His smile grew wider, somehow emphasizing the emptiness of his eyes. “Ah, I see. You are concerned about Nergui’s safety. Quite understandable, given the views you have expressed about my own morality. But you will not be placing Nergui in any greater danger by acknowledging that he now has the relevant material. You will merely be simplifying matters.”
“Don’t you understand?” she said. “I’ve nothing to tell you. I’ve handed nothing to Nergui.”
He shook his head slowly. “Everything would be so much easier if you were to co-operate. But I can see that that would be difficult for you. You accused me of conducting a vendetta. But it seems to me that it is you—and, over the years, Nergui—who have been conducting the vendetta. Nergui has his own reasons for wanting me behind bars—not least, I think, because he sees me as the symbol of everything he has failed to achieve in his professional career. He is an honorable man and I’ve no doubt he has the best interests of our nation at heart, but he is a man out of time. He has been unable to hold back the tide of Westernization, and every day he sees our country embracing more and more of those corrupt decadent ways. It is a tragedy, no doubt, but it is not my tragedy.” He paused, as though daring her to interrupt. “As for your motives, Mrs. Radnaa, well—I don’t know. A mixture, I imagine. In part, you hold me responsible for the death of your husband.”
“If you think—”
“And, in part,” he went on, overriding her, “it is no doubt a matter of professional pride to you. You had to oversee a trial which was—well, frankly, a fiasco. Not through any fault of yours, I understand. But it must have been deeply frustrating to see a figure of my supposed criminal stature slip through your fingers in that way.”
“You really don’t understand anything, do you?” she said, feeling her anger rising again at the presumption of this man. “You’ve no understanding of my feelings—or my lack of feelings—for Gansukh. And you don’t even understand that my role as a judge is to ensure a fair trial, not to indulge some ancient, nonexistent vendetta.”
“Even when faced with a conflict of interest as great as this? Believe me, even if the prosecutor’s office had not messed things up so spectacularly, I would have ensured that your own position in the trial would have come under close scrutiny.” His smile now looked as if it were painted on his face.
“What position? What conflict? I’ve told you, I didn’t even know that Gansukh worked for you. Can’t you understand? I don’t care about you or what you might have done. I’ve no interest.”
Even as she spoke, she knew that the words were untrue. There was an obsession there, still, somewhere buried deep in her mind. That was why she had behaved so irrationally after the trial. That was why she sent the anonymous letters to Muunokhoi, trying to provoke some response, not suspecting that, by then, he had already learned of the existence of the legacy. Not suspecting that all she was doing was reinforcing a paranoia that had been building for more than a decade.
But this was what she had been seeking. This confrontation. This opportunity to challenge, face to face, the man who had killed her husband, who had thrown her life into chaos. A chance, after all these years, for some kind of resolution, some kind of closure. Some kind of ending to that part of her life.
And so here she was. But, of course, the closure would be Muunokhoi’s alone. Her actions had simply led her straight into his hands, allowing him finally to tie up the one loose end that had always trailed behind his apparently unstoppable ascent.
Still, though, he showed no reaction. His mouth was twisted in an expression which would have resembled a smile only if his eyes had been concealed. The eyes themselves were as blank as ever, as if all expression, all emotion, had been stripped from them.
“I am sorry, then,” he said, at last. “Your co-operation would have made things much more straightforward. For me. For you. And for Nergui.” He shrugged. “But so be it. I cannot waste more time talking to you. I will leave you to think. Perhaps you will have a change of heart. But, if so, I fear that by then it will be too late.”
He climbed slowly to his feet, as though wearied by their conversation. Sarangarel wondered whether he was going to exit as mysteriously as he had entered—she could imagine that he would enjoy the showmanship—but instead he simply walked past her across the room toward the stairs.
She wondered, briefly, whether she could take some action. Perhaps try to use one of the chairs as a weapon. But both chairs, she realized then, were tightly bolted to the concrete floor. It was, she reflected, probably not the first time that Muunokhoi had used this bleak venue for this kind of purpose.
