Spring Betrayal

by Tom Callaghan

  You can only admire such deviousness.

  An hour later, we were parked a couple of hundred yards away from Graves’s mansion when the first squad car arrived. An officer got out of the passenger seat, adjusted his uniform, squared his peaked cap, said something into the gate intercom.

  After a couple of moments, the side gate swung open and the ment went inside.

  “This is your version of stirring the sewage and seeing what floats to the top?” I asked. Saltanat shook her head.

  “Nothing so direct,” she answered. “We watch what happens, and that tells us just how well protected Graves is. He’s got to be giving a lot of beaks something to drink; maybe this will tell us whose.”

  “Sverdlovsky’s going to be very happy the missing inspector is going to stay missing,” I said, “but I hope that’s only going to be temporary.”

  I tried a light-hearted voice, but Saltanat looked at me, concerned perhaps I was losing my edge, my fire.

  “You know, Akyl, if you wanted to get out of Kyrgyzstan, we could go to Tashkent. New papers, a new identity, you could start over again.”

  I took her hand, squeezed it.

  “I’m touched you’d do that for me,” I said. “Honestly.”

  I looked around and waved a hand in the general direction of the mountains.

  “But this is home. Not much, I know, but . . .”

  I shrugged, then leaned forward and kissed her cheek.

  “This is where I am, this is what I do. Without it, I’d be nothing.”

  Saltanat raised an eyebrow.

  I smiled, then stiffened as a black limousine turned the corner, parked behind the squad car. Tinted glass prevented us from seeing who was inside. The uniformed driver opened the rear door and an elegant middle-aged blond woman emerged. Dark glasses covered her eyes, but even at a distance, I saw she was attractive, slim, head held high, full of confidence. Her hair was piled up in a French braid, and her clothes were expensive. From GUM in Moscow, or Bond Street in London. A lot of Russian oligarchs live there now, and they like their mansions expensive, their cars high-end, and their women stylish. Why steal billions of rubles from the Russian people if not to enjoy the fruits of your labors?

  “You know who she is?” I asked, flicking through the filing cabinet in my mind, not coming up with any immediate answers, although there was something familiar about her. Saltanat frowned, said nothing.

  I did recognize the man who got out of the car and walked with the woman toward the gate. I’d last seen him just a few days before, drinking pivo at a market stall in Jalalabad.

  Mikhail Ivanovich Tynaliev, minister for state security.

  Chapter 42

  “So now we know,” I said, lit a cigarette, my hand trembling. I’d expected Graves to be connected, but hadn’t imagined it would be so high up.

  “We could have guessed Graves and Tynaliev would know each other,” Saltanat said, “but we don’t know how close the connection is. Graves has legitimate businesses. It could be Tynaliev is involved in those, but not in the porn.”

  I understood Saltanat’s logic, even agreed with it. But doubts nagged in the back of my head, like blisters from a pair of new shoes.

  “I can’t imagine Tynaliev would approve of Graves’s cellar activities, not after the murder of his only daughter,” I said, “but as minister for state security, a dog can’t bark in Panfilov Park without it being reported to him.”

  “Then why would he fly down to Jalalabad to see you, tell you to solve the case, tone down the police hunt for you?” Saltanat asked. “Surely if he was involved, he’d be more interested in you taking the fall for everything?”

  I shrugged.

  “Maybe he fancies a press conference where he can announce ‘Rogue Inspector Shot Dead Resisting Arrest.’ And then everybody can get back to the cellar work, cutting and raping and killing and piling up the money just like before.”

  Saltanat didn’t look convinced, although the logic seemed pretty plain to me.

  “So who killed Gurminj? And the buried children? And why the false identity bands?”

  I didn’t have a reply. I wasn’t even sure I wanted one. All I knew was my gun had the solution. Or rather, seventeen of them. Sixteen for the bad guys and one for myself.

  Saltanat must have seen what I was thinking in my face, because she reached over, put her hand on the butt of my gun.

