The Outcast

by Michael Walters

  “A replica,” Batzorig said, echoing both their thoughts. “So where does that leave Tunjin?”

  Doripalam hesitated, realising that he had told Batzorig nothing of what had happened at the hospital. “In the same place, legally and ethically,” he said. “As far as I can see.” He paused again, recalling that all of this had been taken out of his hands. “As far as I can see, Tunjin did exactly what he was supposed to. He couldn’t have known. But I imagine there’ll have to be some kind of inquiry.”

  “That seems to be Tunjin’s fate,” Batzorig said, with what sounded like an uncharacteristic note of bitterness. “To generate inquiries.”

  Doripalam nodded. “Probably because he takes his job seriously.”

  “A lesson for us all, sir,” Batzorig said, ambiguously. “But you still think there might be a connection? To all this, I mean.”

  “Well, maybe. It would be easier to judge if we knew what all this actually is. It just seems like a hell of a mess to me.”

  They were pulling out into Sukh Bataar Square, turning right towards the offices of the Serious Crimes Team. Doripalam glanced at his watch. It was much later than he had though—well into the small hours. He wasn’t sure where the time had gone. The endless arguments with the local chief, the time spent reviewing the body, waiting for the crime-scene team to arrive, negotiating with the fire service to get the police experts into the building. Hours spent not getting very far.

  At close to midnight, it had occurred to him that he had not spoken to Solongo since she had been taken home, hours before, and he was anxious to make contact, to see how she was coping. She had looked drawn when he’d interviewed her, lacking her familiar self-confidence and assurance. He knew she was a strong woman who could cope with most of what the world might throw at her. But she had her limits, and more often than not, what appeared to be complete self-control often concealed near-panic. Doripalam was worried about her. She had always seen herself as an under-achiever, someone who had failed to live up to the intimidating standards set by her father, and that led her always to be talking on new tasks, new demands, pushing herself to the limit. Just as she had done with this museum exhibition.

  And that had been before she’d seen a dead man rolled up in a carpet. Doripalam recalled the shock of seeing his first dead body. He could imagine that this shock, combined with the other pressures she had been facing, might have been too much even for Solongo.

  He had tried to call home during the endless period they had spent outside the hotel. But the phone had simply rung through to the answering machine, and he heard his own voice apologising for not being at home. Hopefully she had already gone to bed, but Doripalam feared that it was more likely that she was listening to the phone ring, knowing it would be him and choosing to ignore it.

  He wondered whether he should try her again. But it was too late. There was no chance of her answering the phone at this time, and he would get no thanks for disturbing her sleep.

  The driver pulled into the HQ parking lot, and Doripalam and Batzorig climbed out. It was still very mild, Doripalam thought, almost as if night hadn’t fallen. In this country of bone-chilling cold, warmth was unexpected, something to be cherished for the brief period it lasted. It would be dawn soon, in any case. Another day.

  “You okay, sir?”

  He looked over at Batzorig, who was standing by the entrance to the HQ, holding the door open for him.

  “Yes, fine. Just tired, I guess. It’s been a long night.”

  “After a long day,” Batzorig agreed.

  “Too right.” How many hours had it been since he had been sitting in the Khanbrau, knocking back that cold beer? And just how much did he want another one of those right now? “And not over yet.”

  He entered the building, breathing the familiar scent of stale air, the metallic office smell. His own office—formerly Nergui’s—was on the first floor, an unprepossessing room with an outlook on to a bleak courtyard at the rear. He climbed wearily up the stairs and pushed open the door.

  The short, stout local police chief from outside the bombed hotel was sitting in Doripalam’s chair, angrily tapping an empty mug against the surface of the desk. He looked up as Doripalam and Batzorig entered. “This better be good,” he said. “This better be bloody good.”

  Doripalam stared at him blankly, his brain fogged by lack of sleep. How long had this guy been here? More to the point, who had let him up here in the first place? Involuntarily, he glanced around, checking that the cupboards and filing cabinets were locked as they should have been.

  “Make yourself at home,” Doripalam said. “We’re all friends here.”

  “Look, you’ve dragged me out of bed at—”

  “It goes with the territory,” Doripalam interjected before he could go on. “You’re a policeman. Does it look like I’m preparing to go home?” He slumped pointedly into one of the visitors’ chairs facing the desk, gesturing for Batzorig to sit in the other. “And since you ask, it is. It is bloody good. Or bloody bad. I don’t know yet.”

  The chief glared at him. “You might enjoy staying up all night playing games but I don’t have to join you.”

  “Who was this man?” Doripalam said. “The one who came out of the hotel with a gun. And why didn’t you think to mention him?”

  The chief opened his mouth and then closed it, as if about to deny any knowledge. “It was nothing,” he said. “Just a fuss about nothing.”

  “You weren’t there,” Doripalam said. “So you can’t really know, can you?”

  “I had good people there. People I trust.” He looked from Doripalam to Batzorig, managing to imply that the same might well not be true of their relationship.

  “But that’s not enough, is it?” Doripalam said. “You had an armed team there. There was a man brandishing a gun. Your team came within a whisker of gunning him down. And the gun was only a replica.”