There were no other weapons to hand, and in any case Muunokhoi had already reached the bottom of the stairs. She contemplated running after him, but it was too late. He began to climb, pausing halfway up to turn and look down at her. “Think about it,” he said. “I do not know how long I may leave you down here. Or what I will do when I return. But there is no way now that you can help Nergui. It may be too late to help yourself. But you may still be able to co-operate.”
It sounded like an invitation and she wondered whether she might be able to buy herself some time by offering her cooperation, even though she had nothing to tell him. She half opened her mouth to speak, but then Muunokhoi turned and, as if someone had responded to a signal, the heavy door opened to let him out.
The slamming of the door behind him had a terrifying finality. She’d blown it, she thought. She was smart and articulate. She should have been able to talk her way out of this somehow, or at least bought herself some time. Maybe Muunokhoi really was out of his mind, but she should have been able to handle that. Instead, she’d just tried to argue rationally and then, when that hadn’t worked, she’d allowed him to goad her into losing her temper.
And she was still trapped in this featureless room, with no knowledge how long she would be left here, and no idea of what might be facing her at the end of that time. For the first time, she allowed herself to face the reality of her position. Muunokhoi was never going to allow her to leave this place alive. She was going to die. The only questions were when and how. From what she had heard and seen of Muunokhoi, it could not be assumed that her death would be either quick or humane.
And, on top of all that, there was something else—something, she realized, that terrified her almost as much as her own impending death. Somewhere out there, Muunokhoi and his people were waiting for Nergui. The way Muunokhoi had spoken at least gave her some hope that Nergui had at least survived the impact of the car, though it was quite possible he was lying injured or incapacitated, a helpless potential victim. And, she thought, whatever his current position, his well-being was likely to be substantially worsened in the very near future.
CHAPTER 22
Doripalam lay, as motionless as he could, on the cold earth, holding his breath, trying to detect some movement in the darkness around them.
He knew that Nergui was lying similarly, his hand gun poised, a few meters to his left, although in the blackness he could no longer see him.
After the tremulous voice had died away, he had heard nothing. No footsteps or movement, nothing that revealed any human presence. The only sound was the faint whisper of the breeze through the firs. The moon was higher now, skimming the trees, scattering pale silver across the woodland and steppe. But Doripalam could see nothing but a filigree of gray and shadow, with no solid shapes other than the triangular silhouettes of the gers. He could conjure up all kinds of ghosts in this near darkness, but he had no idea about the location of the sniper.
He looked across, trying to locate Nergui, but the grass between the trees was empty. Nergui had already changed his position, though his movements must have been as silent as the breeze. Doripalam glanced around, trying to spot Nergui among the trees, but could still see nothing.
He twisted around, positioning his back against a tree to minimize the chances of the sniper catching him from behind. He could still see and hear nothing.
; And then, suddenly, he saw a movement, little more than a shifting shadow against the trees, a momentary blackness against the glimmer of moonlight. He eased out his own pistol and waited, holding his breath, watching the spot. Was it the sniper, or was it Nergui circling round the gers?
The silence extended, and then, somewhere further round the clearing from where he had detected the movement, there was a noise. It was little more than a faint rustling, possibly no more than some wild animal making its way through the trees and undergrowth, but Doripalam tensed, watching for any further sign of life.
Then there was a much more distinctive sound. First, a thud of footsteps across the grass, a clattering as if something had been dropped, and a sudden sharp cry, immediately stifled.
Doripalam rose, pressed himself behind the tree, peering out into the dark, trying to work out what was happening. There was definitely movement now, a bundling of shadows beneath the faintly moonlit trees, then suddenly a whisper of voices and the movements ceased.
Doripalam raised his gun, poised to fire as soon as there was some positive indication of a possible target.
