The Outcast

by Michael Walters

  Gundalai stared at her, as though about to argue. “I just know that I’m worried about him. I think something’s happened to him. I don’t know why or how. But I’m worried.”

  “You might not think it,” she said, “but if anyone can find him, Nergui can.”

  He nodded, but looked unconvinced. “If you can manage to get hold of Nergui, that is,” he said. “We need to be doing something. It must be possible to track where that text was sent from. They must be able to pinpoint where his phone is.”

  “I’ve no idea. I don’t imagine it’s easy. It probably takes time.”

  “Especially when nobody’s even trying to do it,” he said, bitterly. “I just wish I had some idea of where to go, what to do. I thought he might send something else. But there’s just silence.”

  “I know it’s difficult,” she said. “But we have to wait.”

  Gundalai jumped up and strode over to the window. “I can’t just wait—” he stopped suddenly, as though frozen. “That’s my phone.”

  Sarangarel had heard nothing, but Gundalai was already fumbling in his pocket. He pulled out the cell phone and stared at the screen. “It’s him,” he said. He looked up and his face seemed to have come to life again. “It’s another message. He’s telling us where he is.”

  *

  “This was your idea, right?” Nergui said.

  “Batzorig’s,” Doripalam said, jerking his thumb towards the young man engaged in discussion with the official in the small wooden cabin. “That’s why I insisted he come with us.”

  “Very wise.” Nergui nodded. “There’s no reason why he shouldn’t suffer as well.”

  “It’s the vertigo I’m worried about,” Doripalam said. “I’ve never been up in one of those things.”

  “It’s a new experience for all of us. That’s the great thing about working with the younger generation.”

  They were standing in a small military airfield at the northern edge of the city. There was a line of small hangars along one side, a pre-fabricated hut that provided office accommodation, and the small cabin containing the uniformed young man in charge of tracking the aircraft movements. Somewhere off to the right, there was one of the innumerable ger camps that ringed the urban centre like a besieging army, line on line of the distinctive round tents.

  Batzorig was repeating his earlier telephone conversation, although now his hand was strengthened by the presence of Nergui and Doripalam. Finally, he straightened and turned back towards the two older men.

  “All sorted,” he said. “Ours for twenty-four hours. Fully fuelled and with pilot.”

  “That’s good to know,” Doripalam said. “I’d hate to have to take it up on my own. Who’s paying for all this?”

  “There’s some sort of inter-agency recharge arrangement,” Batzorig said.

  “You don’t know, then?” Doripalam said. “I don’t know that I have a budget to cover it.”

  “The ministry will no doubt pick up the tab if necessary,” Nergui said. “Assuming that I’m still in a position of any influence by the time we get back. And if I’m not—well, the cost of this probably won’t matter too much.”

  Doripalam had not asked how Nergui’s conversation with the minister had gone. When he’d returned to his office, Nergui had still been sitting at the desk, flicking aimlessly through the various case files. He had looked untroubled, and had dismissed Doripalam’s initial polite enquiry with a smile. There was no obvious way for Doripalam to return to the subject after that.

  “Do you think this is really necessary?” Doripalam said, gesturing towards the helicopter.

  “I think Batzorig’s right. If our suspicions are correct—or even if they’re not—we need to track down Professor Sam Yung as soon as possible. We could waste a lot of time trying to do that.”

  “Even with this, we may waste a lot of time,” Doripalam pointed out. “I already have the local force up in Ondorkhaan trying to find him. I don’t know that we’ll be able to do much they can’t.”

  “How many men do they have up there?” Nergui asked. “A handful? And no doubt the usual local incompetents. I can’t imagine they’ll be putting a lot of effort into it.”

  “Maybe,” Doripalam said. “But maybe we’re better off here than going off on some wild goose chase.”

