Nergui shrugged. “You’ve seen what his father’s like. You couldn’t expect any self-respecting son to follow in his footsteps. Not right away, anyway. Give it a year or two.”
She smiled. “Still as cynical as ever?”
“Realistic. But I can’t say I warmed to Odbayar. I think he’ll turn out to be another politician on the make. Just a different variety.” He paused, as though considering the matter. “Not that there’s necessarily much wrong with that. Probably preferable to a starry-eyed idealist, anyway.”
She smiled, with what appeared to be genuine affection. “I never know how to take you, Nergui. I never know how serious you are. I never know how much is just an act.”
“I’m always serious,” he said. “Especially when I’m acting.”
“If you say so.”
“So what’s the story? What’s happened to Odbayar?”
“I’m not sure,” she said. She briefly repeated the account that Gundalai had given her of the previous evening—the gathering in the hotel, Odbayar’s speech, and then the explosion.
Nergui looked up at her. “An explosion? Last night?”
“Don’t tell me I have some news that hasn’t reached the all-knowing Nergui?”
“No one tells me anything these days. It’s just that there was another incident yesterday.”
“Another bombing?”
“A long story. Tunjin was involved, so you can imagine it wasn’t straightforward.”
“Tunjin saved my life,” she said. “And yours.”
“I haven’t forgotten. Where does Odbayar fit into this? You said Gundalai was caught in the explosion?”
“That’s right. I don’t know what happened to Odbayar. Neither does Gundalai. He still has no memory between hearing the explosion and regaining consciousness in the hotel corridor.”
“You said Odbayar had been arrested?”
She paused. “Well, that’s what Gundalai thought. It seemed strange to me.” She recounted the events that Gundalai had witnessed outside the hotel—the pair of officers striking Odbayar and apparently dragging him into the van. “Does that sound like an arrest to you?”
Nergui shrugged. “It could be, though I wouldn’t expect an unmarked van. But some of the local forces aren’t as well-trained as they might be. If Odbayar had annoyed them—and from my limited experience of him, that’s not unlikely—they might not have treated him too gently.” He smiled. “Mind you, they’ll probably regret it when they discover who he is.”
“I’m not sure it’s particularly funny,” she said. “He might be injured.”
“Probably not,” Nergui said. “They might be incompetent, the locals, but they’re not completely stupid. They’d have recognised that Odbayar wasn’t your typical off-the-street activist, so they wouldn’t have treated him too badly. They’d have just done enough to stop him sounding off.”
“And what if he had been some ‘typical off-the-street activist’? Would it have been okay for them to beat him up?”
Nergui was unsure whether she really was as angry as she sounded. “You know what I think about that. But you asked me whether Odbayar might have been hurt. I think the answer’s no.”
“But you don’t know for sure.”
“No. You can’t legislate for incompetence.” He pulled out his cell phone. “Okay. We need to track down Odbayar, find out where he’s been held. I can try the city-centre police.” He stopped, his finger poised above the phone. “But I’ll just get the runaround. Let me start at the top and see where that gets me.” He looked up, and she was looking back at him quizzically. “I’ll start with Doripalam,” he explained. “Let’s see what he knows. About the arrest. And about the explosion.”
“So what do we have?” Doripalam said.
“With what?” Batzorig said. “I mean, which case?”
“Is there more than one?” Doripalam was doodling on his notepad, an endless network of tiny squares spreading from the corner of the page.
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. I mean, I don’t know where things begin or end here. I don’t know what’s cause and what’s effect. So just talk me through it, item by item. Forget what fits where. Forget what makes sense. Just tell me what we have.”
Batzorig sucked gently on his pen. “Okay,” he said. “So where do I start? With the incident in the square?”
Doripalam nodded. “That’s the first thing we have.”
“Some kind of terrorist—”
“Some kind of suspected terrorist,” Doripalam corrected. “We don’t know who he was or what he was. The intelligence people took it out of our hands before we could find out.” There was no rancour in his voice. He had spent his life accustomed to this suppression of news, the blanketing of information. Even now, as a senior policeman, it didn’t surprise him.
