The Outcast

by Michael Walters

  The minister stared at him for a moment, as though contemplating whether to enquire further. Finally he said, “We’re keeping a lid on it, though.”

  “As best we can. We’ve put an embargo on the media.”

  “Can we make that hold?”

  “For a while. They like to keep us sweet. But we can’t push our luck.”

  “What about witnesses?”

  “Lots of them. But they don’t know quite what they witnessed. We just have to accept that the rumour mill will be churning.”

  “But they’ll know we’re concealing something.”

  “That’s hardly new territory. They’ll make up some story about government iniquity that’ll be even worse than the truth.”

  “You always know how to reassure, Nergui,” the minister said. “But you’re on top of things?”

  “As far as it’s possible to be.”

  “Why do I have the feeling that you’re keeping something from me?”

  Nergui shrugged. “Because that’s my job, I imagine. It’s what you pay me for.” He paused, weighing up his next words. “I’m saying what I know. It’s not my job to engage in idle speculation, Bakei.” Not many people called the minister by name, when Nergui did so, it was always with an undertone of warning, an invocation of their shared history.

  The minister shook his head. “You never engage in idle anything, Nergui. What about the shooting?”

  “That’s in hand.”

  “You knew the officer involved, I understand? One of your people?”

  Nergui gazed back at the minister, his face blank. It never paid to underestimate the minister, either. “He was, yes. Before.”

  “A good one?” In the circumstances, the question was far from casual.

  “As good as they come.”

  “And it’s under control?”

  “Trust me,” Nergui said. “It’s in hand. All of it.” He paused. “All we need to do is find out quite what it is we’re holding.”

  “Tunjin. Can you hear me? Can you hear what I’m saying?”

  It didn’t seem appropriate to shout in a hospital, not in circumstances like these. But he wasn’t sure what Tunjin could hear, what was getting through to him. His eyes were open, but there was no expression, no indication that he was awake. Without the remorseless pulsing of the monitor behind the bed, Doripalam could have imagined that he was looking at a corpse. He glanced back up at the doctor, who was watching the scene, his face barely more revealing than Tunjin’s. “What do you think?” Doripalam asked. “Can he hear?”

  The doctor shrugged. “Who knows?” he said. “Keep trying.”

  Doripalam looked back down at Tunjin. “Tunjin, it’s me. Doripalam. Can you hear me?”

  There was something there, he thought. Definitely something. He tried again, louder this time, trying to ignore the doctor’s presence. “It’s Doripalam, Tunjin. Can you hear me?”

  Tunjin’s pale fleshy head was slumped back on the bed, but something in his eyes indicated recognition, acknowledgement, awareness of who he was or what he was saying. It was, Doripalam thought, like reaching into a cave or into deep water, sensing there was something to be grasped if you could only reach it.

  Tunjin blinked unexpectedly. “Tunjin,” Doripalam said again, “can you hear me? Can you understand what I’m saying?”

  Tunjin was blinking repeatedly now, as if trying to clear his vision. Swimming up from the depths, awareness filling his eyes. The set of his face changed, concentration welling up from within, and his mouth began to move.

  “Ungh …” It was little more than a plosive exhalation of breath, but it was the first sound that Tunjin had uttered since they had brought him in here.

  “Tunjin. Can you hear me?” Doripalam looked back at the doctor, wondered whether he could somehow use his authority to make the laid-back bastard do something. Though he had no idea what it was that needed doing.

  “Umph …” Tunjin’s mouth and jaw were working, wrestling with the air. His eyes were bright, now full of expression, staring upwards at Doripalam.

  “Gun,” Tunjin said. It was the first distinct word he had spoken.

  Doripalam looked at the doctor, who gave another of his characteristic shrugs. The familiar intelligence was returning to Tunjin’s eyes, but his body looked like a beached whale on the hospital bed, his immense chest rising and falling as he struggled to speak.

  “Can you hear me, Tunjin? It’s me, Doripalam. Are you all right?”