“I think you’d better hold fire,” he heard Nergui’s voice say. “It would take some explaining if you were to hit me by mistake. You can switch your flashlight back on now, though.”
Doripalam fumbled in his pocket for the flashlight which he had extinguished, as soon as the shot had sounded. He pointed it in the direction of Nergui’s voice, flooding the woodland with sudden light.
Nergui was lying on the ground, his arm clutched firmly round the neck of a young man, his pistol pointing unwaveringly at the man’s head. The young man himself looked terrified, his eyes blinking frantically as he tried to take in the scene. His own handgun lay on the grass, several meters away, presumably where he had dropped it as Nergui had launched himself at him.
“If you’ve got your handcuffs with you, that would probably be helpful,” Nergui said. “I’d rather talk to this individual in a standing position.”
Recovering his composure, Doripalam pulled his handcuffs from his pocket and crouched down to snap them on the young man’s wrists. There was no attempt at resistance. Looking at the young man’s frightened expression, Doripalam suspected that he would have been compliant even if there had been no cuffs on his arms or gun pointed at his temple.
Doripalam dragged the young man to his feet and thrust him against the side of the nearest ger. He quickly searched the man’s pockets for any sign of a further weapon, but there was nothing. Behind them, Nergui climbed slowly to his feet, brushing the dew from his clothes. “This suit’s going to need cleaning,” he said. “Another strike against this young man.”
“Along with the murder of a police officer, you mean?” Doripalam said, still holding his own gun against the man’s back.
“Alongside that, yes,” Nergui said, his expression strangely casual. Doripalam glanced at him. In the normal run of things, there were few crimes more serious than the murder of a serving officer.
Doripalam pulled the young man round to face him. He should begin the formalities, arresting the man on suspicion of the murder of the officer they had found in the woods. Not to mention, he thought, the possible attempted murder of himself and Nergui.
He opened his mouth to speak, shining the flashlight up at the young man’s face, and then he stopped. He turned slowly to Nergui. “We’ve already met,” he said. “You were one of the four men here when we came before. One of Tseren’s cousins.” He stopped, searching for the name.
“Kadyr,” the man stuttered. “Yes.” He paused as though seeking some adequate form of words. “I’m sorry,” he said, at last.
“Sorry?” Doripalam stared at him. “You—or one of your kinsmen—injured one of my colleagues before. Tonight, you’ve completed the job on another officer. And, quite frankly, I’ve had my fill of you taking pot shots at me.”
“I’m sorry,” Kadyr said again. “It’s not—” He stopped. “It’s not how it looks.”
“How else can it be?” Doripalam said. “There’s an officer dead. Another injured.”
“I know,” Kadyr stammered, “but—” He stopped, clearly at a loss now, looking as if he were trying to offer some sort of coherent explanation but lacking the language.
Doripalam was about to respond, but Nergui cut in from behind him, speaking with his usual calm authority. “He’s right,” he said. “It’s not how it looks. But then we know that. I think you can put the gun away, Doripalam. Kadyr’s not going anywhere, not as long as we’re here, anyway. There’s no one else he can trust. Not anymore.”
Doripalam turned to look at the older man, trying to work out—as so often—what precisely was going through his mind.
“We should get back to the truck,” Nergui said. “There’ll be others out here soon. We need to get away from here while we’ve still got time.”
“Others? You mean—”
“More police. More of Tsend’s people.”
“But—”
“And if they find us here I think we may find that the local force have little respect for intruders from the big city, even if they’re as senior as we are. Let’s get moving. We’ve got a lot to talk about with—what did you call yourself?—with Kadyr here.”
There was something about the way that Nergui uttered the last sentence. He knows something, Doripalam thought. It’s the same as ever. He’s a step or two ahead, working out something that I’m only just beginning to grasp. It was clear that, for whatever reason, Kadyr thought so too. He was staring at Nergui with an aghast expression, his terror clearly even greater than before.
