The Outcast

by Michael Walters

  “I think I did mention,” he had said to the vice-president’s secretary, “that this is a murder enquiry. And that it’s potentially urgent.”

  “The vice-president is a busy man. He’ll see you as quickly as he can. I’m sure he appreciates how important the matter is.” Her tone implied that the vice-president’s assessment of this and most other matters would differ significantly from Batzorig’s own.

  This was a cheap revenge, therefore, but a mildly satisfying one. Batzorig held the phone close to his ear and spoke quietly, while ensuring that the vice-president would be able to follow his words. “Yes, sir. Well, no, not as much as I’d hoped yet. I had to wait a little while to see the relevant party, sir.” He was aware that, in similar circumstances, Doripalam would have simply walked past the secretary. Nergui would quite possibly have had both her and the vice-president placed under arrest. Batzorig still had some skills to acquire.

  “No, I haven’t yet, sir. No one seems to know.” Batzorig could feel the vice-president’s gaze fixed on him, and wondered how long it would be before his call was interrupted. “Yes, that’s exactly what I’m doing. I would have—but, as I say, I was kept waiting for some time. Yes, I will tell him that, sir.” The final sentences hadn’t been a direct response to Doripalam’s actual question, but Batzorig trusted the chief would understand that he was playing to a different audience.

  Doripalam caught on quickly enough. “If you like,” he said from the other end of the line, “you can tell the snooty old bastard that if he doesn’t cooperate immediately we’ll have him brought in for obstructing a murder inquiry.”

  “I’ll pass on your sentiments, sir,” Batzorig said. He felt able to meet the vice-president’s gaze now.

  He turned off the phone and smiled at the old man sitting behind the desk. The vice-president was a tall, slightly stooped individual, his swept back hair clearly dyed black. He had the air of someone who had never consciously failed to be the centre of attention, and who was on the point of reclaiming this rightful role.

  “I’m terribly sorry, sir,” Batzorig said. “It’s the chief. The head of Serious Crimes. He was just emphasising the urgency of the matter, this being a murder investigation.”

  The vice-president had clearly been about to express his displeasure, but now stopped and gazed at Batzorig warily. “What does this have to do with the university?”

  “Possibly nothing, sir. But you’ll appreciate we have to follow up all leads.”

  “I just hope that you’re not wasting your time.” The words “and mine” were as audible as if they had been spoken.

  “That’s the point, sir, if you’ll forgive me,” Batzorig said, earnestly. He was beginning to enjoy this. “It’s never time wasted. If nothing else, it enables us to eliminate a line of inquiry. That’s the nature of police work.” He had been schooled by masters in the art of patronising pompous interviewees.

  “And this line of inquiry would be what, precisely?”

  Batzorig paused, as though weighing up how much he should reveal. “We’re trying to track down a Mr.—sorry, a Professor Sam Yung. We understand that he’s a visiting scholar from the US.”

  The vice-president’s gaze remained constant. “You’d better sit down, Mr. … ?”

  “Batzorig.” Batzorig lowered himself into the chair opposite, thinking that this represented a first small victory.

  “I must confess that I’m a little taken aback, Mr. Batzorig.”

  “Sir?”

  “You do realise, of course, that Professor Yung is a most distinguished academic. An honoured visitor to our country.”

  “If you say so, sir. It’s not really my field.”

  “No, well. But you’ll understand my surprise that Professor Yung—”

  “I’m merely trying to contact him. That’s all.”

  The vice-president looked at him for another long moment, as if trying to read the thoughts of the moon-faced young man sitting opposite. “Yes, of course,” he said, finally. “Well, I can give you the address where he’s staying. We’ve provided him with one of the university apartments.”

  “I know that. It looks a very pleasant place.”

  The vice-president allowed a momentary glimmer of surprise pass across his face. “You have his address?”

  “Yes, sir. It was given to the immigration service as part of his entry requirements.”

  “Of course. And you’ve been over there?”

