Spring Betrayal

by Tom Callaghan

  “Because your wife is dead and you’re not. Because your friend died and you couldn’t protect him. Because of tortured and murdered children, and you can’t give them justice. Because you can’t work out whether you want to fuck me or leave me. Because you think you’ve failed and there’s nothing left.”

  All of this delivered in a flat, impersonal tone, the more wounding because of it.

  There was nothing I could say.

  I stared at my reflection in the mirror above the small desk. Eyes empty as bruises on a corpse’s face. Was there any way back to feeling anything other than despair and anger?

  “You’ve struck at him three times now. He’s not stupid. You think he won’t be waiting for you to pull another hit? You’ll walk into a trap, and you won’t ever know what hit you when someone gets a .22 to whisper in your ear.”

  “What do you suggest, Saltanat? I’m the one on the run from the police,” I said, “the one with nowhere to go. You want to drive me over to Sverdlovsky so I can hand myself in?”

  “You really want my advice?” she asked. “Or would that just be the ideal excuse to storm out and get yourself blown away?”

  I looked at Saltanat, drawn in by her anger, her crystal-hard intelligence. The sudden thought of living without her was almost intolerable, like having a limb amputated without anesthetic. And, as always, I wondered if there was anything she could find to enjoy in a man like me.

  I sighed, nodded, offered a cigarette, lit hers and mine.

  “I rely on you,” I said, “more than I should.”

  If I was expecting her to melt into my arms, I was mistaken. She squinted at me through the smoke that coiled between us, her eyes determined, suspicious.

  “I don’t need bullshit, Akyl,” she said. “I don’t need lies. Not from anyone. And especially not from you.”

  She reached over, stroked my cheek in the gesture of a friend rather than a lover, took her hand away, sat upright on the bed.

  “This is what we’re going to do,” she said, “and listen to me. Otherwise, you’re on your own.”

  Chapter 36

  For the next half hour, I listened while Saltanat outlined her plan. It made sense as far as it went; she countered every objection, answered every question. When she finished, I looked at her, not pretending to hide my admiration.

  “Pretty impressive,” I said.

  She gave the smile that had always captivated me.

  “It’s the obvious course of action. Or it would be if you weren’t so keen on getting shot.”

  I nodded, as if agreeing with her. But I also wanted to put Graves in the ground, preferably after an unhealthy dosage of pain and blood.

  “When do you want to get started?” I asked.

  “Let’s go and see the adoption people. Who knows, they might even think we’d make wonderful parents,” she said, and smiled as if scenting prey.

  The ministry building where the bureaucrats in charge of adoptions huddle is yet another tribute to the glories of Soviet architecture. A depressing stained fake-marble entrance conceals a rarely working elevator that judders to a halt at floors hiding endless narrow corridors. Every second lightbulb is missing or burned out, and those that work don’t dispel the gloom. A shoulder-height smear of dirt reveals where people stand in line for hours, leaning against the wall before closed doors that rarely open. The building smells, unaccountably, of smoked fish, old sweat, and drains. As a place supposed to offer new hope and fresh beginnings, it doesn’t show any enthusiasm for the task.

  I followed Saltanat until she stopped at a door somewhat less battered than the others we’d passed. A piece of paper taped to the door read K. SAKATAEV, DIRECTOR. Saltanat rapped sharply and opened the door. An overweight silver-haired man sat behind a conspicuously bare desk, looking up in outrage as we strode in. Before he could open his mouth to speak, Saltanat flashed a credentials wallet, stuffing it back in her bag before he could read what it said.

  “Director Sakataev?” she said, her voice hard with authority. “Irina Shaikova, senior investigator for child welfare. This gentleman is Inspector Akyl Borubaev of Bishkek Murder Squad.”

  I handed Sakataev my credentials, hoping he wouldn’t know I was on the run from my colleagues. The red-faced man turned white, wondering what crime of his we’d discovered. Even the innocent feel uneasy when two policemen arrive to question them. And in this city, there aren’t many innocents.

