The Outcast

by Michael Walters

  For the first time, standing in the baking heat of the sun, under the inadequate shade of the shabby firs, Odbayar felt a chill of fear. It was an unfamiliar sensation. It had never occurred to him that he had any real reason to be afraid. Sure, he was taking risks. But they were professional risks—to his reputation and livelihood, risks to his future. Not risks to his own life.

  Suddenly, looking across at Sam, he realised that he had been naïve; he had no idea who this man was, what his real motives were for getting involved in this escapade, what he might be expecting to get out of it.

  What he would do if anything should go wrong.

  Sam would have thought everything through. He would have identified any potential problems, anything that might throw them off track and he would have a plan to deal with every contingency. Which meant that, even at the worst, Sam would get out of this safe and sound. He would walk away. No loose ends.

  Odbayar shook his head and pulled open the truck door. He was being ridiculous. He had worked closely with Sam for weeks. Sam had been recommended by people who knew what they were talking about. He had planned this to the last detail. Nothing would go wrong.

  Sam had already climbed into the driver’s seat and was watching Odbayar curiously. “Everything all right?”

  Odbayar looked back at the older man, as calm and punctilious as ever in his white shirt and neat college tie. “Just hot.”

  “Not far now. It’ll be cooler once we get properly into the trees. And when we get some altitude.” Sam smiled, though his eyes gave nothing away.

  “Do you want me to drive? You’ve done it all so far.”

  Sam shook his head, still smiling. “No. Just relax. Enjoy the scenery. Enjoy the peace.” His smile broadened, as though some pleasant thought had just struck him. “After all, everything’s just about to start.”

  “Eight missed calls in the last hour,” Nergui said, holding out his cell phone. “And that’s not counting the callbacks from the voicemail service.”

  “The minister?” Doripalam asked. He was staring intently at a detailed map of the north of the country.

  “All ‘number withheld,’” Nergui said. “So I imagine so.”

  “You’d better call him back. He’s clearly keen to speak to you.”

  “Clearly,” Nergui agreed. He was in his characteristic posture, stretched back in his chair, his ankles resting delicately on the corner of Doripalam’s desk. “I suppose I had, actually,” he said. “This is his son we’re talking about after all.”

  Doripalam shook his head, trying to read the older man’s typically blank expression. “There are depths to your compassion I’ve never recognised,” he said.

  “A son is a son, I imagine. Even for the minister.” He pulled himself slowly to his feet. “I’ll find somewhere quiet to call him.”

  Meaning, Doripalam thought, that you don’t want the likes of me listening into the conversation. “You can stay in here. I’ve things I need to sort out with Batzorig.”

  “Thank you,” Nergui said, with apparent sincerity. “It won’t take long.” He paused. “How much do we want to tell the minister? It’s your call. Your case.”

  “About Wu Sam, you mean? Or Professor Sam Yung, assuming they’re really one and the same. It’s hardly my call, even if it is my case. It’s your career on the line. But my inclination is to say nothing, unless you really think you should. We don’t even know for sure that Odbayar really is missing, let alone that this guy has anything to do with it. As for the rest of it, who knows?”

  Nergui nodded. “I’m very good at playing dumb in such matters,” he said. “You’d be surprised.”

  “I’d be astonished.” Doripalam rose and crossed to the door. As he closed it behind him, he saw Nergui resuming his familiar posture, his legs stretched out again, the phone clamped to his ear, looking completely relaxed.

  Batzorig was in his own office, also engaged in what looked to be an intense telephone conversation. Doripalam watched through the open door, conscious of how the younger man’s confidence had grown since his promotion earlier in the year. He had always been bright and capable, but he had previously been too easily intimidated by authority, real or assumed. As had been demonstrated by his handling of the university vice-president, he was overcoming that particular shortcoming.