  “It was the first place I tried, sir. We’re just looking to talk to him informally. At this stage, I mean.” Batzorig left the final words hanging ambiguously in the air. “There was no one at the apartment. I tried some the neighbouring apartments and eventually found someone who knew him. Another member of your faculty, I believe.” He paused, managing to imply that the presence of this second faculty member might somehow be incriminating.

  “I’m afraid I don’t see—”

  “I was told that he hadn’t been around for some time. At least a couple of weeks. And that I should visit the faculty, that you might have some idea where he was. Which is why I’m here, sir.” Batzorig was smiling now. “I was told something about a trip?”

  The vice-president looked much less self-assured. It was strange, Batzorig thought. This was a different world now, a very different society. There was no reason why foreign visitors should not travel freely wherever they wished, but the vice-president, like many of his generation, had never quite shaken off the shackles of the old regime. He was a product of the days when no foreign visitor—and certainly none of the very rare travellers from the West—would have left the city without the full knowledge of the authorities and a dutiful MIAT guide. It was clear that he felt some discomfort at being unable to account for his visitor’s whereabouts. In the old days, his position would have been untenable and the tone of this meeting would have been very different. Batzorig decided to make every effort to remind the vice-president of the old days.

  “I take it Professor Yung is not in the university at present?” he said, calmly. “Do you know where he is?”

  “Professor Yung is a guest of ours, and a distinguished scholar of our nation’s past,” the vice-president said, in the tone that he no doubt adopted for graduation-day speeches. “We would of course wish him to take the opportunity to explore our heritage and landscape.”

  It was finely done, Batzorig was forced to acknowledge, but there was an undertone of hesitancy to the vice-president’s words. “This would be an official trip, then?” Batzorig offered. “Hosted by the university?”

  “We have organised several official trips for the professor.”

  “Including this one?”

  The vice-president shook his head. “No. I understand that this excursion was organised at the professor’s own request. He wished to explore some of the country for himself. The official trips can be a little formal.”

  Batzorig gazed impassively at the vice-president for a moment. “He’s exploring the country on his own?”

  “Not on his own.” The vice-president stopped, and then went on as if trying to extricate himself from the web of his own circumlocution. “Look, Mr. Batzorig, I’ve had very little direct involvement in this. We received a request from the professor to visit as part of his sabbatical. He was keen to experience the anniversary-year celebrations and exhibitions. And we were only too pleased to welcome someone of his eminence.”

  “He really is a distinguished scholar, then?” Batzorig said, trying hard to keep any note of irony from his voice.

  “Of course. You must understand that ours is not a field that is widely studied in the West. Genghis Khan is always of interest, but the broader study of the Mongol empire is a more specialist area of expertise. Professor Yung has written a number of well-regarded papers.”

  The best we could find, then, Batzorig mentally translated. “But his current whereabouts?” he prompted.

  “I have to say that, although Professor Yung was cooperative enough in terms of our forma
l programme, I had a sense that his real interest lay elsewhere. That he found the structured excursions a little constraining. Perhaps understandable for one of his background.” He stopped, possibly in response to Batzorig’s facial expression. “He asked for our support in visiting one or two locations on his own. We were only too happy to assist.”

  “So where is he at the moment?” Batzorig interrupted.

  “Well, the last I was aware, he was travelling up to Genghis Khan’s birthplace. Or supposed birthplace.”

  “When was this?”

  There was a moment’s silence. “It was—well, it must have been nearly two weeks ago. I’d rather assumed he’d returned, but from what you say …”

  “I don’t know, sir. I only know that none of his neighbours appears to have seen him.”

  “I’ve certainly not seen him around the faculty. I mean, he’s discharged all his formal duties—the lectures and seminars he agreed to as part of the visit—so there’s no particular reason for him to be here. But I’d assumed that he would attend some lectures.”

  “But you’ve seen no sign of him for the last two weeks?”