  “Gun,” Tunjin said again, his intonation growing more urgent. “I shot—” His eyes were darting backwards and forwards, as though trying to work out who was present, who was listening. It was still not clear he recognised Doripalam.

  “It’s all right,” Doripalam tried to sound calm. “You don’t need to worry. You did the right thing.”

  “But—” Tunjin stopped, as though trying painfully to work his way through a complex argument. “But …” He stuttered to a halt once more.

  Doripalam turned to the doctor. “Is he all right, do you think?”

  The doctor was watching Tunjin’s movements with apparently casual interest. He nodded towards the monitor behind the bed. “Better than I would have believed possible,” he said at last. “I don’t know what was wrong with him, but it certainly wasn’t a stroke. Or if it was we’ve just witnessed a miracle. Perhaps I should get one of the priests in here. Those Western born-again ones who hang around the square. They’re very keen on the hand of God stuff, I understand.”

  Doripalam gazed at him for a second, then redirected his attention back to Tunjin. Tunjin’s mouth was opening and closing. Finally, he spoke again: “Gun—I shot—” He paused again, holding his breath as though making a final effort to articulate whatever idea he was wrestling with. “It was the gun,” he said at last, quite distinct this time. “Whose gun? Whose gun was it?”

  It suddenly struck Doripalam that this was more than a succession of random stuttered words. He had assumed that Tunjin was simply trying to come to grips with the whirl of ideas and images filling his brain. But he was trying to say something quite specific.

  “Tunjin,” he said, “what is it? What do you mean?”

  “I think,” a quiet voice said from behind them, “that he’s enquiring about the ownership of the weapon.”

  Doripalam looked around, startled despite the gentleness of the voice. Startled, above all, because he recognised the speaker. “Nergui,” he said, turning to face the tall figure standing in the now open doorway.

  Nergui said nothing, his impassive gaze fixed on the figure on the bed.

  “I left you a message,” Doripalam was aware that his voice sounded almost accusatory. For the first time, he realised that Nergui was not alone. Two men in plain dark suits were standing behind him, only half visible in the shadows of the corridor.

  Nergui nodded. “I know. Thank you. That was good of you.” He paused, his blue eyes still fixed on Tunjin. “But I’d already been contacted.”

  Doripalam finally grasped the significance of the words that Nergui had spoken seconds before. “What did you mean, ‘ownership of the weapon’?”

  “The ministry is investigating what happened in the square.”

  “I know,” Doripalam said, bluntly. “They made that very clear when they arrived on the scene.”

  “I am very sorry. The ministry is not known for its courtesy, I’m afraid.”

  “Look …”

  Nergui nodded. “This does not fall into your remit. We are dealing with it. But they—we—should have kept you informed. Especially in the circumstances.”

  “Circumstances?” Doripalam could see that Nergui was gazing straight past him, his blue eyes fixed on the prone figure on the bed.

  “I am here formally to detain Tunjin in custody,” Nergui said, his voice toneless.

  “Custody? The man’s ill. After all he’s been through.”

  Nergui nodded. “I understand that. But he is a witness to what may have been a terrori
st act. And there are aspects of the situation that we need to investigate.” He paused. “I am sure you understand.”

  “I don’t understand anything, Nergui,” Doripalam said, his temper rising. “You come muscling in here, throwing your weight around, just like your people did in the square. This man isn’t just a colleague, he should be a friend of yours. He saved your life. What’s all this stuff about custody?”

  Nergui nodded again, his face grave, his expression suggesting that Doripalam’s words had simply confirmed his own thoughts. “I know. I have no wish to be difficult. But I’m afraid we’re taking over now.”

  “Look, Nergui, you can’t just—”

  “You know that I can, Doripalam,” Nergui said, gently. “And you know I wouldn’t do it lightly.” He paused. “I’ve no problem with you staying around for a little while to keep an eye on Tunjin, if you wish. But he’s our business now.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  “So how many am I making?”