  “I don’t care,” he was saying calmly. “We need it now. No, that’s not good enough. Yes, you’ve explained the situation very clearly. But we need it now.” He paused, listening to another blast of self-justification from his interlocutor. “Yes, from the chief.” He looked up at Doripalam. “Well, if you’d like him to repeat his request in person, I can. Of course. No problem. When will you be ready? Okay, that’s fine. No, really, thanks for your cooperation.” He was smiling broadly as he replaced the receiver.

  “That was good,” Doripalam said. “So what have I requested?”

  Batzorig had the grace to look mildly embarrassed. “I’m sorry, sir. I knew he wouldn’t really want to talk to you.”

  “Well, who would?” Doripalam agreed. “But I trust that whatever I’ve requested was worth all your efforts.”

  “I hope so, sir,” Batzorig said, with some eagerness in his voice. “It’s a helicopter.”

  “A helicopter?”

  “Yes, sir. The city unit has use of one. It’s the military’s, strictly speaking, and that’s where they borrow the pilots from. But they’ve been experimenting with it for handling stuff out on the steppes or the desert. Much quicker than taking a truck.”

  “I’m sure,” Doripalam said. “How do you know all this stuff?”

  “I just read the circulars, that’s all, sir.”

  “I always knew there was something different about you, Batzorig.” Doripalam stopped, his tired mind only now absorbing what Batzorig had said. “Now just remind me precisely why it is that we need a helicopter.”

  “Genghis Khan’s birthplace, sir. It’s up in the north, near Ondorkhaan. A long way. I assumed we’d want to go there.”

  Doripalam nodded. He still couldn’t understand how Batzorig managed to remain so enthusiastic after what was rapidly heading towards a forty-eight-hour turn of duty. “I suppose we do,” he said. “Or somebody does. If that’s where Sam Yung, or Wu Sam, or whoever the hell else he’s supposed to be, was last sighted.”

  “That’s what I thought, sir. The only other option was to wait for the next scheduled flight, but that wouldn’t be till tomorrow. I’d assumed it was more urgent than that.”

  “So you commandeered a helicopter for us?”

  “Well, borrowed, I think. It’s theoretically available to all parts of the police service if you go through the appropriate channels.”

  Doripalam gestured towards the phone. “And that was you going through the appropriate channels?”

  Batzorig blushed faintly. “I short-circuited them slightly, I suppose.” Then he smiled. “But only at your request, sir. As you’ll recall.”

  Solongo stepped out into the hallway. Tunjin followed her, wondering how to handle this.

  “Who do you think it is?”

  She shook her head. “Haven’t a clue. I’m not expecting anyone.”

  “Perhaps it’s someone for me,” he said. “Maybe they’ve tracked me down.”

  “How could they have? No one saw you come here, did they?”

  “I don’t think so. I mean, nobody followed me from the hospital.”

  “Nobody knows you’re here. It’s probably just a delivery or something.” Between them, the buzzer sounded insistently.

  “Are you expecting a delivery?” He’d developed a finely honed sense of paranoia during all the events of the previous year, when that gangster Muunokhoi and his cronies really had been out to get him. Paranoia had saved his life then, and he’d seen no good reason to underestimate its value ever since.

  “I don’t know. It could be something from the museum or—”

  Tunjin watched her closely as she moved to the door. If he was hon
est—and this was definitely the paranoia talking—he had no particular reason to trust Solongo. He’d turned up here on one of his usual badly conceived whims. He hardly knew her and she was not, to put it at its mildest, exactly his type. And he’d found her knocking back the vodka first thing in the morning. He couldn’t blame her if her priority had been to get him out of her apartment. Perhaps she’d found some opportunity to contact Doripalam.

  The buzzer sounded a third time, a rapid staccato succession of buzzes, as though the caller was becoming impatient. “You’d better answer,” Tunjin said. If it really was Doripalam’s men out there, they’d batter the door down if they thought Solongo was in danger.

  She nodded and pressed the intercom. “Yes?”

  The answering voice was metallic, devoid of character. “Police. We need to speak to you.”