  “He may have decided to extend his excursion.” This was said with an air of bravado, as though the vice-president were challenging Batzorig to question the validity of the statement.

  “You said he wasn’t travelling alone?”

  “We’d organised him a guide. Someone who spoke English. Professor Yung spoke some Mongolian, as well as Chinese, but he was far from fluent.”

  “He spoke Chinese?”

  The vice-president nodded. “Yes. He was born in China, in Beijing. But his family was from Inner Mongolia, apparently. Hence his interest in Mongolian history. One of those who perceive the links rather than the divisions between our two countries.”

  “He had been here before?”

  “Not that I’m aware. I think that was the point. He’d always been fascinated by our country; had been brought up tantalisingly close to it, but had spent most of his adult life on the far side of the world.”

  “When did he move to the US?”

  “I’m afraid I’ve no idea. I just had the impression that he’d lived most of his adult life there.”

  “And the last you knew, he was intending to visit Genghis Khan’s birthplace?” Batzorig paused. “You’ll forgive my ignorance, sir, but that would be where, precisely?”

  “Precisely,” the vice-president said, perhaps sensing that he was moving on to more comfortable conversational terrain, “it’s very difficult to say. Imprecisely—well, it’s out in the east. Up in the hills. The nearest town is Ondorkhaan.”

  This meant nothing to Batzorig, who had rarely ventured beyond the city boundaries. “How far is that?”

  “Some distance. There are flights to Ondorkhaan, and it’s a drive beyond that.”

  “Who was the guide, sir? Who’s with Professor Yung?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t help you there. It was organised through one of my staff, who in turn arranged it through one of his students, as I understand.”

  Batzorig raised his head, thinking of Wu Sam’s history, wondering if this Sam Yung might indeed be the same man. “One of your students is accompanying him?”

  “Not exactly. I mean, we often would do it that way. A lot of our graduate students speak excellent English, and are keen to earn some extra money.”

  “But not this time?”

  “Nobody was available. Over the summer, most of them have gotten jobs already.”

  “So who is it?”

  “I think it was an ex-student. Someone who’s done this kind of thing before. I can find out.”

  “I’d be grateful if you could do that, sir. As soon as possible.”

  The vice-president was finally beginning to recognise the urgency in Batzorig’s tone. “Yes, of course. When do you need the information?”

  “I was thinking of immediately, sir,” Batzorig said. “Unless you can provide it quicker than that.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The mountains were more beautiful than he had ever seen them. The sun was high in the empty blue sky, and the temperature outside was well into the thirties. He had been using the truck’s air-conditioning sparingly, aiming to conserve fuel. Not that they were short. He had planned that as carefully as everything else and the rear of the Land Cruiser was lined with plastic cans of diesel. Nevertheless, his instincts, as always, were for caution.

  The sparse grassland became increasingly lush as they headed east, and there were thickets of trees in the middle distance. Every mile brought them closer to what he increasingly thought of as his spiritual home. Soon the desolate steppe would give way to rich pastureland, the green shade of woodlands, the undulations of the lower hills, the silent sweep of the river.

  Odbayar slept on, undisturbed by the juddering surface of the dirt road. I could kill him now, Sam thought. A single shot to the temple, a knife in the heart. He would never even know. Or I could stop here and toss him, still barely awake, out into the deserted grassland. The chances that anyone would find him were minimal.

  But that was not the point. That was why he needed to apply some discipline This was about the future. Realising his dreams. Reclaiming what was rightfully his.

  Odbayar stirred suddenly next to him, his body shaking as if in the middle of some vivid dream. His eyes opened wide and he stared at Sam, his expression one of terror. “Who are you?” he said.

  Sam was taken by surprise, and for a moment almost lost control of the vehicle, feeling the steering wheel slipping between his fingers as the truck bounced from boulder to boulder. He pressed his foot on the brake, knowing that the worst thing he could do was to overturn the truck on this remote track.

