me about the setup with the child porn. Wanting to help me track down whoever killed Gurminj. But the longer we stay together, the more you’re at risk.”

  Saltanat frowned; I was treading on the toes of the Uzbek security forces.

  “Close to the border, and it’s easier to cross over without drawing attention to ourselves, if we have to,” she said.

  “You’ve got agents there? Safe houses?”

  “Akyl, just trust me on this, okay?” she answered.

  Which was, of course, no answer at all.

  The mountains shrank to mere hills, long flanks of grass and meadows on either side of the road. We were entering the Fergana Valley, some of the most fertile agricultural land in Central Asia, land that’s been squabbled over, seized, and retaken for thousands of years. One of the many Silk Road routes ran through here, carrying Chinese silks, spices and sweets from India, and finely crafted Persian silverwork. These days, the trade also includes heroin and krokodil, semiautomatic rifles, and trafficked people. Of course, they’re not being carried by camel anymore. On the other hand, business is a lot more lucrative.

  Jalalabad isn’t a particularly large city, or a bustling one. As Saltanat parked the Lexus on Lenina Street, the main drag that runs through the center, it felt like we’d left Kyrgyzstan behind when we’d driven out of Bishkek. Most of the men were wearing Uzbek skullcaps instead of Kyrgyz kalpaks, while the women wore headscarves and long narrow trousers under their brightly colored dresses. Some young women dared to defy tradition and walked bareheaded, but they were few and far between. We were near the main bazaar, and I wondered if that was where Saltanat intended to meet her “people.”

  “Why don’t you take a walk, maybe pick up some fruit in the bazaar?” she suggested.

  “What about you?” I asked. “You don’t want me to come with you?”

  Saltanat simply shook her head.

  “I’ll see you back here in a couple of hours, okay?”

  And with that, she was gone, slipping into the river of people flowing down Lenina.

  I decided to leave my gun in the car, wrapped in one of the blankets and safely stowed under the passenger seat. I didn’t think I’d need that much firepower, and it was too bulky not to be obvious. Instead, I pocketed the Makarov I’d taken from Maxim, headed into the crowd.

  The bazaar was packed, stalls clustered together to form narrow lanes, tables piled high with local produce, vegetables, shapeless hunks of raw meat, scrawny chickens hanging up by their feet or still alive, looking anxious in small wicker baskets. There was fruit everywhere, the first of the summer crop, melons, figs, plums, oranges, and, of course, apples. Scientists believe apples originated in Kyrgyzstan, and we’re more than happy to claim credit. We don’t have a wealth of world-changing achievements to our name, but creating a fruit that’s colonized the world has to be one of them.

  The sky was a clear pale near-white blue, the inside of a porcelain bowl, and the day was hot for early spring. I ordered a bowl of lagman, our spicy lamb and noodle soup, at a food stall run by a plump babushka. It came with a glass of kumiss, the salty, slightly alcoholic drink we make from fermented mare’s milk. I pushed the glass to one side, concentrated on scooping the noodles out of the bowl.

  Then a voice behind me said, “I strongly recommend you leave the gun in your pocket, Inspector Borubaev.”

  A strong voice, used to issuing orders, used to being obeyed without question.

  Mikhail Tynaliev, Kyrgyzstan’s minister for state security.

  Chapter 23

  I placed my hands palm down on the table, slowly, deliberately. This was no time to be making false moves. When I’d first met Tynaliev to break the news of his daughter’s death to him, he’d been surrounded by security guards, trained to fire first and then apologize afterward. Except they usually didn’t say sorry.

  “I can recommend the lagman, Minister,” I said. “Not too spicy, and the noodles are fresh.” I was trying to keep my voice as calm as possible. Not easy when you’re talking to one of the most powerful men in the country, someone who could have you sharing a cell with half the criminals you’ve sent there, or sleeping in an unmarked hilltop grave.