  Solongo glanced at Tunjin. She seemed genuinely surprised. If she had called Doripalam, she was clearly a skilled actor. She put her finger to her lips, indicating that Tunjin should be silent. “I don’t understand,” she said into the intercom. “What police? Why do you want to talk to me?”

  There was a moment’s pause. “It would be helpful if we could come up,” the voice said, finally.

  “I’m sure it would,” she said, calmly. “But I’m not in the habit of allowing uninvited callers into my apartment without identification.”

  There was another pause, a brief crackle of static on the line. “We can show you ID when we come up,” the voice said.

  Solongo took her finger off the intercom button. “I don’t like the sound of this,” she said. “I don’t know what they want, but it seems official.”

  “Maybe it’s the murder,” Tunjin said. “Maybe they’re just after another witness statement.”

  “But those would be your people, wouldn’t they? I mean, Doripalam’s people. Surely they’d have said so.”

  “I’d have thought so. They must be here for me. Maybe they’re Nergui’s people. I don’t know how they found me here, but …” He shrugged. His experience with Muunokhoi had taught him never to underestimate what people might know, or how they might have come to know it.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  Tunjin looked at her gratefully, feeling guilty for his earlier suspicions. “Buy me some time, if you can. I don’t want to end up in Nergui’s hands just yet. Not till I have some idea what’s going on here. Go down and keep them talking for a bit. Challenge their ID or something. Ask for a phone number so you can check up on them. That kind of thing.”

  “You’d be surprised how resourceful I can be,” she said.

  “I don’t think I would. Is there another way out of the building?”

  “There’s a rear staircase. It brings you out into an alleyway at the back. Follow it around and you’ll get to the main road.” She stopped and reached into her pocket. “Tunjin.” She stopped, as if weighing up an idea. “Look, I’m going to regret this. But my car’s out there. One of those little Daewoo things, parked at the side of the building.” She told him the registration. “You should be able to get to it without them spotting you.” She looked at him closely. “Are you in a state to drive?” she asked. “I don’t think I would be.”

  “I’m ashamed to say I’ve driven in much worse states than this,” he said. He felt scarcely affected by the vodka he had drunk earlier, though he knew that that was little more than a delusion. On the other hand, the prospect of being picked up by Nergui’s men was a great aid to sobriety.

  The buzzer sounded again, held down for a long moment.

  Solongo pressed the intercom again. “I’m sorry,” she said, brusquely. “What is it you want?”

  “We need to speak to you, madam.” The last word was added apparently as an afterthought. “If we could just come up.”

  “I’ll come down,” she said. “Then I can check your ID before we do anything else. I’m sure you’d want me to be prudent.”

  The voice said, “Madam—” But Solongo had already released the button and was opening the door. Tunjin followed her on to the landing. “The back stairs are there,” she said, pointing down the corridor. “It’s a fire exit, so once you’re through you won’t be able to get back. I’ll go down and keep them talking as long as I can.”

  Tunjin smiled. “Thanks. I owe you one.”

  “You also owe me for the vodka,” she said. “Good luck. I’m hoping I’ll be able to have another drink with you one day.”

  Tunjin opened his mouth, as though he was about to say something about that. Then he shook his head. “I hope so, too. Like I say, I owe you one.”

  WINTER 1988

  It was simpler this time. There was no hesitation, no game-playing. Just question after question after question. A relentless barrage from the fat cop and his thin colleague. The first time, they had seemed tentative. Now, they were confident. Sure of their ground.

  But to Wu Sam it made no more sense.

  There was another body, he gathered. Another student. There had been a tip-off, and the body had been found in the cellar of his own apartment block. And they had incontrovertible evidence that Wu Sam was the murderer.

  Except that he wasn’t. He still had no idea what they were talking about. He had no idea what kind of proof they could have.

  But why go to these lengths? They could plant whatever evidence they needed. They could take any steps they liked to render his confession unnecessary.

  And then, as the two men endlessly circled his chair, barking out their questions he realised that this was just another case to them. If he was being framed it was being done elsewhere, by someone else. By the contact.