  “I don’t know what—” Sakataev started to stutter, then shut up when Saltanat held up her hand.

  “This isn’t about you, Director. At least, not yet,” she threatened. I looked at Sakataev, wondered if he was in the early throes of a heart attack.

  “Just a few questions, that’s all. For the moment,” I said, and gave my least pleasant smile as I did so.

  “Naturally, of course, if I can help in any way,” Sakataev said, eagerness to please evident.

  “As you know, families are the first to suffer during periods of, shall we say, instability? Which all too often leads to families breaking up, and the children being housed in orphanages,” Saltanat said.

  Sakataev nodded, looking relieved that the conversation wasn’t aimed at any scam he might be undertaking.

  “When the moratorium on foreigners adopting children was lifted back in 2011, my post was created to protect our children from the risk of trafficking, sex abuse, or organ sales,” Saltanat continued. “I’m sure you agree this was the right policy.”

  “I ensure very strict vetting of all foreigners who apply to adopt,” Sakataev said, “and of foreign agencies, naturally.”

  Saltanat nodded her approval. I simply folded my arms, leaned against the wall, gave Sakataev the benefit of a policeman’s hard stare.

  “The system works very well,” Saltanat confided, “but human nature being what it is, and with foreigners willing to pay huge amounts, there’s always a risk that some under-the-counter deal goes through.”

  Sakataev replaced his look of fear with one of sorrow; I didn’t like either one, or the way he kept sneaking a look at Saltanat’s breasts.

  “I can assure you no one in my department would ever consider such a thing.”

  “However, you understand we have to investigate any cases reported to us,” Saltanat said. I kept my mouth shut, and simply stared at Sakataev a little harder.

  “The inspector here has a personal commitment to such cases, and doesn’t leave any aspect unexamined.”

  Sakataev opened his desk drawer and started to rummage around. The Yarygin was in my hand at once, not pointed at him exactly, but not in the opposite direction either.

  “Slowly, tovarich, slowly,” I said. “Let’s not make any mistakes we might regret.”

  His look of sorrow turned into one of terror, the way a rain cloud suddenly scuds over the Tien Shan mountains. His hand shook as he took out a bottle of vodka and three small glasses.

  “I thought we might . . .” he started, and then fell silent.

  I replaced my gun, and shook my head.

  “Thank you, but no, Director,” Saltanat said. “But please, if you feel you must have a drink, then by all means go ahead.”

  Sakataev poured himself a more than generous shot, threw it back, spluttered, and waited for the alcohol to hit.

  “I don’t normally make a practice of this,” he said, voice hoarse from the vodka.

  I raised an eyebrow, the cynical, suspicious cop who disbelieves everything he’s told on principle. Sakataev noticed, and poured himself another, smaller drink. I walked over, looked through the open drawer, knowing he wouldn’t have the courage to object. There was the usual detritus of pencil stubs, paperclips crusted with earwax, a few scribbled notes with first names and phone numbers. I also noticed a set of car keys on a BMW fob. A framed photograph showed Sakataev posing proudly beside his car in front of an elegant dacha.

  “Let me tell you what I’m looking for, Mr. Director,” I said, injecting a tone of menace into my voice. “A list o
f the foreign adoption agencies here in Bishkek, and the names of your contacts in each one.”

  “Of course, they’re all very reputable, vetted by the ministry,” he said. “That won’t be a problem.”

  “I’m not so sure about that,” I said. “What about the ones who help you afford a BMW and your lovely dacha? The ones who work off the books, pockets stuffed with more money than you’ve ever earned in your life.”

  To reinforce my point, I let my hand fall against the Yarygin’s butt.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sakataev mumbled, but his heart wasn’t in it. “I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “Director, we’re not accusing you of anything,” Saltanat said. “But if the inspector here doesn’t get the answers he wants, he can become rather emotional. And while you’re discovering just how much a police interrogation can hurt, I’ll be making an anonymous call to the authorities.”

  Saltanat paused, lit a cigarette, the smoke doing nothing to mask the stink of sweat and fear in the room. Her smile, when it came, was no sweeter than mine, and twice as dangerous.