  “I’m not here to arrest you, Inspector,” Tynaliev said. I turned to look at him. Broad shoulders, a thick neck and hands that told you he’d done his fair share of slaps and punches down in the basement interrogation room of some police station or army barracks. Black eyes that never blinked. He looked fearless, immortal.

  The last time I’d seen Tynaliev, his men were dragging my old boss out of his office and to death. Tynaliev had ordered me to bring him the men who’d killed his daughter, and I’d known better than to disobey. He’d told me he was in debt to me, which really meant he owned me, whenever he chose to reel in the line and hook.

  “With all respect, Minister, why are you standing in the middle of Jalalabad bazaar, talking to a lowly inspector like me? You don’t have more important matters to deal with?”

  Tynaliev’s smile didn’t fill me with confidence.

  “Inspector, I know you far too well to consider you a mere ment, an empty head in a big green cap and uniform. In my opinion, for what little that’s worth, Akyl Borubaev is a pretty apt name.”

  I should explain that my first name, Akyl, means “clever,” and “boru” is the Kyrgyz word for “wolf.” It’s been a running joke with my colleagues for a long time. But to me it’s no joke; staying alive means being clever, and if you’re Murder Squad, no one hunts better than a wolf. Or knows when it’s being hunted.

  Tynaliev pulled out the rough wooden stool next to me, sat down. I could smell his expensive cologne, see the immaculate cut of his suit, the brilliant polish on his shoes. Next to him, I looked like a piece of shit.

  “I heard about this child porn and your involvement. I was surprised; maybe I’m not such a good judge of character as I think I am, I said to myself. Then I remembered the respect you showed my Yekaterina, the diligence you showed in catching those responsible. So I think you’ve been set up because you’re investigating the Karakol murders, as your girlfriend seems to believe. Or rather, you were.”

  He paused, watched as I held up my cigarettes, nodded his permission. The babushka behind the counter started to protest, saying she had other hungry customers to serve. Without taking his eyes off me, Tynaliev gestured and one of the burly unsmiling men nearby handed her a bundle of thousand som notes, leaving her smiling her gratitude and shooing away her regulars.

  The cigarette tasted good in the open air, nicotine buzzing straight into my brain. I wondered if this would be the final one for the condemned man.

  “How did you know I was here, Minister?” I asked.

  Tynaliev smiled and folded his arms.

  “Contrary to what the uninformed might think, my counterpart in Tashkent and I see eye to eye in a great many things. Neither of us wants civil unrest, looting, killing, either side of the border. I remembered about the delightful Miss Umarova, and how closely you’d worked with her. So I called her boss, he called her, she carried out her orders. And here we are.”

  It was what I’d suspected ever since the minister sat down, but the thought of Saltanat’s setting a trap for me made the lagman rise in my throat. I’ve always known there are no certainties, apart from perpetual change, but that doesn’t stop me wanting something, or someone, in whom I could invest some hope. I wondered if I was going to vomit, and if I could m
anage to spew on the minister’s gleaming shoes. Not much of a revenge, but all I could think of at the moment.

  The minister put his hand on my shoulder, the way a father does with a young son who’s fallen over and scraped his knee.

  “Miss Umarova was very specific that she wouldn’t do anything that might bring you harm. She even offered to resign.”

  Tynaliev paused and raised an eyebrow.

  “In fact, she promised to ‘put a bullet in any fucker who harmed you.’ So I’d say you’ve made quite an impression upon her.”

  “What is it you want from me, Minister?” I asked, and didn’t bother to sound polite.

  He sat back and looked at me, his eyes narrowed. I knew I should be afraid of him, worried about the click of his fingers that would see me dragged upright, arms twisted behind my back, off to a waiting car, a cell, a grave.

  But somehow, I really couldn’t give a fuck.

  “Interesting question, Inspector,” Tynaliev answered. “I would have expected you to ask if I could get you out of the rather unpromising situation you find yourself in.”