“Come on,” Nergui said, with greater urgency. “We need to move.”
He grabbed Kadyr’s arm, and began to drag the young man back down the slope toward their truck. The moon was higher above them now, casting its cool light down along the path, exaggerating the shadows and potholes in the ground. Nergui began to move faster, almost running, as if he had suddenly noticed some change in the landscape. “Come on,” he said again.
And then Doripalam, following a few steps behind, heard it. The sound of a car engine, still distant but approaching rapidly. Despite Nergui’s urgency, Doripalam paused momentarily, trying to locate the vehicle. Finally he saw it, two dim lights coming closer across the undulating steppe, obscured partly by the distance and partly by the fact that, despite the darkness, the vehicle was using only its side-lights. The driver had obviously hoped to delay being spotted for as long as possible, knowing that full headlights would carry for miles across the empty landscape.
Doripalam began to hurry down the slope behind Nergui and Kadyr, trying to calculate how far away the vehicle might be. Two or three kilometers, probably. And it would take them four or five minutes to reach their own truck, even running. Even if they reached the truck, there was no guarantee that they could get away easily, assuming that the new arrivals were as dangerous as Nergui was assuming.
Nergui was virtually dragging Kadyr now. It was as if the young man had finally given way, as if all the energy had drained out of him. Doripalam tried to hurry forward so he could assist the older man, but, even supporting Kadyr’s weight, Nergui was moving too quickly. Doripalam considered himself reasonably fit, but he was already becoming breathless and could barely keep up with the pace.
By now, the slope had taken them below the level of the trees and Doripalam could no longer see the lights of the approaching vehicle. He had no idea how much time they had, or what might happen when they reached their own truck. There was something irrational, almost superstitious about their running, as if Nergui believed that, if they reached the truck, everything would be all right.
And perhaps it would have been. They were never to find out since, just as they came within sight of their own truck parked by the roadside, the dim lights of the second vehicle appeared ahead of them. Nergui staggered to a halt, still clutching the young man as if he might otherwise float away. Doripalam followed behind, scarcely able to br
eathe.
The approaching vehicle—another off-road vehicle, Doripalam thought—slammed on its brakes and skidded to a stop, angled across the road. Its headlights came on, blazing on full beam, and for a moment Doripalam could see nothing for the glare. He stumbled on down the slope, catching up finally with Nergui and Kadyr. Kadyr by now looked little more than semi-conscious, his eyes staring blankly into the dazzling light.
Slowly, Doripalam was able to make out two figures emerging from the vehicle. The first figure stepped into the light, and Doripalam let out his breath in relief, realizing that Nergui’s assumptions had for once been wrong. There shouldn’t have been any doubt, he thought, given that unique approach to stopping a car.
“Luvsan,” he called out, “thank—”
And then he stopped. The second figure had stepped forward, and, suddenly, like a camera coming into focus, the whole picture became clear in Doripalam’s mind. Nergui was staring down into the light, as if he had known this all along.
Luvsan was smiling up at them, a powerful handgun clutched in his hand. Not police issue, Doripalam noted irrelevantly, his brain still trying to make the connections. Behind him, holding an assault rifle, was Tsend, the local police chief.
“Good evening. Sir.” Luvsan nodded slowly to Doripalam and then to Nergui. “Though I imagine we can dispense with the hierarchical conventions in the circumstances.”
“I find myself in illustrious company,” Tsend said from behind him. “But then I have always been happy to co-operate with requests from headquarters.” He glanced, still smiling, at Luvsan. “As your colleague here will be only too pleased to confirm, I am sure.”
“And I hope,” Luvsan said, “that you will find it equally easy to co-operate with our requests.” He gestured with his gun. “It would be most disrespectful of me to have to use this on a senior officer or indeed—” He bowed slightly toward Nergui, “—on a Ministry official.”
“This way, gentlemen,” Tsend said. “We have an appointment to keep.”
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