“There was nothing else?” she said. “Nothing that might tell us where to look?”
Gundalai shrugged. “He’ll be here somewhere.”
She nodded, unbelieving, and turned to look back at the stadium. It was an impressive edifice, set against the backdrop of the city and the surrounding hills. Days from now, it would be hosting the annual festival, the major celebration of the three “manly sports” of archery, horse riding and wrestling. It was always a major event, a modern-day version of the traditional nomadic assemblies, gathering crowds from the surrounding regions. Other towns would be celebrating their own festivals over the same period, but this was the big one.
And this year’s would be the largest of all, with additional celebrations for the anniversary of the Mongol empire. The coming days would see an unprecedented gathering of crowds, military displays, music, artistic performances and sporting contests. There would be an opening ceremony in Sukhbaatar Square, the symbolic transportation of the nine yaks’ tails—representing the nine tribes of the Mongols—to the stadium, and then two extended days of sports and celebrations.
It was a celebration which Sarangarel had dutifully attended on numerous occasions, although neither the ceremonials nor the sports were particularly to her taste. The contemporary event was a mix of the traditional and the contrived, some of it no doubt designed more to appeal to modern tourists than to reflect historical precedent.
The current dates of the festival had been fixed under the old regime to commemorate the communist revolution, and the celebrations had been transformed into People’s Revolution Day. There was an ironic symbolism about the way in which the celebration had, over the years, been appropriated by both sides of the political divide. The politicians were only too keen to link their causes to what, in every other respect, was simply a celebration of life and physical pleasure. By the end of the second day, when the taking of alcohol was the primary interest, physical pleasure would be the exclusive objective of many participants.
Various trucks and vans were lined up alongside the stadium walls, and groups of hefty-looking men in shorts were unloading equipment. She could hear more music now, too—not khoomii this time, but a traditional instrumental with the horse-headed morin khur fiddle to the fore. The sound was less other-worldly than the throat singing, but the melodies rippled ethereally through the sunlit air.
Sarangarel turned back to Gundalai. “Why would he be here, though?” she said. “What’s this all about?”
Gundalai shrugged again, in the manner that, for all her sympathies, she was beginning to find infuriating. “He’ll have some plan.”
“I don’t doubt it,” she said. “But what part are we expected to play?”
They walked through the entrance into the arena and looked around. The arena trapped the afternoon heat, and the interior was baking hot. She wondered what this place was going to be like in a few days’ time, thronged with people. For the athletes, the horsemen and the wrestlers especially, it would be even worse.
She had no idea where to go or what to do next. There was an administrative area—cabins and two ger tents—at the far end, but both looked deserted. Various individuals were striding around the arena with an official-looking air, carrying files or talking earnestly into cell phones, but it was impossible to judge their respective status or to know whether any of them would be worth approaching. In any case, what would she say?
She walked slowly into the centre of the arena, trying to get the most complete view of the surrounding stands. She wanted Gundalai to know that she was at least taking his predicament seriously.
Off to her left, targets were being erected for the archery competitions. Beyond those, there were the tracks for the horse racing. On the opposite side of the arena, a stage was being constructed for musical or dramatic performances. Behind the stage, two large screens had been erected to enable the festival’s events to be magnified for the whole arena. This was technology she had not seen here previously, but the anniversary celebrations were taking everything up to a higher level. She scrutinised each area in turn, searching for any sign of Odbayar.
But of course there was nothing. She turned back towards Gundalai, preparing to tell him that this was a waste of their time. But Gundalai was not looking at her. His head was down, and he was staring at the screen of his cell phone.
“What is it?”
He held out the phone. “It’s him.”
“Another message?” she said, drily. “Perfectly timed.”
“He knows we’re here. He must be around here somewhere.” Gundalai gazed eagerly around the stadium, as though expecting to see his friend waving back at him.
“What do you mean?” she said, her patience wearing thin now. “How does he know we’re here? What does he say?”
Gundalai again waved the phone in her direction. “Not much. The text just says, ‘You’re here. Now we can begin.’”
Behind them, someone had switched on the recorded music again, and the unearthly sounds of the khoomii began to echo through the stands, the sound eerily distorted by the emptiness of the building.
“Now we can begin what?”
It was a beautiful place. The forests thickened ahead, rising up towards the mountain peaks. Behind, the land fell away, dappled shadow and sunlight down to the vast steppe below. Far to the left, disappearing into the afternoon haze, he could see the distant scattering of buildings that made up the town of Ondorkhaan, the dots of gers in the surrounding grassland. To the right, there was the curve of the river, the pale strip of water broadening out into the expanse of the plain.
The cradle of the empire, he thought.
He looked down towards the river. Fifty metres or so from where he stood, there was a shallow point, where the edge of the water was lined with flat rocks.
He could not have found a better spot. Not immediately visible, and partly concealed even from the air by the overhang of the bank. But once you reached this point, as any visitor up here eventually would, everything was exposed.
He had parked the truck up in the forest, its dull green paint-work invisible in the deep gloom. Odbayar was still in there. It was unlikely that he would wake from the sedative just yet.