  “After I make that call, once the people you deal with hear about it, I don’t think you’ll be working with them anymore.”

  She paused, ground the cigarette out on the fake leather desktop.

  “I wonder who’ll inherit the dacha.”

  Chapter 37

  “You’re really not going to blow the whistle on that shithead?” I asked. We were driving back to the hotel while I looked through the folder Sakataev had thrust into my hands.

  “Of course not,” she said. “A promise is a promise, right?”

  “If you’re sure,” I replied.

  Saltanat looked over at me, then laughed.

  “You can be trustingly naive at times, Akyl, you know that? Of course I’m going to burn the fat fucker as soon as we get this sorted. He’ll either end up in the pen or in the ground, I don’t really care which.”

  “He did offer us the dacha and the car, though.”

  “I’ve got a car, and I’m allergic to the countryside,” she said.

  “Pollen?”

  “And animals and trees and outhouse toilets.”

  “City life it is, then,” I said. “But how did you know he was the guy to question?”

  Saltanat stared at me as if unable to believe what I’d just asked.

  “Akyl,” she said, her voice pitying, “why wouldn’t he be?”

  The way it works in Bishkek, you bribe an official to do what you want. He takes the money. Then you blackmail him forever after, just to make sure he keeps quiet about the first time. The amazing thing? They fall for it every time.

  Sometimes you have to decide how you want to live your life, and if you’re lucky, you find someone to share it with. I’d loved Chinara, and lost her. I didn’t know if Saltanat and I had a future to share. One part of me hoped so, if we managed to get through this alive.

  We parked outside the hotel; Saltanat hit the horn to summon Rustam to open the gates. We waited for a couple of moments, sounded the horn again, but the gates remained shut.

  “I don’t like the look of this,” Saltanat said, taking out her Makarov from the glove compartment. She backed the Lexus against the gate, and we scrambled onto the car roof.

  I peered cautiously over the top of the wall. There was no sign of Rustam, or any of the other staff. I swung my leg over the gates, dropped to the ground, Saltanat covering me from above. Yarygin in my hand, I opened the side door, and Saltanat joined me. Her face showed she felt as uneasy as I did.

  I ran up the steps, looked through the glass panel of the door leading into the kitchen. In the hallway beyond, I could see a pair of legs, a woman, one shoe on, the other lying nearby.

  I put my finger to my lips as Saltanat joined me, and we cautiously made our way into the building. I recognized the body, one of the hotel maids, a young Russian girl called Alina, pretty, with long black hair and a shy smile. She wasn’t pretty anymore. Her body sprawled on the floor, her head pillowed on a mat of blood from where a bullet had split her forehead. Her dress had been pulled up to her waist and her underwear lay twisted around one ankle. She stared up at the ceiling, searching for a rescue that wasn’t ever going to arrive.

  I quickly checked the room, then Saltanat and I searched the rest of the hotel. Urmat, the Kyrgyz cook, lay on the first-floor landing, his head twisted at an impossible angle, the fingers on both hands broken, blood leaking from the bullet wound in his temple.

  We found Rustam in the last of the bedrooms. Saltanat stared at the turmoil of his body while I turned away and retched. As always, when you believe you’ve seen the very worst that human beings can do to each other, someone prepares you a fresh horror to populate your nights and make you wish for dawn.

  Rustam had been crucified to the wardrobe door. Thick steel spikes through both wrists held his arms high above his head. His bare chest had been repeatedly slashed and scored, with gobbets of meat scattered around the floor. Where his eyes had once been, deep caves were smeared with congealing blood and matter. He stank of blood and shit and meat on a spit.

  I felt my legs go weak, sat down on the bed.

  “Saltanat . . .” I started to say, realized I had no words. My hands were shaking, and I put the Yarygin down on the duvet, worried I might pull the trigger by mistake. With the strange clarity that comes with shock, I noticed the duvet was patterned with red roses on a white background. Like the wounds on Rustam’s body. I managed to make it as far as the bathroom, gripped the bowl’s cool porcelain, resting my head against the mirror.