  “Why? You have all the bases covered as far as you can. You have a team tracking down all Odbayar’s friends and contacts, another team investigating the hotel explosion. You have the forensics reports due on the murders, but we haven’t even identified the victims yet. I don’t see what else you can do for the moment. And if anything breaks in the meantime, this thing will get us back quickly enough.”

  There was no arguing with Nergui’s logic. But, as always, Doripalam had a suspicion that it was the operational thrill that motivated Nergui, another chance to escape the routine of his desk job and get his hands dirty.

  “What about Tunjin?” Doripalam asked. “Have you tracked him down yet?”

  “No, but I have people looking. There aren’t many places he can go.”

  “I still don’t know what you’re up to, Nergui, though there’s nothing new in that. But you know Tunjin well enough not to underestimate his resourcefulness.”

  Nergui made no response, but gestured out towards the helicopter. “I think it’s time for us to be boarding.”

  “You sure we’re both allowed to ride together?” Doripalam said. “Doesn’t the ministry have rules about that kind of thing?”

  “No doubt,” Nergui said. “The ministry has rules about most kinds of thing.”

  Batzorig, proprietorial about the whole adventure, confidently led the way across the scrubby grass of the airfield. The pilot looked up and signalled to acknowledge their approach, and then indicated where they should sit, helping them with seatbelts, handing out the headsets that would enable them to converse above the noise of the rotors.

  “If this is as uncomfortable an experience as I’m fearing,” Doripalam said, “you may be saying goodbye to a promising career, Batzorig.”

  There was a moment’s silence, while the pilot fiddled with the controls. Somewhere, over among the scattering of gers, Doripalam could hear a goat bleating, an incongruously bucolic and comforting noise. A second later, the pilot started the engine, and all other sounds were lost beneath the scream and roar of the engine, the deafening clatter of the blades.

  The ascent was smoother and less terrifying than Doripalam had feared. He watched the ground fall away, suddenly seeing the ger camp spread out like a map. The helicopter banked, and then the whole city was below them. Rows of grey concrete tenements, open squares and parks, the newer and more striking buildings of the city centre and the business areas, the ornate gold temples. As they rose, he could see the central square, the statue of Sukh Bataar, the squat new likeness of Genghis Khan. The edges of the square were draped in canopies and awnings, in preparation for the impending anniversary celebrations and the annual Naadam Festival. And there was the new memorial, finally almost complete after frantic last-minute construction work.

  It was a small city and it still seemed unsure of its own permanence, as if settled living might be only a temporary aberration in their long national history. As the helicopter rose still higher, he could make out, on all sides of the city, the spreading rash of gers, the dotting of white resembling some kind of organic growth, an uncontrollable mould spreading around the ordered ranks and squares of the city centre.

  In those tall office blocks, there was all the paraphernalia of the twenty-first century—computers, cell phones, wireless networks. And living alongside them there were people with no running water, no permanent sanitation, huddled around wood stoves even in the depths of the Mongolian winter. It was a growing problem, and the nature of the problem changed with the seasons. In the winter, the challenge was the bitter cold—deaths through starvation and hypothermia. Now, in this brief baking summer, the stench of poor sanitation indicated a different threat.


  “You look as if you’re about to be sick,” Nergui said, his voice metallic in Doripalam’s earphones.

  Doripalam looked up, startled out of his reverie. “Speak for yourself,” he said. “I’m actually rather enjoying this.” He leaned forward towards Batzorig, who was sitting next to the pilot. “Your career’s safe for another day, then.” Batzorig looked back over his shoulder and gave an enthusiastic thumbs-up.

  “It gives you a whole new perspective,” Nergui said. “Different from being in a plane, even.”

  Doripalam nodded. They were rising higher now, banking away from the city to begin their journey, heading east. The endless grassland lay beneath, browner than usual after the extended hot weather. Paler lines stretched across the empty landscape, indicating crude dirt roads apparently leading nowhere. In the distance, the land darkened towards the edges of the forests and mountains. Doripalam could see the shadow of the helicopter, the shape distorted by the angle of the afternoon sun, scurrying across the steppe, chasing after them like an eager dog.