Quite soon, he would need to fetch Odbayar and set things in motion. He had received the texted signals from the city. Everything was in place. Things could start to move.
He looked up again at the empty sky. He could hear nothing yet, despite the silence of the windless day. But he fancied that he could see it now, far off in the pale distance.
They had proved slightly more resourceful than he had imagined. But, if you were a professional, you made your own luck. Everything played into your hands. Because here they were, on their way to join his party. To be the participants he needed.
Even better than he had planned, this would not all be filtered through the constraining lens of technology.
It would be witnessed. Live.
As they banked, the land dropped away, green and gold in the afternoon sunshine. The buildings and tents of the town disappeared behind them as they headed up towards the forests and mountains. Doripalam could make out the line of a river, twisting down from the hills to the undulating plain.
Batzorig twisted in his seat and called back to Doripalam and Nergui, “That’s where we’re heading. That curve of the river. He’ll get us as close as he can.”
Doripalam looked at Nergui, wondering whether he would take the opportunity to complete his story. But Nergui was staring out of the window, his eyes on the empty landscape.
The pilot leaned over from his seat and gestured forwards. Batzorig nodded. “He’s planning to touch down over there,” he said. “By that upper bend in the river. Does that look okay to you?”
Nergui nodded to Batzorig. “That’s fine,” he called. “That’s the supposed birthplace. Get as close as you can, we can walk the rest.”
The helicopter began to descend rapidly, the grassland gathering detail as they
dropped towards it—a rough tapestry of peaks and troughs, scattered with rocks and hollows. It was easier now to see why the pilot was selecting his landing place with caution.
They landed more smoothly than Doripalam had expected, settling gently on to the firm grassland. The pilot turned off the engine and they sat as the rotors slowed.
Outside, in the baking afternoon, the silence was stunning after the incessant noise of the helicopter. As they disembarked, Doripalam stretched his arms, his body stiff from the cramped cockpit. The land rose above them for perhaps fifty metres, before dropping again into the broad river valley. The ground was thick with verdant grass, dotted with a tapestry of wild flowers. Perfect grazing land, Doripalam thought. No doubt, somewhere out in that landscape would be nomads, drawn up here for the quality of the pastures.
Nergui had already begun to stride up the hillside, his characteristic energy undaunted by the steep gradient. Batzorig glanced at Doripalam, then shrugged and began to follow. Doripalam turned to the pilot. “I don’t know how long we’ll be.”
The pilot shook his head. “No concern of mine.” He gestured towards the helicopter. “I’d like to get this back by the end of the day, though. It’s needed again tomorrow.”
Doripalam looked up at the hillside, the tall figure of Nergui striding away from them. “I don’t think we’ll want to be here all night.”
He turned and began to follow his colleagues. Nergui was already nearing the edge of the valley, Batzorig trotting willingly behind him. Nergui had the air of knowing where he was going. As he took the first steps down the far side into the river valley, Doripalam saw his impenetrable face silhouetted for a moment against the deep blue of the sky.
Doripalam hurried up the last few metres to the summit, conscious of the sweat dripping inside his shirt. Nergui and Batzorig were already some way below. The surface of the river glittered brilliantly in the sunshine. Doripalam scrambled down the incline, stumbling as stones tumbled beneath his feet. A moment later, he reached Nergui and Batzorig, and his eyes followed Nergui’s pointing finger towards the dazzling water.
Squinting against the reflected glare, it took Doripalam a few moments to identify the object of their gaze. There was a cluster of rocks, dotted with reeds and other vegetation, at the point where the river curved closest to them. On the furthest rock, positioned to be clearly visible from the surrounding hillside, there was a body.
CHAPTER TWENTY - FIVE
Tunjin peered through the narrow gap between the door and the frame, transfixed by what he was seeing.
Even from this limited vantage point, he had no doubt that this was the minister. He had seen that misleadingly benign face often enough; the minister was not shy of publicity.
“Satisfied your curiosity now?” a voice said from behind him.
He started to turn, but felt something hard pressed against the small of his back.
“I think you’d better get a proper look, don’t you?” the voice said. Tunjin felt himself pushed forward into the office.
“We have a visitor. He was lurking at the door.” Tunjin looked back. Another identikit thug in the standard dark grey suit.
The other men in the room were watching Tunjin with curiosity, but no obvious anxiety. Whatever they were up to, they looked entirely in control. The young man on the high-backed chair had a pistol hanging loosely between his fingers. Solongo was on the sofa, her face expressionless. She had not looked up at Tunjin’s entry.
The minister was staring at Tunjin. “What the hell is this?” he snapped at the man opposite. His voice had risen from the whisper that Tunjin had heard outside. “I mean, are you clowns capable of organising nothing? Who the hell is this?”
There was a protracted silence. Clearly, nobody had an immediate answer to these questions. Tunjin felt the prod of the gun in his back again. “Go on. Tell the gentleman who you are.”
“I’m a police officer. A member of the Serious Crimes Team,” Tunjin paused. “And if it wasn’t for the fact that you have a gun stuck in my back, I’d be telling you that you’re under arrest.”