  It seemed like an eternity before the truck came to a halt, its rear wheels twisting slightly. He looked at Odbayar, who was still staring blankly at him.

  “It’s me. Sam. You know me.”

  “Sam?” Odbayar repeated the word as though trying out an unfamiliar sound in his mouth.

  “Sam. You know where we are. You know where we’re headed.” These were statements rather than questions.

  “Sam.” Odbayar was speaking more quietly now, and his eyes were closing. It had simply been some dream, bubbling up towards consciousness, then vanishing back beneath the waves of sleep.

  Sam restarted the engine and glanced briefly at the GPS system, reassuring himself that they were still travelling in the right direction. Then he accelerated down the dirt track, enjoying the rhythmic thud of the road, his eyes fixed on the distance, his senses already lost in the rich scent of the fir trees, the feel of the mountain breeze, the soft endless washing of the river in his ears.

  “So what next?”

  Tunjin gazed down into his empty glass. “I don’t think I have the faintest idea.”

  “You were looking for Doripalam,” Solongo reminded him.

  “I know. I was going to throw myself on his mercy. Put myself back into the system.”

  “You think your arrest was outside the system?”

  “I’m not sure. Nergui usually knows what he’s doing. Maybe it was for my own benefit.”

  “You don’t trust Nergui?”

  “Do you?”

  “I’m not a reliable witness. You’ve worked with him for years.”

  “I have. And, yes, I suppose I do. That is, I trust him to do what’s right. But I also think that might involve casualties.”

  “And you might be one of those casualties?”

  “I don’t know.” He paused. “I suppose I need to track down Doripalam.”

  “I suppose you do. Though Doripalam’s another one who always does what he thinks right. And who also leaves casualties.” She gestured towards the nearly empty vodka bottle. “Take it from one who knows.”

  “I should try the office again, see if Doripalam’s there. Or his cell phone. It’s just that …” he rose and walked over to the window. There were a few people about out there now, a middle-ag
ed man in a smart suit hurrying to work, an old woman in a traditional robe shuffling slowly past, not obviously heading anywhere, “if it is Wu Sam, I want to know why he’s back.”

  “Doripalam will help you,” she said.

  “Doripalam will hand me over to Nergui. He’ll do it properly, by the book, and he’ll make sure all my rights are protected. But that’s what he’ll do. He has no choice.”

  “If it is this Wu Sam,” she said, “maybe Nergui’s trying to protect you. Perhaps that’s why he had you under guard.”

  “It could well be,” he said. “But I don’t think it’s that simple. If Nergui was just looking out for my well-being, there are other ways he could have handled it. This was about containment. Nergui likes to be in control.”

  “You don’t need to persuade me of that.”

  “The question,” Tunjin said, “is what was he trying to contain?”

  “You think this Wu Sam was framed,” she said. “There’s a story there. It could embarrass Nergui.”

  “I’ve never known Nergui troubled by embarrassment,” he said. “Not on his own account, at least.”

  There was something about the way he spoke the final words that made Solongo look up at him. “You think he might have been concerned about someone else’s embarrassment? Yours?”

  Tunjin laughed. “I think he might care marginally less about my embarrassment than his own. I don’t think Nergui’s mind works like that.”

  “If you ever find out how Nergui’s mind works,” she said, “you must remember to let me know.”

  “What drives Nergui,” Tunjin went on, “is his sense of duty.”

  “Oh, yes. Nergui the patriot. I’ve heard a lot about that. It seems to be the justification for everything he does.”

  “It is.” Tunjin spoke simply, as though he had not registered her irony. “It really is what he believes.” He paused, and she realised that he was pouring the last of the vodka into his empty glass. “So,” he said, “if Nergui is concerned about embarrassment, it’s not his or my reputation that will be troubling him.” He raised the glass to eye level, as if making an elaborate toast, and then swallowed the contents in one mouthful. “No, Nergui will be concerned about the embarrassment of the nation.”