  “Not an answer,” she said. I thought of Lubashov’s brother, bleeding out on Chui Prospekt outside Fatboys, three of my bullets taking refuge in his chest. I remembered Chinara’s uncle, Kursan, dead at my feet, his brains spoiling the pattern of the carpet. Men I’d killed.

  “Sometimes it is,” I said, stared out of the window.

  It was Saltanat’s turn to shrug. I looked over at her. Something was off, out of kilter.

  “That woman, the one with Tynaliev?” I said. “You know who she is?”

  Saltanat paused for a moment, nodded.

  “Not good news,” she said. “Not for you. And especially not for me.”

  “So who is she?”

  “She’s called Albina Kurmanalieva. She used to be in the Uzbek security service. But now she’s freelance, a specialist.”

  I didn’t like the sound of that. I’ve known too many specialists who let their work get out of hand.

  “Specialist in what?”

  Saltanat said nothing for a moment, her mouth set fierce.

  “We call it ‘spilling,’ sort of an office joke,” she said. “But not really a funny one.”

  “Spilling what?” I asked, already guessing the answer.

  “Blood. Brains. Whatever needs taking care of, or whoever. She’s an assassin, Akyl.”

  I lit another cigarette, trying to put together an understanding of a situation that seemed to swirl and drift and go out of focus, as ungraspable as smoke, fragmented as ash.

  I’d heard of Kurmanalieva, though I’d never encountered her. She was supposed to have been responsible for mokroye delo, the old KGB phrase, “wet work,” down in the south near Osh, where the riots started back in 2010. Only we don’t call them riots, or civil unrest, or even revolution. The politically correct phrase is “events.” The KGB weren’t the only ones good at euphemisms.

  I’d heard Kurmanalieva had crossed the border, taken down two of the principals behind the troubles, one Kyrgyz, one Uzbek, handcuffed them back to back, and gave each of them an unseeing third eye. She left them propped against each other in the center of Osh, then drifted like smoke back to wherever she came from. A message to both sides to stop fucking around.

  It wasn’t the only story I’d heard about her. She’d spent time in Chechnya, working with the Spetsnaz, Russian special forces, hunting down people the Russians called terrorists and who called themselves freedom fighters. You could use her name to frighten young would-be police officers at the academy. Screw up, and Albina would pay you a visit.

  “She’s good with handguns, rifles, unarmed combat,” Saltanat said. “Better than me. Better than you. And what she’s best at are knives.”

  “So why is she here with Tynaliev?” I wondered. “And why would he take her to meet up with Graves?”

  “My guess?” Saltanat answered. “You spooked Graves with that hand grenade and arson play. He knew his crew wasn’t up to dealing with whoever you were. So he called his good friend, Minister Tynaliev, asked for a specialist to help him out with his problem. For a price, of course.”

  I nodded. It made a kind of sense, like reflections in an old mirror where half the silvering has rotted away and the frame is buckled.

  “So you don’t think your call made any difference?” I asked.

  “It didn’t do any harm,” she said, “but men like Graves don’t get rich and powerful by taking other people’s word as the truth.”

  “Have you had dealings with this specialist, this Albina?” I said.

  Saltanat looked away, as if pulling bitter memories out of the sky. She touched the thi
n white scar that bisected her left eyebrow. I’d always wondered how Saltanat had been cut, and now I had a vivid image in my mind. I pictured a Chanel-clad beauty wielding a switchblade, then decided, as with so many parts of Saltanat’s life, to leave the question unasked.

  “We have a history,” she said. “We’re never going to go shopping for shoes and makeup together, put it that way.”

  She didn’t volunteer the rest of the story, the violence it surely contained. I thought of Chinara, her gentle soul, teaching the laws of the universe at school, and at the same time trying to decode human beings through poetry. A woman who’d never come close to violence, let alone been the cause of it, until the cancer attacked her, savaged her like a rabid dog. Show me the poem that can make that go away.

  “So now what do we do?” she asked, the intensity of her gaze searing.

  “I’ve already told you this isn’t your fight.”