At the time, Doripalam had shrugged and moved on. It was the way things were. He thought back to the local chief’s words: you get crapped on from above, so you come along crapping on us. Perhaps that was right. After all, his own behaviour at the hotel had not been very different from that of the intelligence officers who had taken over in Sukh Bataar Square. And not very different from Nergui’s behaviour in the hospital.
“Okay,” Batzorig said, interrupting Doripalam’s thoughts, “a suspected terrorist. Shot dead by our colleague, Tunjin. Who collapsed and was taken to the hospital. That’s all I know about that,” he said, expectantly.
Doripalam realised he was expected to contribute something. “There’s not much more,” he said, finally. “But Tunjin’s okay,” he added. “He was awake when I left.”
Batzorig nodded. “So that’s all we have on that. Some sort of terrorist. Some sort of attempted bombing.”
“Perhaps,” Doripalam said.
“Perhaps,” Batzorig agreed. “Gunned down by Tunjin. And then immediately covered up by the intelligence services.” He hesitated, clearly thinking about something. “Do we know why Tunjin shot him?”
Doripalam looked up at the young man, wondering if there was some significance to the question. “Training, I suppose. He did the right thing. Handled it like we’re supposed to.”
“Assuming it was a terrorist,” Batzorig said.
“Assuming Tunjin had reasonable grounds to suspect he might be.”
“I didn’t know Tunjin was that good a shot.”
“He was in the firearms team. One of the best we had. It’s only in the last few years …”
Batzorig nodded. “Yes, of course. But that’s all we have on the incident in the square? So I suppose the next thing is the museum. A young man—not Mongolian—beaten to death and delivered in a carpet as if he might be an additional exhibit in the tribute to the Mongol empire.”
“Anything in the pathologist’s report?”
“I’ve only skimmed it. But not much we didn’t know. He confirms that the cause of death was the beating. In fact, it looks as if the victim was kicked to death. Pretty ruthlessly.”
“Nice,” Doripalam said.
“And then we have the hotel. Some sort of political rally going on in there.”
“Do we know anything more about that? About the rally, I mean? Who it was, what it was all about.”
“I have someone on to it. It wasn’t big time. Just activists sounding off about government policy.”
“What government policy?”
“Usual stuff. Selling off our assets. Betraying our heritage. Corruption.”
“Was there anything else going on in the hotel?”
“Not that I’ve been able to find so far. It was pretty full. Mainly tourists here for Naadam and the anniversary celebrations. But there weren’t any other events going on.”
“So what else do we know?”
“Not much. There was an explosion. We still haven’t gotten any information on the cause—whether it was a bomb or something accidental. They’re still investigating the site. It wasn’t a large blast. Broke a few windows. There was a fire, but
it was extinguished pretty quickly. Doesn’t seem to be any structural damage.”
“And then there’s the man with the gun.”
Batzorig nodded. “The replica gun. Not clear if he was really intending to be threatening, or whether he was just confused. We know he was nearly overcome by smoke fumes.”
“And we know he was nearly shot down.”
“And then he vanishes. I have a couple of men trekking around the hospitals, seeing if there’s any sign of him. But that’s taking time.”
“And then finally we have our dead body in the storeroom. Any more information on him?”
Batzorig glanced down at his notes. “We haven’t gotten the pathologist’s report yet.”
“He doesn’t feel like doing something immediately, just for a change?”
Batzorig smiled. “We’ll get it soon enough. What we know for the moment is that the victim was stabbed, and we’re assuming that was the cause of death. He was male, pretty young—probably early twenties. Not Mongolian.”
“Like the victim in the museum?”
“Very similar. In fact, it looks as if both of them were probably Asian but not from here. Probably Indian sub-continent—in terms of ethnicity, anyway. We’ve no information on where they actually came from.”