  “They couldn’t know that.”

  Doripalam shrugged. “True enough. These things happen. But usually the commanding officer is there to take charge. So I can understand why you didn’t want to mention it.”

  “That wasn’t—”

  “Well, I can’t see any other reasons,” Doripalam said. “I could have you disciplined.” The chief opened his mouth, but Doripalam ploughed on. “I will have you disciplined if you don’t show a little cooperation.”

  The chief stared back resentfully. “Make it quick.”

  “What do you know about this man? Who was he?”

  The chief shook his head. “Like you said, I wasn’t there. Didn’t even see him.”

  “So what did your trusted team tell you?”

  “Not much. Youngish guy. Dark hair? Don’t know—nothing else distinguishing. Scared the hell out of them, though. They didn’t mean to fire at him—just got the jitters.”

  “I can see why you trust them,” Doripalam said. “So what happened to him?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Afterwards. What did they do with him?”

  “He was taken to the hospital. That’s what they told me.”

  “Under arrest?”

  The chief paused, clearly reaching the limits of his ability to bluff. “I don’t know,” he said, finally.

  “You don’t know?”

  “It wasn’t a priority. I mean, it was a fuss about nothing. The gun wasn’t real—we don’t know what the guy was up to—” The chief stopped, realising he was floundering. “Okay, I screwed up. I should have been there. I wasn’t. But there was no harm done.”

  Doripalam nodded slowly, as if giving serious consideration to this interpretation of events. He leaned forward slowly, holding his thumb and forefinger a few millimetres apart. “I’m this close to invoking formal disciplinary procedures,” he said. “You allow an armed team to arrive at an incident without your being present. Your people nearly shoot a man who can barely breathe and who turns out to be unarmed just because they—what was your phrase?—they got the jitters. And n
ow you tell me that, not only do you not know where this man is, you don’t even know if he’s under arrest. How is it possible not to know? Did your people arrest him? Was he in custody? Who went with him to the hospital?”

  The chief slumped back in his chair, shaking his head angrily at Doripalam. “I don’t know,” he said. “It’s as simple as that. When I got there, it was all over. They told me he’d been taken to the hospital. They said someone—some officers—had gone with him. But I don’t know who—and, no, I didn’t bother to think about it again after that. I was more concerned with making sure that we cleared the area, and that we were prepared if any more lunatics with guns, replica or otherwise, should appear.”

  “And then you left the scene?”

  “After you arrived, yes. You made it very clear that you were in charge, so I left you to it.”

  “I wasn’t in charge of your men.”

  “I thought you’d made it very clear that you were.”

  The two men glared at each other. Batzorig leaned back in his chair, balancing momentarily on the two rear legs. “I checked the city hospital,” he said. “They’ve no record of this man being admitted.”

  “So what?” the chief said. “That bunch haven’t a clue who’s in there half the time. Probably somebody didn’t bother to register it when they brought him in.”

  “Maybe they didn’t think it was important,” Doripalam said. “Sounds familiar.”

  “And why is it important? Who is this guy, anyway? Why’ve you dragged me out of bed in the middle of the night because of some lunatic with a fake gun?”

  Doripalam shrugged. “I don’t know if he is important. I don’t know who he is or where he is. But I do want to know what’s going on. We have a bombing. We have a dead body. We have a man brandishing a fake gun. We have a man who was supposedly taken to the hospital with your officers, who’s now mysteriously gone missing. And we have another incident yesterday which might or might not be connected to all this. And, to cap it all, I have a local police chief who can’t be bothered to do his job properly.”

  “Look—”

  “Did your officers take this man to the hospital or not?”

  The chief shook his head. “No. None of my men went with him. I checked before I left—the whole team was still there at the hotel.”

  “So who went? Were there officers from another division there?”

  “No, not as far as I’m aware. There’s no reason why there should have been. At least not until your people turned up.”

  “So who went with him?” Doripalam repeated.

  The chief shrugged. “Maybe nobody. Maybe he never went. Maybe he just recovered and went off on his own. Who cares?”

  Doripalam shook his head. “You really are a piece of work. Has it slipped your mind that this is a murder enquiry? That we’re also investigating a suspected bombing? I don’t know who this man is, but at the very least he’s potentially a key witness.” He sighed deeply. “Forget it. Just get out of my sight.”

  The chief glared at him for a further long moment, before slowly rising to his feet, clearly determined to retain some dignity. “This is how you get your kicks? Pushing the local guys around. It’s the same old story. You get crapped on from above, so you come along crapping on us.”

  “No doubt you’d know,” Doripalam said.

  The chief opened his mouth as if to say something more, then shook his head and strode out of the office, slamming the door heavily behind him.

  Batzorig stretched out in his seat, yawning faintly. “Looks like the Serious Crimes Team just won itself another friend and advocate,” he said.

  WINTER 1988

  He turned around, startled by the unexpected voice.

  The figure was just a few metres from him, little more than a silhouette, a deeper darkness against the background glow of the city.

  “I’m sorry. I startled you.” The speaker didn’t sound particularly regretful.