  “Akyl, this is where I want to be. Even if you don’t want me here. If I’m not here to look after you, who knows what trouble you’ll get into.”

  Then she smiled, and my head and heart turned like distant planets around the sun.

  Chapter 43

  We sat and watched Graves’s mansion for a couple of hours before Saltanat turned the key in the ignition and started to pull away.

  “You don’t want to wait and follow Kurmanalieva?” I asked.

  Saltanat shook her head, her hair cascading across one cheek. So beautiful, so deadly. I could smell her skin, cool, delicate.

  “She won’t stay with Tynaliev,” she explained, turning right toward Chui Prospekt. “That would put him in jeopardy if things didn’t work out and she was caught or killed. And if she’s here to protect Graves, why would she leave his side? I’m sure he’s got a couple of guest rooms.”

  “I’m sure he won’t take her on a tour of the cellar,” I said, then wondered if that might not be something they would have in common.

  “Kurmanalieva isn’t a sadist,” Saltanat said. “It’s always strictly business with her. Unless it’s personal, of course. Then all bets fall by the wayside.”

  I cleared my throat. I was always on dangerous ground whenever I asked Saltanat about her past. I knew she was divorced, but I didn’t know where she lived, if she had brothers and sisters, if her parents were still alive. Shit, I wasn’t even sure if Saltanat was her real name. Smoke and mirrors; no one wants to fall in love with a reflection, a mirage.

  “The history you have with her. That was personal?”

  Saltanat’s face tightened, and once again she touched the scar that ran through her left eyebrow. Not a good memory.

  “Yes.”

  It was obvious she didn’t want to tell me any more so I rolled down the window, lit the last of my cigarettes, watched the girls on Chui in their pretty spring dresses as they laughed and chattered and believed they would live forever . . .

  An hour later, we were back at the safe house, having stopped on the way at Faiza on Jibek Jolu for takeaway shashlik and lagman. The food was rich and warming, and I felt more confident with my belly full. I looked at the bustling waitresses with their white headscarves and long maroon skirts, watched the ease with which they took orders, brought piled plates of food, envied them their calm and professionalism.

  Saltanat took a long swallow from a bottle of beer, poured a little more chai into my teacup, the sign of an attentive hostess.

  “We can’t hide out here forever,” she said. “Kurmanalieva will still have plenty of contacts back in Tashkent, and sooner or later she might want to use this place, or bring people over the border on a mission.”

  Saltanat made a sour face, drew her forefinger across her throat.

  “So we have to find out why she’s here?” I asked.

  Saltanat nodded agreement, finished her beer. The alcohol had gone slightly to her head, and she gave a smile that was friendlier than her usual impassive stare. I was sober, but it was still encouraging.

  “The way I see it, there are various scenarios,” I said. “One: Tynaliev, Graves, and Albina are all in this together. Two: Albina is here to do a job for Graves that isn’t connected to the murders. Three: Tynaliev and Albina are lovers, and he’s introducing her to a powerful local businessman.”

  “Do you think Tynaliev and Albina might be lovers?” Saltanat asked.

  I weighed the idea up, shook my head.

  “He’s known for liking young women; that’s why his wife lives at their dacha. Albina’s well-preserved but about twenty-five years too old for Tynaliev.”

  I ran the alternatives through my head once more.

  “I can’t see Tynaliev being involved in the porn and murders,” I said, shaking my head. “He doesn’t fit the profile. And too much to lose.”

  “Well, we know Graves is involved,” Saltanat stated. “You don’t think Tynaliev is. So we need to lean on Albina, find out why she’s here.”

  “How do you propose we do that?” I asked. The thought of facing a knife-crazed virago at some point didn’t have a great deal of appeal.

  “We have to give her something she won’t be able to resist,” Saltanat replied.

  “Which is?”

  “A rematch with me, with knives.”

  The smile she gave would have frozen Lake Issyk-Kul in high summer.

  “You’re going to call her?” I asked. “Won’t that let Graves know that we’re still out to get him, despite your earlier promise?”