Doripalam rose from behind his desk and walked wearily across to the window. The view was as depressing as ever—a bleak empty courtyard, hemmed in on all sides by tall grey buildings. It was barely possible to be sure that it was even daylight out there, though the sun must be up by now. “And we think he was killed where we found him?”
“Well, we don’t have—”
“The pathologist’s report. But I imagine we’ll cope. What do you think?”
“Well, that would be consistent with the bloodstains.”
“So that’s what we have?” Doripalam said, slumping back into his seat. “Not much.”
“With respect, sir, it sounds a lot to me.”
Doripalam nodded. “A hell of a lot. On its way to being chaos on wheels. But not much that makes any sense.”
“What about the two murders? That suggests some sort of pattern.”
“One kicked to death in a carpet, the other stabbed in a storeroom? Doesn’t suggest a very clear pattern to me. Except that both were Asian, but not local. I presume we’re checking on where they might have come from?”
“I have someone on it. Checking all arrivals—over the past year to start with. We’ve checked fingerprints but there’s nothing matching. Of course, they might be illegals.”
Doripalam nodded. It was possible. The number of illegal arrivals was, so far as they could judge, still pretty low—though there was some influx from the former Soviet Union and even some from China. But someone would have to be fairly desperate to come here rather than staying put. On the other hand, there were countless reasons, illegal and otherwise, why someone might want to travel anonymously.
“Okay,” he said. “A fragmented set of events. Which might suggest the end of the civilised world as we know it, but might just be a set of coincidences. And no sense to any of it. I think it’s time for me to go and get some sleep.” Doripalam was getting to his feet, when his cell phone rang from somewhere deep in his jacket pocket.
He fumbled for the phone and thumbed the call button. “Doripalam.”
There was a long pause while he listened to whatever was being said by the caller. “No,” Doripalam said, at last. “No, we’ve heard nothing. But it’s funny you should ask.”
There was an edge to his voice, and Batzorig watched with mild curiosity.
After another pause, Doripalam said, “No. Nothing. It’s a long story. We’ve not been able to identify anyone who’s been arrested. But we do have an account that sounds as if it corroborates yours. So who was it? Who do you think has been arrested?”
There was a long silence. Batzorig, watching, was unsure whether the caller was still speaking or whether—as appeared to be the case—Doripalam was simply staring blankly into the air.
Finally, Doripalam spoke: “Oh, sweet heaven,” he said. “Now that does make it interesting.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
At first Tunjin couldn’t be sure he was even awake. He lay with his eyes wide open, uncertain whether this was darkness or light, sleeping or waking. Perhaps this was what death was like. If so, it was a disappointment.
He moved slightly, and felt the weight of the bedclothes, the discomfort of the hard bed, the drip still clinging to his arm. The hospital.
He twisted in bed and tried to make out his surroundings, realising that now, finally, he was able to move. The room was apparently deserted. Beyond his bed, there was a jumble of unidentifiable medical equipment, but no sign of life. The lights were out, though light was creeping through the uncurtained window. He shifted awkwardly and looked at his watch. Five fifteen. It was summer, he remembered. Grey light at five fifteen must mean morning, rather than afternoon. Not long after dawn.
Nergui had been sitting here, he thought. Nergui had been watching him. So where was he now?
He grabbed hold of the bed sheet and tried to manoeuvre his body upright. It wasn’t easy. But, given Tunjin’s bulk, it was never easy. He jerked his torso up, and then, in a painful movement, swung his legs on to the floor. Gasping, he sat up.
He felt okay. Probably much better than he had any right to. A slight headache. His heart beating unnaturally fast. Short of breath. Nothing unusual.
The room was definitely empty. He dragged himself to his feet and stumbled over to the window. The room looked out on to a main street, adjacent to the central square. The sun was up, but hadn’t been for long, and the street was drenched in rich sunlight and long dark shadows.
He walked slowly across to where a door opened on to the corridor beyond, and peered through the small window. A man in a dark grey suit sat in a hard-backed chair immediately opposite. As far as Tunjin could judge, he was fast asleep.