  Tynaliev certainly had the power to make any evidence go away, strangle any investigation. I’d stood by while he disappeared my old boss, said nothing. But you can’t live with fear gnawing away at your soul until the day you decide to stand up and discover you’ve no soul left.

  “I have enemies, Inspector Borubaev, I’m sure you’re aware of that. People who’d like to see me fall, and then take my place. Rivals constantly searching for any sign of weakness, ready to put the poison in the right ears.”

  I said nothing. It was a story I’d heard before. And it explained why we were meeting in this remote town, rather than in Bishkek, where Tynaliev’s every move would be under observation, where someone would recognize and report me.

  “I may not be perfect,” Tynaliev continued. “I have to take strong measures at times, but believe me, Inspector, I’m a thousand times better than anyone who could take my place. No one can accuse me of being corrupt, not putting my country first. And that means my fist in the mouth of anyone who wants me out.”

  Tynaliev paused, gestured to the babushka to bring him a bottle of Baltika beer. He wiped the neck of the bottle, took a mouthful.

  “You don’t drink, do you?”

  I shook my head. I couldn’t imagine that Tynaliev knew why I stayed sober, but he was too clever not to make some assumptions.

  “You stopped just after your wife died?” he asked, assuming a look of concern that fit him about as well as a puppet’s mask. “Strange, I would have thought such a tragedy would make most people drink more.”

  I knew he was probing, even if we weren’t in a downstairs interrogation room, with me lashed to a chair and my tongue counting the number of loosened teeth.

  “Did you drink more after your daughter’s murder, Minister?” I asked, trying to take the offensive, not caring if he felt insulted. I saw his bodyguard stiffen, ready for an order.

  “I celebrated when you caught her killers,” he replied, his face giving nothing away, “and I celebrated as they were being punished.”

  I lit a cigarette, looked away at the cold beers in a bucket of ice by the babushka’s feet. Condensation trickled down the dark glass sides of the bottles, the labels sodden and starting to peel away. My mouth was suddenly dry with craving, and I could taste the cold sweetness of the beer, picture the gentle slide toward oblivion.

  “Well, Minister, I didn’t have anything to celebrate when my wife died. And I think I’ll be waiting a long time before anyone can capture the cancer that killed her.”

  “We’ve both known a terrible loss,” Tynaliev said, and I could hear genuine sorrow in his voice. “We’ve both buried a loved one long before their time. We should let that unite us, not divide us.”

  I threw the last of my cigarette onto the earth, and mashed it into the ground with my boot heel.

  “What do you want from me, Minister?” I repeated, trying to keep my voice calm and my face expressionless.

  “These killings, the children, the orphanage director, I want them solved. But solved in a way that means justice is served, but without publicity, without the spotlight of the press casting all sorts of unnecessary shadows.”

  “Nothing that could make you look weak, ineffectual?” I suggested, knowing I was pushing too hard, not really caring. Tynaliev was the leader of a wolf pack, the alpha male. But if he showed any sign of weakness, the younger males would be upon him, getting bolder, nipping his flanks, finally ripping out his throat, leaving his blood scarlet on the snow.

  “Precisely. I want justice, Inspector,” Tynaliev said, “and I don’t care what it costs, how you do it. But make sure the shit stays off my boots. No hint I don’t have complete control.”

  I didn’t say anything, I didn’t have a choice. But having a protector in Tynaliev could prove useful. It could also prove fatal.

  “Working with Ms. Umarova; it served you well in the past,” the minister continued, “but I don’t want it to turn into a double-edged sword. Make sure it cuts away from me. Or mine won’t be the head that it severs.”

  I didn’t know what Tynaliev had to hide, or who he was protecting. But warnings didn’t cut much ice with me anymore, no matter who issues them.

  “I can’t lift the order for your arrest, Inspector,” Tynaliev said, getting to his feet. “Not without tipping my hand you’re working for me. But I’ll make sure other cases have a higher priority. Once the ‘news’ reaches us that you’ve probably fled the country, I don’t think anyone will be looking too hard for you.”