  “No. I was just—”

  “It’s all right,” the voice said. “No one can observe us here. You can say what you like. I understand you have a proposition.”

  “Well, yes …” He really had no idea what he should say next. Suddenly, everything he could think of sounded gauche. He pulled his coat more tightly around his shoulders, aware how cold it had grown.

  “My only question,” the contact said, finally, “is whether you can deliver.”

  “Yes, I can understand.” He stopped, barely able to think clearly. How could he persuade this man that he really spoke with authority? “I’ve been told to tell you—”

  “I know what you’ve been told,” the contact said, with a faint emphasis on the last word. “The question is whether you’ve been told the truth. Whether they trust you enough. Whether you’re good enough to have earned their trust.” The contact paused, as though considering the matter. “What sort of person you are.”

  “I—” He stopped, because the contact had taken two steps forward. He could think of nothing further to say as the contact slowly reached out and touched his arm, the pressure firm through the layers of glove and sleeves.

  “I think,” the contact said, “we need to find out.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  SUMMER

  At first, Nergui hardly noticed the young man. He looked scarcely more than a boy, curled up on the sofa, his arms wrapped around his knees, watching warily.

  Nergui followed Sarangarel into the main living room. It was impressive—larger and more opulent than Nergui’s own. It seemed that Sarangarel was benefiting from her return to private practice.

  She had greeted him warmly enough at the door of the apartment. The block offered the security typical of apartments occupied primarily by Westerners, with CCTV cameras and electronic security locks prominent in the entrance lobby. He had no doubt that she had observed him on the internal screen before unlocking the external doors. The elevator had been open waiting for him, presumably again activated from within the apartment. He had wondered, as the elevator rose soundlessly, whether the security had been her primary motive in selecting this particular apartment. After everything she had experienced, it would have been understandable.

  But the apartment had other attractions, not least the vast panoramic windows that, raised above the surrounding buildings, opened on to a vista of open grassland, the distant curves of the mountains. This early in the morning, the low sun cast elongated shadows across the steppe, a tapestry of deep emerald and jade greens.

  “That’s why I moved here,” she said. “You can forget you’re in the city. You can see the seasons change, watch the weather come in across the plains.”

  “It’s extraordinary.”

  “Especially at this time of the day,” she said. “I’m sorry to have dragged you out so early.”

  He shook his head. “I was working.”

  “You don’t change, then?” she said, half-smiling.

  “Apparently not,” he agreed. “Does anyone?”

  She shrugged. “I seem to have changed more times and in more ways than I can make sense of,” she gestured vaguely around the apartment. “I even seem to be becoming wealthy—relatively so, anyway. That takes some getting used to.”

  “It’s not a challenge I’ve ever had to face,” he said, “as a humble public servant.” It sounded like a rebuke, though he had not intended it that way.

  It was only then that he registered that they were not alone. The young man had been sitting motionless at the end of the sofa, in a darker corner of the room.

  Sarangarel following Nergui’s gaze. “This is Gundalai,” she said. “He’s the reason you’re here.” As she spoke, the young man slowly raised his head and stared at Nergui, as if he too had only now realised that there were others in the room. Nergui nodded in acknowledgement, and turned back to Sarangarel with a quizzical expression.

  “My nephew,” she explained. “My elder sister’s son.” She lowered her voice slightly. “I think he’s in shock,” she said. �
��He’s normally a lively boy—amusing. But he’s hardly said a word since he arrived.”

  “When was that?”

  “Just before I called you. A couple of hours ago. He called me first, to check I was here. Just as well—I wouldn’t have heard the intercom if I’d been asleep. But he called from down the street on his cell phone. He got here five minutes later.”

  “But why’s he here?” Nergui said. “What’s all this about? You said something about the Minister’s son?”

  She nodded. “He’s here because I’m the only lawyer he knows, I suppose. He thought I might be able to help him, though I don’t know how I can. Except by calling you, that is.” She ran her fingers slowly through her thick black hair. “Look, I’m not sure I’m making any sense. Let me get us some coffee, and I’ll try to be more coherent.”

  Nergui followed her through into the kitchen. It was well-appointed and modern, demonstrating a minimalist good taste equal to that of the living room. Sarangarel busied herself making coffee with an expensive-looking espresso machine, pouring cups of the dark liquid for the two of them.

  She was looking well, Nergui thought. Prosperity suited her. And, after all she’d been through, she deserved it as much as anyone. Even now, in the first light of morning, hurriedly dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, she still possessed the elegance he remembered. For a moment, Nergui caught himself wondering if there was anyone else in her life.

  “Let’s stay in here,” she said. “I can talk a bit more freely. Not that there’s anything to keep from Gundalai, but I want to get things straight in my own mind first.”

  They sat at the polished wooden table that dominated the large kitchen. She added a spoonful of sugar to her coffee, and then sipped it slowly for a moment, gathering her thoughts. “You know the minister’s son?” she said, finally.

  “Not really. I’ve met him,” Nergui said. “I didn’t take to him. Some kind of political activist.”

  “That’s right,” she said. “He was running some sort of political campaign, Gundalai tells me. Anti-government, ironically enough.”