The man behind him laughed. “Lucky for me, then. Though I think your boss over there might have something to say about it as well.”
The minister looked unamused. “I’m glad you’re amused. This whole bloody thing’s spiralling out of control. We have the whole works—up to and including a fucking policeman with a gun in his back. This isn’t quite how I’d envisaged it.” His voice was quieter now, but sounded all the more threatening as a result.
None of this made much sense to Tunjin but, seeing no other options available, he decided to stir things up a little more. “I don’t understand this,” he said, gently. “I don’t know why you’re here. And I don’t know why you’ve brought this lady here. Of all people.”
He had the minister’s attention now. For all the old man’s bluster, Tunjin had begun to sense that the minister was out of his depth. “What are you talking about?”
“Let me introduce Solongo,” he said. “Wife of Doripalam, the head of the Serious Crimes Team. An interesting choice of kidnap victim.”
Tunjin looked at Solongo, whose expression had, for the first time, begun to reveal some emotion. He wondered whether her earlier consumption of vodka had helped her to retain her calm. But she appeared sober enough now, and he could see she was calculating how best to play the situation. Finally, she succeeded in raising a smile and turned on the sofa to face the minister. “Pleased to meet you at last,” she said. “My husband’s said so much about you.”
The calm irony proved too much for the minister, who pulled himself to his feet and crouched over the man opposite. “What the fuck do you think you’re playing at? You told me you had all this under control. You’ve told me a crock of shit since this all started, and I was stupid enough to believe you.”
He stopped and jerked his head back, almost as if the man had struck him. It took Tunjin a moment to realise that the metaphorical blow had been nothing more than the other man’s untroubled smile. Whatever the minister might say, this man simply didn’t care.
The man’s smile broadened. “Sit down, old man. Relax. We’re here to help you. Everything is under control.”
The minister straightened slowly with the cautious stiffness of one accustomed to maintaining his dignity even in the most challenging of circumstances. “You’re full of shit,” he said, softly. “You and your boss. I don’t think you have a clue what you’re doing.”
The other man was watching him, still smiling, his eyes unblinking. “Sit down, old man,” he said again. This time, there was an undertone of menace to his words. “We know much more than you imagine.”
Her first reaction was to storm out. Just walk out of here, get back into her car, and leave all this nonsense behind.
It was only the expression on Gundalai’s face that stopped her. No matter what happened, he continued to believe. He really thought something important was going to happen. Not just some idiot stunt pulled by an overgrown student politician.
“So what are we waiting for?” she said.
He looked wildly around the stadium. The bustle of preparation continued as before. “I don’t know. Something—”
Suddenly the rhythmic modulation of the khoomii cut off. There was a loud sharp crackling across the PA system, as if it had been affected by an electrical storm.
At first, there was no discernible effect on the individuals scattered about the stadium, most continued with their activities, assuming that the sound had been affected by some technical glitch.
A moment later, there was another loud electrical crackle and the two large screens burst into life. There was a brilliant dazzle of light from each, a blurred scattering of brightly coloured diamonds, and the two screens displayed an identical image.
With a comical synchronisation everyone in the arena looked up simultaneously. Silence spread slowly as the spectators ceased whatever activity they had been engaged in and watched the screen.
It took a while for them to understand what they were seeing. It appeared to be a live broadcast. But it was clearly not a film of the stadium or any of the surrounding area.
For a moment, a jumble of pale blue and turquoise lozenges danced diagonally across the shot. Then slowly the camera panned around and came into focus, as though an amateur cameraman was slowly gaining control of the instrument.
The fractured white and blue was revealed as sunlight and sky reflected on a rippling body of water. The curve of a broad river.
The camera pulled back further and the screen was filled with rich blue and green. The vast empty bowl of the Mongolian sky, the green of the plush northern grasslands.
The onlookers began to lose interest, assuming that this was some travelogue for tourists. Some had already turned back to their former activities.
Then there was an audible intake of breath from the remaining observers, as they realised what the screen was showing. A murmur of puzzlement spread slowly across the arena.
The camera had zoomed slowly in towards the river. There was an expanse of grass, a cluster of rocks stretching out into the middle of the current. The camera zoomed further and it was possible to discern an object spread out on the flat stone.
Sarangarel leaned forward, trying to work out what was being shown. Was this Odbayar’s stunt? She braced herself for something unexpected. Some satirical joke.
But it was no joke.
The camera jerkily moved forward again, and the nature of the object on the rock became clear. Gundalai cried out something behind her. Though Sarangarel could not make out what he had said, his startled tone was echoed around the stadium.
The object was a human body, its limbs spread out as if it were a sacrificial victim, its head twisted at a grotesque angle. The camera moved forward and, in close-up, the state of the body became clearer. The face was dark and bruised, already affected by decay.
The voices of the onlookers around the stadium were becoming more strident. Whatever this might be, it was clearly no test transmission. Sarangeral turned to say something to Gundalai, but the young man was no longer behind her. She looked around the arena, but could not see him. She glanced back up at the screen, waiting for some denouement to the scene. But the camera simply held for long seconds on the damaged face. A young man, she thought, once good looking.
The Outcast Page 25