  These men were, like himself, just pawns in the game, playing their part. Working to break him, to get him to confess. To make it all official.

  “So take us through it one more time,” the fat one said. He was sitting down now, rocking the metal chair back on its legs, blowing casual smoke rings around his cigarette. “How did this body come to be in your cellar?” His tone was calmer now. Earlier, he’d been aggressive.

  “I don’t know,” Wu Sam said, trying to keep his voice calm. “I know nothing about it. It’s not my cellar. It’s just part of the block.”

  “The block where you live,” the fat one pointed out. “You’re doing research into—what was it again?” He spoke as if making conversation at a party.

  “You know what I’m researching,” Wu Sam said. “I’ve told you everything I can.” His mind was beginning to work again, after the initial shock of being dragged back in here. He had some leverage, after all. He knew who the contact was, he knew what the contact had been doing. The challenge was to find someone who might believe him.

  The fat one was regarding him thoughtfully, as though he had some inkling of what was passing through Wu Sam’s mind. “Okay,” he said, wearily, “let’s try this again, shall we?”

  “I’m being set up,” Wu Sam said, suddenly. The words had slipped out of his mouth before he had thought through what he was going to say. “Can’t you see that? I’m being framed.”

  The fat one stared at him, and for a moment it looked as if he might start laughing. “You’re being framed, are you?” He glanced up at his colleague. “Well, that’s original. Don’t think we’ve heard that one before, have we?”

  “Not today,” the thin one said.

  “A set up,” the fat one said. “Well, we’ll bear that in mind. But let’s come back to the body, shall we? Just tell us—”

  He stopped suddenly as the door of the interview room swung open. Wu Sam looked over the fat one’s shoulder, expecting some underling bearing a message for his interrogators, but whoever the new arrival might be, he was no underling. He stood silently in the doorway, gazing fixedly at Wu Sam. His face was dark, his skin shining in the dim light like polished wood, an unyielding mask. But his eyes were a piercing blue, and Wu Sam felt as if they could see into his soul.

  The fat one twisted in his chair, clearly surprised by their visitor. “Si
r, we were just—”

  The man nodded. “That’s fine, Tunjin. You two go and get a break. I’ll look after this for a while.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY - ONE

  SUMMER

  He was still at the window, staring out at the empty street, the silent grasslands, the low line of the far mountains.

  “I’ve been trying to track down Nergui,” she said from behind him. “He’s not answering his cell phone, but I’ve left messages. And I’ve phoned Doripalam’s office. They’ll get in touch and then we can get this moving.”

  Gundalai remained motionless. “They won’t do anything,” he said, quietly.

  “They will,” Sarangarel said. “It’s their job.”

  “But that’s all it is,” Gundalai said. “It’s just a job. They won’t take it seriously. They’ll think this is some kind of stunt.”

  “They might be right, you know. Have you considered that?”

  His eyes looked dead, unfocused. “You think so as well?”

  “I don’t think anything. We have to take that text message seriously but it doesn’t really say anything, does it? Just claims that he’s in trouble and tells you to call the police. If he really is in trouble, how come he’s in a position to send you a message? And if he can send you a message, why can’t he give you more information? I don’t know. Odbayar’s an activist. This wouldn’t be the first time he’s tried to grab the headlines.”

  He turned away and walked across the room, throwing himself down on to the sofa. Suddenly, he looked much younger than his years. “But he’d have told me. He wouldn’t have done this without me.”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” she said, without much conviction. “Anyway, it doesn’t really matter, does it? We have to treat that message seriously. I’m sure that’s how Nergui and Doripalam will see it.” She paused. “In any case, you know Nergui can’t afford to take any chances with this.”

  “Odbayar being who he is, you mean? Well, no, I wouldn’t expect Nergui to take any risks with his career.”

  “I can’t think of many people less concerned about their career than Nergui,” she said. “But it’s because of who Odbayar is that we—and they—have to take this seriously. If he has been kidnapped, it’s most likely because of his father. Why else?”