  I rinsed my mouth and spat, vomit and bile sour in my throat. Saltanat stood in front of Rustam, her face expressionless, looking at him with the same intense scrutiny you might give a famous painting, as if deciphering a hidden code or a private symbolism.

  “We need to call this in,” I heard myself say. “A massacre. We can’t just leave them here to rot.”

  Saltanat shook her head.

  “Not yet,” she said. “They’re dead. Past all pain. But whoever did this, they’re not.”

  “They will be,” I heard myself saying.

  Saltanat looked at me as if she was seeing a new person, one she didn’t like or admire. There was no way she would allow anyone to take this case away from her. I knew she felt guilty about not being able to save Rustam’s daughter, Anastasia. And now she and I had led Rustam to his death. I’m not the only one who believes in justice for the dead.

  “Akyl, we know who did this.”

  She reached over and handed me back my gun. I tucked it away, nodded. I was beginning to recover some composure.

  “And we know what to do about it, right?”

  I nodded again. The woman was a force of nature, a hurricane, a winter blizzard, ice cold and unstoppable.

  “But first,” and the break in her voice was so slight, I could have sworn I imagined it, “first we have to get him down.”

  I shut the door and we stripped to our underwear to avoid bloodying our clothes. I held Rustam’s body in place in a bizarre imitation of a waltz while Saltanat pulled at the spikes that held him aloft. Finally, they came free with a disgusting squelch, and I took the weight of his broken body in my arms. Together, we laid Rustam’s body on the bed, and covered it with the duvet. At once, fresh roses began to blossom on the cotton.

  “What do you think happened?” I asked, as we got dressed. Saltanat stared down at the mound on the bed for a moment or two, before replying.

  “The iPhone. I think Rustam must have switched it on,” she said. “Just curious, or maybe wanting to see how it worked, what was on it. And they were able to trace the signal.”

  I’d forgotten about the iPhone, but it was nowhere in sight, and I felt sure Saltanat was right. So not only had we lost our one piece of evidence, but we’d brought a world of shit upon our heads, and death upon Rustam and his staff.

  “That means some high-powered equipment. Or a source within the
phone company,” I said. “Expensive. Connected.”

  Saltanat looked at me, and I could see a savage anger in her face.

  “Or in the police force or state security,” she said, turned, stared out of the window. I made no move to hold her, comfort her. Outside, the world continued, the uncaring song of birds, the random hiss of leaves upon the wind.

  And then we heard footsteps in the hallway.

  Chapter 38

  I stepped behind the door, gun held up by my cheek, ready to shoot. The footsteps stopped, and there was a moment’s silence. I could hear breathing, or rather, gasping, together with a noise I realized was weeping. There was a light knock on the door.

  “Rustam?”

  A woman’s voice, terrified.

  I pulled the door open, took aim at chest height, to be greeted by hysterical screaming. The woman who stumbled and fell to the floor was one of the hotel’s chambermaids, Rosa. The bag she was carrying split open, onions and potatoes rolling around my feet.

  I got my breath back under control, holstered my gun, offered the girl my hand. She only screamed louder when she saw Rustam’s blood smeared up to my wrists. The crotch of her jeans turned a darker blue as she raised her arm to cover her eyes, then she fell and scrambled back toward the stairs. The reek of urine mingled with the stink of blood.

  “Rosa, it’s all right, you’re safe,” Saltanat said, her voice calming, soft. “You know us, we’re friends.”

  But the girl kept screaming, her eyes clamped shut, her palms tearing at her cheeks, pressing herself against the wall to make herself as small a target as possible.

  I looked at Saltanat, gestured toward the stairs. Someone would have heard the shots, the screams; we had very little time before the police arrived. Or the killers returned.

  “We can’t just leave her like this,” Saltanat said, touching the girl’s shoulder, watching her flinch.

  “You want to bring her with us?” I asked, already heading down the stairs. “That puts her in a lot more danger than she’s in now. And us.”