  “How long will it take us?” Nergui asked.

  “Best part of a couple of hours, apparently. We should sit back and enjoy the view.”

  Nergui twisted his head and took in the vast empty vista spread out before them. “One hell of a view.”

  Tunjin heard the fire door click softly shut behind him. No way back.

  The rear stairway was functional rather than decorative, not intended for public use. The stairs were bare concrete with a plain iron railing, the walls a dull beige. There were no windows, and the only illumination was the dim glow of emergency lights to provide direction in the event of a fire.

  Tunjin made his way down the stairs, taking two at a time but trying to make his movements as silent as possible.

  It took him only a few minutes to reach the bottom. The rear lobby was as unprepossessing as the rest of the stairway—an empty hallway with a tiled floor, one grimy window, and, opposite the bottom of the stairs, a double fire door. Tunjin lifted himself to peer out of the window.

  There was nothing much to see. The fire doors opened on to a small courtyard, with a narrow alleyway beyond. As far as Tunjin could tell, the courtyard was deserted. He pushed open the door and stepped out. Even in this shady spot, after the relative cool of the building the heat of the day struck him immediately. The fire door shut firmly behind him. Definitely no way back now.

  He stepped forward and peered into the alleyway. It was narrow and dark, running between two adjoining apartment blocks, with a glare of sunlight at the far end. He scurried quickly down the alley, then stopped and peered around the corner. From there, he could see the main entrance. Two men, dressed in dark grey suits, were standing next to a black, official-looking car, engaged in discussion with Solongo.

  Tunjin had already spotted Solongo’s Daewoo, parked a few hundred yards from the entrance. With any luck, he should be able to reach it without being seen. They’d hear the engine starting—and there were still few enough cars passing here for that to be conspicuous—but he’d buy himself a few minutes.

  He turned back towards Solongo and the men, trying to judge when the moment might be right to make his move. Although he was too far away to make out the words, the conversation seemed to be becoming heated. Tunjin assumed that Solongo was doing her utmost to be difficult.

  Thanking her silently, Tunjin began to jog towards the car, the keys clutched firmly in his hand. Further up the street, Solongo shouted something, and for the first time he caught a snatch of her voice.

  He reached the car and stopped, his hand on the hot metal of the door handle. Keeping his head low, he looked back. She had sounded genuinely distressed. Distressed and angry. Something more than even the most skilful of acts.

  Moving slowly around the car, keeping his large body hidden, Tunjin peered cautiously over the top. Solongo was definitely shouting now, waving her arms as if trying to attract attention. Other than himself, there was no one to respond.

  Suddenly, one of the two men grabbed her arm and pulled her forcibly towards their car. She struggled for a moment and then stopped. For a second, Tunjin thought she’d been struck. Then he realised why she had stopped moving. The second man had come forward, his arm extended, something in his hand.

  Tunjin stood for a moment, feeling as if the breath had been knocked from his body, wondering what to do. I owe you one, he thought. He hadn’t expected that he’d need to pay it back quite so quickly.

  He stood frozen, working out the possible options. He could try to intervene, hoping that his presence would be enough to scare them off. But if these men were prepared to snatch the wife of the head of the Serious Crimes Team in broad daylight, they were unlikely to be disturbed by an overweight superannuated policeman.

  He was still hesitating when the man with the pistol pulled open the rear door of the car. The other thrust Solongo inside. She fought back briefly, her heel grinding brutally against the man’s shin. And then the man with the pistol thrust it hard against her head and drove her back into the car, forcing himself in beside her. The other man pulled open the driver’s door, threw himself in and started the engine.