  “I still don’t understand why you’re personally involved, Minister,” I said, keeping my face as expressionless as possible. “It’s not as if you don’t have more important matters to tend to.”

  Tynaliev nodded.

  “You’re right, Inspector, normally I’d let the police handle the matter. But there’s a problem with this case.”

  “Which is?”

  Tynaliev stared hard at me, a look saying I was about to take one step too far.

  “You’re the policeman. Murder Squad. I’ll let you figure it out.”

  He looked around, satisfied with the outcome of his meeting, drained the last of his Baltika.

  “You still have my private number?”

  I nodded. If Tynaliev didn’t want the police involved, some high-up people might be responsible for the porn, the murders.

  “Good. I’m glad we see eye to eye on this. And speaking of seeing . . .”

  I look around to see Saltanat walking toward us, sunglasses hiding her eyes, her face giving nothing away.

  “I’m sure Ms. Umarova will be a more entertaining companion, Inspector. But remember, I want to hear from you. Soon.”

  With that, he and his bodyguard walked away, leaving me to face a woman I desired, feared, and felt betrayed by.

  Chapter 24

  Saltanat sat down beside me, pulled a bottle of beer from the ice bucket. The babushka uncapped the bottle and Saltanat took a long swallow. She put the bottle down, started to pick at the edge of the label.

  I said nothing.

  “So you met with the minister then?” she asked.

  I didn’t reply, merely looked at her, raised an eyebrow. Saltanat reached over and took a cigarette from my pack, lit it, blew the smoke away as if she were doing her best to keep her temper, and wanted me to know it.

  “I obey orders, like you. Except when it suits me not to. Again, like you,” she said, took an angry swig at her beer. “I want to help you. I want to catch whoever put a bullet through Gurminj’s head, and neither of us will succeed in that minor task if Tynaliev wants our heads on stakes in Ala-Too Square, will we?”

  I knew pragmatism and acceptance were called for. But pride has a strange way of making us turn away from the sensible path, watching us trek over the mountains instead of through the valleys. So I simply shrugged, feigned indifference, and watched the babushka pour ashlam foo into b
owls, the eggs settling on cold noodles, fat glistening in the sunlight.

  Saltanat sighed, concentrated on her cigarette. Then the babushka spoke.

  “Don’t be a gopnik, you,” she said, her accent thick with the slurred vowels of the south, harsh from a lifetime of smoking strong papirosh and working in the bazaar. “A low-class like you should give one of his balls that a woman like this should even speak to you, not scrape you off her shoe.”

  She slammed another bottle of beer down in front of Saltanat, gestured at me with a grimy forefinger.

  “You get a devotchka like her once in your lifetime, you, listen to me.”

  I risked a glance at Saltanat, and though I couldn’t catch her eye, I could tell by the way her shoulders shook she was amused.

  “Listen to me, boy, I know you think I’m just a peasant, a nothing. But I tell you this. I lost a father in the Great Patriotic War, defending Moscow. I lost two sons in infancy. I’ve buried two husbands. If there’s one thing I know, if you can’t find room for someone, then there’s no room for anything else worth having. Go on, laugh at me.”

  “Forgive me, Granny,” I said, reached for one of her hands, wrinkled and clawed with arthritis. “I am a stupid man, who doesn’t know when a wonderful person has stepped into his life. You’re kind to teach such a lesson to such a fool. Spasibo.”

  I turned to Saltanat, removed the sunglasses that hid her eyes. “I ask your forgiveness for my rudeness, stupidity, bad manners. If it happens again, just pull the trigger before I shoot myself anyway.”

  She said nothing, merely nodded, and my heart twisted in my chest as she gave one of her rare smiles, intoxicating, like sunrise sliding across snow. She took my hand and squeezed it, and I felt the burden on my life, the obsession to avenge the dead, lift for a moment. I knew it would return—none of us change that easily or so quickly—but at least I now had someone to keep me company part of the way on my journey.