  Odbayar was sitting cross-legged on the floor, a tattered paperback book splayed on the carpet in front of him. “As many as you can. There won’t be a shortage of support.”

  He sounded confident enough, Gundalai thought, but then he always did. Regardless of the circumstances or the facts. It was a talent, there was no question about that. Quite an impressive talent, and so far Odbayar had come a long way on the back of it.

  “You could help,” Gundalai pointed out, gesturing with his paint-brush. “We’d get twice as many done. If you think the numbers will justify it.”

  Odbayar pushed the book aside. His expression suggested that Gundalai had made a proposal which was novel, perhaps intriguing, but fundamentally absurd. He nodded. “Oh, the numbers will justify it,” he said. “That’s why your contribution is so critical. That’s why everything needs to be done properly. That’s why it needs our full commitment. Every one of us.” He nodded again, more slowly this time, as though reflecting on the profundity of these statements. Then he picked up the book and continued reading.

  Another talent, Gundalai supposed. The ability to respond, at length and with impressive fluency, without actually answering the question. And implying that, even by asking it, you were somehow failing to live up to Odbayar’s own irreproachably high standards. He was not a politician yet—not a conventional politician at any rate—but it was clear that Odbayar was already perfectly fitted to the role.

  “These all right, then?” Gundalai held up a sample of his craftsmanship.

  Odbayar put his book down again, looking only momentarily irritated by the further interruption. He tipped his head on one side and squinted at the banner that Gundalai was holding. It was a primitive affair—stiff cardboard tacked to a piece of old wood—but Gundalai’s draughtsman’s skills were undeniable. Odbayar nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, looks okay,” he said, as close to enthusiasm as he was ever likely to get. “Good slogans, too.” The wording of the slogans had, needless to say, been Odbayar’s own.

  In truth, Odbayar’s slogans had a tendency to be wordy. It was a pity, he thought, but there was no point in underselling the sophistication of their core messages. Odbayar saw himself as representing the popular will, but he was no populist. There were too many people peddling false hope, easy solutions. It was time to tell the truth, Odbayar declared, even if the truth might take a little longer to explain.

  The slogans were all variations on a common theme: selling out the people’s birthright, betraying their heritage, giving away their inheritance. Theft. But not just the theft of money or possessions—though there was certainly that as well—but something more profound. The theft of their history. Everything that made this country what it was. Everything they were supposedly celebrating this year.

  And it was worse even than that. It was also the theft of their future. Everything that this land might one day become.

  Odbayar wasn’t the only one to see it. He could feel that things were moving in his direction. It was evident in the opinion columns, the editorials, in the privately owned newspapers. He could hear it in the grumblings of the old men gathered in the square, smoking their cigarettes, playing their endless games of chess. People were finally beginning to realise how serious this was.

  “You think people will still come?” Gundalai said, with his uncanny knack for timely intrusions into Odbayar’s train of thought. He had his head down, painstakingly working on the lettering of the next placard.

  “Why wouldn’t they?” Odbayar said. “We have all the student bodies behind us. And some of the opposition parties are beginning to come on board, unofficially at least.”

  “But after yesterday people are jittery.”

  “That was nothing to do with this. No one knows what that was about.”

  “So how do you know it was nothing to do with this?” Gundalai said, with unarguable logic.

  “Why would it be? This is just a peaceful protest. We’ve informed the authorities.”

  Gundalai shrugged. “Maybe that was a peaceful protest as well. Maybe he’d informed the authorities.”

  “That was—” Odbayar stopped, realising just too late that Gundalai was winding him up again. “Yes, all right. Very funny.”

  Gundalai looked up, his face as deadpan as ever. “But there was a man shot,” he said. “Killed. Whatever the story, it’s bound to have an effect. Things like that don’t happen here. And they’re hushing it up. There was nothing on the TV news.”

  “If anything, I think it’s going to increase the turnout,” Odbayar said, with his familiar self-confidence. “It’s just another example of how we can’t trust this government. And of how they won’t trust us with the truth.”