  Tunjin fumbled with the keys to Solongo’s car and finally succeeded in opening the door. Behind him, he could hear the other car executing a clumsy U-turn, its front wing scraping noisily against a street sign. Perhaps Solongo was still causing them trouble. In any case, the minor accident—and the need to reverse and extricate the car—gained Tunjin a precious few seconds. He found the ignition, started the engine and, keeping his eyes on the black car, prepared to pull into the road.

  He waited a moment, hoping that, even in these quiet back streets, he would be able to avoid drawing attention to his presence. Ahead of him, the black car straightened and then, as the driver floored the accelerator, disappeared up the street.

  Immediately, Tunjin pulled out, in time to see the rear end of the black car disappear around the next corner. Perfect, he thought. Close but not too close.

  In his better days, Tunjin had trained as a high-speed driver. The booze had put an end to all that, just as it had to his career as a marksman. His own choice, in both cases. Nobody else seemed to have noticed that his reactions were shot, or that his aim wasn’t as precise as it had been. But Tunjin had been aware that it was only a matter of time before he killed somebody. Before he killed the wrong somebody.

  The somebody in the square, perhaps.

  He put the thought from his mind and pressed the accelerator. He reached the corner just in time to see the black car turning right at the next junction. They were heading out of the residential district towards the centre of town. Once out of these quiet back streets, it would be easier for Tunjin to remain unnoticed, but harder to keep behind them.

  There was nothing else he could do. He had to keep close. There was no time to stop and call for assistance. No time for anything.

  Not for the first time that day, Tunjin wished he’d thought a little harder before deciding to leave the hospital.

  At least, then, he might have remembered to bring his phone.

  CHAPTER TWENTY - TWO

  Everything was silent, except for the steady hum of the engine and the constant rattle of their wheels across the harsh terrain.

  Sam smiled softly at the figure in the passenger seat. Asleep again. Though hardly surprising this time, given the sedative that had been added to the bread he’d eaten.

  The timing was just right. Not too large a dose, nothing too risky. But enough to keep Odbayar asleep till they reached their destination. And beyond. It was important to keep Sam’s options open.

  He was relieved not to have to endure any more of Odbayar’s fatuous conversation. Still, at least Odbayar understood where things had to go, even if he was supremely deluded about his own potential role in taking them there.

  The sun was high, but they were entering the edges of the forests and the air felt cooler. As soon as he was sure that Odbayar was unconscious, Sam had st
opped the truck and dug out the cell phone from Odbayar’s jacket. He had flicked through the list of numbers until he had found Gundalai’s and then carefully composed a second text message.

  The message sent, he had slipped the phone carefully back into Odbayar’s jacket, watching the young man sleeping, his head slumped against the side window. Everything was slowly moving into place. He had checked his own phone, and there was a series of text message, sent over the previous hour or so, confirming that everything was running to plan.

  He started the engine again, driving forward into the emerald gloom of the forest, his eyes fixed on the rough road ahead, the rising terrain, the looming trees. The endless empty landscape.

  “We can use my car,” Sarangarel said. “We can be there in fifteen minutes.” She reached out and held Gundalai’s shoulder. “Don’t worry. He must be all right.” She wished that she felt as confident as she sounded. “We need to find out what’s happening. But we need to tell the police. I mean, if he really is in some kind of trouble—”

  “But he said not to. He said we shouldn’t tell anyone yet.”

  “It doesn’t make any sense,” she pointed out. “He says he’s in trouble, but doesn’t say what kind of trouble. He says he needs help, but doesn’t say what kind of help he needs. He asks you to meet him, but doesn’t want you to tell anyone else. What’s it all about?”

  “I don’t know,” he admitted. “It must be something only I can help him with. Or something that he can’t let anyone else find out about.”

  “And what sort of thing would that be, do you think?” She knew she was being harsh, that this kind of logic had no currency in the young man’s heart. But she felt they were being manipulated, increasingly sure that this was just some stunt that Odbayar had cooked up. And she was angry that Gundalai—trusting, honest, helpless—was being suckered into it.