I should stay here, Tunjin thought. I should wait for Nergui to return.
He paused, his hand on the door handle. But I don’t know why I’m being detained, he thought. I don’t even know—his addled mind went back to the confusing conversation he had had with Nergui—if Nergui has the authority to hold me here anyway.
Those unfamiliar with Tunjin’s capabilities were often surprised that someone of his bulk could move with such grace and dexterity. He pulled back the door and peered out soundlessly. For a moment, he hesitated, looking down at himself. He would not get far dressed in a hospital gown.
He moved back into the room. There was a free-standing cupboard to the left of his bed. He pulled it open and identified his clothes. Trousers, an old T-shirt, shoes. That would do.
He dressed quickly, leaving the shoes off for the moment. Then he moved back to the door and glanced through the small window.
The man was still in the chair, his head slumped forward. Maybe it was a trick, but Tunjin could always claim that he was looking for a lavatory. He slowly pulled open the door and stepped out into the corridor. The man moved slightly, and for a moment Tunjin expected him to raise his head. But he remained motionless. Tunjin moved silently past him. Moments later, he had turned the corner and was hurrying down an adjoining corridor, less concerned now about making a noise. He turned another corner, then stopped briefly to put on the shoes.
He passed innumerable closed doors, and finally found himself facing the hospital’s main bank of elevators. He was about to press the call button when he realised that one of the elevators had just arrived at his floor. He moved quickly back into the stairway beside the elevators, as the elevator door opened and a man emerged.
Tunjin watched as the man disappeared towards the room that Tunjin himself had recently vacated. He moved quickly back towards the elevators and pressed the call button. The elevator was still waiting and opened immediately.
It took him seconds to reach the ground floor and the deserted entrance lobby. He looked around, half expecting to
see some security guard or receptionist, but there was no sign of anyone. He looked back over his shoulder, conscious that, if the man from the elevator had been one of Nergui’s people, it would not be long before his own departure was discovered.
He reached the main door and pulled on the handles, but at this time of day the entrance was securely locked. For a second, he stood wondering what to do, considering the likelihood of finding another, unlocked exit.
Then it occurred to him that the door was locked electronically. On the outside there was a security keypad, requiring a code number. But the door could be opened from inside simply by pressing a control behind the reception desk. Finding the switch easily, Tunjin was soon pushing open the double glass doors and stepping out into the summer morning.
“You can close your mouth now,” Doripalam said. “And put your eyeballs back in their sockets.”
“It’s some place, though,” Batzorig said. He was still staring up at the apartment block, trying to take in its sleek contours, the lines of dark metal and glass.
“It won’t weather well,” Doripalam commented. “Give it a few of our winters.”
“It’ll still look a lot better than my place.” Batzorig said. “I knew I chose the wrong career.” He was joking, but the undertone of regret was real enough.
“We all chose the wrong career,” Doripalam said. It was true, he thought. There would have been a time, not so long ago, when people like Batzorig and he would have been part of the elite—the trusted servants of the state. Now the elite were the businessmen, the lawyers, the property dealers, the traders in everything from gold to energy. It was strange that Sarangarel was now part of that world.
The sun was well up, but it was still early and there was no sign of life along the street. The apartment block looked equally uninhabited, its blank windows giving no clue as to what or who lay within. Doripalam found Sarangarel’s name among the array of buzzers, and pressed. After a moment, the door clicked open and they entered into the cool marble lobby.
Air-conditioning, Doripalam thought. Still rare enough here, except in some of the large hotels and office blocks. To the right of the elevator, there was a closed door with a mirrored window which might perhaps lead to a concierge’s room. The elevator doors were open, waiting. He hesitated for a moment, as if expecting some further signal. Then he led Batzorig into the elevator, pressed the button for the third floor as Nergui had directed, and waited while the almost imperceptible ascent began.
The Outcast Page 12