  “You think Uzbek security service agents contact each other using another country’s phone system?”

  The scorn in her voice was light, but still there. As usual, I realized I was out of my depth when it came to the way the invisible ones worked. Give me a badge and a gun and I could sort most things out. In a world of whispers and false information, I was a novice.

  Saltanat took pity on my ignorance.

  “In our tradecraft,” she explained, “we use pay-as-you-go mobiles to send text messages to a secure encrypted website. We have a second cutout by using code numbers, the way you police do when calling in. But our code numbers change every day, again encrypted on a personal basis. So even if I read what another agent wrote, I wouldn’t be able to make sense of it. Only when I get a message back can I use my private codes to decipher it.”

  “Wouldn’t it be easier to just make a call?” I joked.

  Saltanat didn’t smile.

  “Only if you’re not bothered about ending up underground if it all goes wrong,” she said.

  So I stopped smiling as well.

  “I’ve learned not to trust anyone, Akyl,” she said, and the pain in her voice snatched like a thief at my heart. “Not when it comes to work.”

  I leaned forward, placed my palm against her cheek.

  “Let me tell you a story about trust,” I said, sent my memory back a quarter of a century . . .

  I’d been in the orphanage for only a few months when we were all told we had to make our dormitories spotless; an important visitor was coming to see us. It’s not that we didn’t keep the place clean, but we spent two days sweeping every corner, scouring the kitchen pots and pans until they gleamed, washing windows free of the past winter’s stains.

  A few of us had nice clothes in the battered cardboard suitcases we’d brought with us, so we paraded in our idea of finery. I was almost thirteen, still small for my age, and I used to stare out of the window up toward the mountains for hours, waiting for my mama or my dedushka to come and take me home, back to hugs and kisses and steaming, overflowing bowls of plov. I still had hope, a trust that everything was only temporary, that it would all turn out for the best.

  On that day, I stood on tiptoe, my chin resting on the window ledge, nose pressed up against the glass. I was watching for the cloud of dust in the distance, down the road, that would announce the arrival of the important visitor. I wondered—hoped—it might be my mama, rich from her time away in Siberia, coming in a big black limousine to take me away. For two hours I stared, until
my head began to spin. And then I saw it, the big black car I’d been hoping for, a Zil Classic, the kind the president rode around in. I watched it get closer, sunlight flaring on the tinted windows, before it finally turned through the gates that led to the orphanage’s main entrance.

  I could see the orphanage director, a tall, too-thin man called Zenish who stared suspiciously at the world as if it was determined to do him wrong, with a hand all too quick to clip an offending ear as it passed by him. But today he wore a smile that fit as badly as his clothes. I watched as the car came to a halt beside him, noticed how he polished the toe of one shoe on the back of his leg.

  A uniformed driver hurried around to the rear door of the car, opened it. A woman got out, and tears burned in my eyes as I saw it wasn’t my mama. An elegant young woman, slim, stylishly dressed in clothes that had obviously never seen the inside of a Bishkek shopping mall. I knew nothing about fashion but I could recognize the sheen of money and power.

  From the way Zenish rushed forward and shook her hand, I could tell she was important. He started to say something, but she cut him off in mid-sentence with a nod of her head. She walked toward the entrance, and Zenish followed, with that odd crabbed gait tall people use to keep behind someone they don’t want to offend.

  Zenish clapped his hands in the hallway, to summon all the children. We ran into the hallway, formed a ragged line, staring at our visitor with unconcealed interest. She was probably the richest, most sophisticated person any of us had ever seen.

  Seeing her close up, I could tell she was only a few years older than me, her late teens or very early twenties perhaps, with Slavic features and blond hair tightly coiled onto her head. I wondered if perhaps she was a famous film or television star, looking for children to be in her next production. We all watched as the woman walked slowly down the line, inspecting all of us. From time to time she stopped in front of a child, boy or girl, held their faces up with a hand under their chin, staring to see if they flinched from her gaze. Her eyes were black, cold, and her mouth was tightly closed, as if holding back an insult or a curse.