  Gundalai had moved on to his next placard, and was carefully drawing a pencil mark to align the lettering. “Me,” he said, “I’m just worried about who they might want to shoot next.”

  “This is ridiculous.”

  Nergui’s expression, as always, revealed nothing. He glanced across the room at the huge bulk of Tunjin on the bed. “I have a job to do.”

  “What is your job these days, Nergui? Do you even know?”

  It was a reasonable enough question, given everything that had happened in recent months, but Doripalam could feel that he was stepping onto dangerous ground. He had no idea what Nergui was thinking or feeling these days.

  Nergui looked back at him with the faintest of smiles on his lips. “My job’s the same as it ever was,” he said. “I just have to keep on finding new ways to carry it out.”

  “And that’s what you’re doing, is it?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m doing.” He shrugged, the smile growing more definite now, with, at least for a moment, the first signs of some warmth. “I don’t expect you to like it. But it’s what I do. Nothing’s changed.”

  “And what you do is take into custody someone who saved your life? Who probably saved dozens of lives yesterday? I don’t begin to understand this, Nergui.”

  Nergui shrugged. “It’s not your job to understand it. Not this time.”

  Doripalam opened his mouth to respond, then bit back his words. “It’s my job to protect Tunjin’s interests,” he said. “No one else is going to do it. And he’s part of my team now.”

  “And we will keep you fully informed.” It was the tone, Doripalam thought, that Nergui might use with a particularly inquisitive member of the press or some junior representative of one of the opposition parties. It felt like a calculated taunt, the dismissal most likely to sting Doripalam.

  “So what are you planning to do, then?” he said. “He’s in no state to be moved.”

  “So I understand,” Nergui said. “Though perhaps his illness is not quite so severe as you first feared?” He looked over at the doctor, who had been following their exchange with his usual mild curiosity. “Would you say so, Doctor?”

  The doctor shrugged, clearly no more intimidated by Nergui than he had been by Doripalam. “He’s certainly made what appears to be a remarkable recovery. But we
’ll need to do tests. We won’t be able to release him for some time.”

  “How long?” Nergui said. “Twenty-four hours?”

  “That should be enough. Depending on what the tests tell us.”

  “Of course,” Nergui said, smiling now. He looked back at Doripalam. “Everything must be done properly. That is why I brought my two colleagues. To ensure that Tunjin is looked after while he’s in here.” He gestured to the two figures in suits, who had moved silently into the room.

  Doripalam did not recognise them, though he knew most police officers and ministry agents, at least by sight. Both men were heavily built, self-consciously muscular, their close-cropped hair and rigid stance more indicative of the military than any of the civilian services. What, Doripalam wondered, was actually going on here?

  “If you’re planning to detain Tunjin formally,” Doripalam said, “you’ll have gone through the proper procedures. Nothing’s changed since you moved on.”

  “Do you think so?” Nergui asked, as if sincerely seeking a response. “I hope you’re right. But my fear is that everything has changed.”

  Doripalam walked back across the square from the hospital to police headquarters, still seething, his repressed anger only just competing with his profound bafflement. What the hell was Nergui up to?

  He was accustomed to this: the game-playing, the inscrutability. And he knew Nergui well enough to recognise that it would not be arbitrary, that there would be some underlying plan. But that didn’t excuse it. Not this time. Not in these circumstances. And certainly not involving Tunjin.

  In the past, he had at least known where he stood with Nergui. Nergui balanced his loyalties with a politician’s skill, but in the end he and Doripalam were on the same side. But, for all the time he had known Nergui—and what was it? five, six years?—everything had been much more straightforward than it was now. For much of that time, Nergui had held the role that Doripalam now occupied, head of the Serious Crimes Team. The political world had rarely intruded into their lives, and Nergui had always been skilful at protecting his underlings from its noxious effects. Doripalam knew now how challenging that could be.