Nergui’s body was twisted so that he could peer out at the cityscape spread out before them. From here, the capital looked small, its scattering of old and new buildings dwarfed by the sheer scale of the surrounding steppe. The sun was low behind them, and the taller buildings threw the heart of the city into rich shadow. Ahead of them, he could make out the green expanse of Nairamdal Park, the dull vermillion of the lake, the land stretching out to the Naadam Stadium.
Doripalam was listening to a radio message that the pilot had relayed through the headphones. “They think they’ve spotted him. The roadblock’s in place. And they’ve confirmed the message you picked up from Sarangarel. There was an explosion in the stadium, but there don’t seem to be any serious casualties.”
“We can be thankful for small mercies, then. I just hope there are no more devices in there. As for the minister, well, I don’t know how he’ll react,” Nergui said. “He’s not one of life’s losers. He won’t come quietly as long as he thinks there’s some chance of getting out of this.”
“Don’t you think he’ll try to bluff his way out?”
“He knows it’s too late for that. I imagine he’s had an exit route planned for a long time.” Nergui paused. “There’s a private jet based at the airport. Belongs to one of the entrepreneurs for whom the minister’s done a few favours over the years. I’ve had a man out there keeping an eye on it. The pilot took a call about thirty minutes ago and has been organising permission to take off. Destination Beijing. All the formalities cleared.”
“By the minister?”
“By the minister. I can’t even block it. No one can, unless we escalate it up to the prime minister or president. But I don’t think that will be necessary.”
“What about your man in the car?” Doripalam said. “Does he know what he’s doing?”
“Lambaa?” Nergui shrugged. “There’s no one better. Present company possibly excepted.” He looked across at Doripalam. “You know how it is,” he said. “You more than anyone. There are no guarantees. But Lambaa will do what he can. And he can do more than most.”
“And this is assuming Solongo is still with him.”
“I think we can reasonably assume that, from what Tunjin told us. She’s the only bargaining chip he has.”
“That’s very reassuring, Nergui.”
“Not my strong point, reassurance, as you know. But it does mean that there’s every reason for Bakei to keep her alive for as long as possible.”
“You’re right about reassurance not being your strong point,” Doripalam said. “But I see what you mean.” He hoped that he sounded calmer than he was feeling. He had always admired Nergui’s professional detachment, but now he began to suspect that the older man’s lack of emotion verged on the inhuman. Doripalam could feel panic welling up inside him, as he struggled to maintain the composure that he knew his job demanded.
The call from Tunjin had reached them just a few minutes earlier, confirming all they had feared and more. Tunjin himself was safe. He had half-expected some trouble with the dark-suited men, but the two who were still standing were interested only in saving their own skins. The man on the floor had been left behind, still semiconscious. He needed medical help, and they seemed quite happy to leave that to Tunjin. Tunjin had called police HQ, discovered that Doripalam was in transit with Nergui, and then called Nergui’s cell phone with the news about the minister and Solongo. In the end, he didn’t know whether he had helped protect Solongo or had simply driven her into deeper trouble. But now he had to depend on Doripalam and Nergui to get her out of it.
A similar thought was running through Doripalam’s mind as the helicopter hovered high above the Naadam Stadium. He could see the line of police cars far below, the flickering of blue lights along the roadblock. A scattering of trucks and cars in the stadium parking lot. And then, to the north of the stadium, a single car heading at speed over the rough terrain, trailing clouds of dust. Another car was speeding from the main road to intercept it.
Doripalam felt an icy clutch of fear in his stomach. “I hope your man Lambaa knows what he’s doing.” Doripalam said. “We need to be down there.”
“On the other side of the stadium, I think. We don’t want to spook the minister into doing something stupid.”
Doripalam’s own instinct was to get close to the speeding car, but he recognised that Nergui was right. “Or something even more stupid.”
There was a movement from the front seat. Odbayar had been slumped against the side of the cockpit, still sleeping, for the whole journey. Now, finally, he was stirring. His eyes opened and he stared around, frantically, trying to work out where he was. “What’s happening?” he said. “Sam?” Then he paused, and a look of bafflement ran across his face. “He must have drugged me—I don’t know …” The puzzled expression was replaced by one of panic.
Nergui leaned forward and rested a hand on him. “Don’t worry. You’re safe. We’re police officers. We’re bringing you back to the city, that’s all.” He glanced across at Doripalam, clearly wondering how much more to say.
Odbayar seemed to be at least momentarily calmed by Nergui’s words. He leaned forward and peered out of the window. “That’s the Naadam Stadium,” he said. “What’s going on down there?”
Nergui looked across at Doripalam, perhaps in the hope that the younger man would take up the story. But Doripalam’s gaze was fixed on the ground below, his mind wrestling with how they could intercept Bakei.
Nergui leaned forward again, speaking softly into his headset. “It’s a long story,” he said. “But I think I should tell you it before we touch down. You need to know.”
Sarangeral had been watching the roadblock, wondering what was happening. Clearly something serious, she thought, looking at the lines of armed police crouched behind the cars, until finally the gathering crowd was moved back behind some hurriedly erected barriers.
It was then that she had received the return call from Nergui. He explained briefly his and Doripalam’s position, his voice metallic through the helicopter’s radio.
“You’re coming here?” she said.
“You can probably see us by now,” Nergui had pointed out. She could hear the throbbing of the engine down the line but could not, as yet, discern its real-life counterpart. But then she saw a small black dot appear in the northern sky, a sudden glitter as the rotors caught the rays of the lowering sun.
“But keep well back,” Nergui had said. “If the minister’s heading in that direction, he’ll be pretty desperate.”
It sounded absurd, she thought. The avuncular elderly man she had seen so often on the television screen, now fleeing with Solongo as a hostage.
“What about Odbayar?” she had asked, glancing across at Gundalai who was gazing at her anxiously.
“He’s fine,” Nergui said.
She nodded to Gundalai, smiling, and watched an answering joyous smile spread across his face.
“Try and keep him that way, won’t you?” she said, as Nergui cut the connection.
*
“So where do you suggest we go?” Lambaa said, struggling with the steering wheel as the car bounced on the uneven ground. Solongo noticed that he had finally given up on the “sir.”
The minister peered out of the rear window, then turned back to look at Lambaa. “Just keep going,” he said. “Get to the stadium, and we’ll take it from there.”
“With respect,” Lambaa said, “there must be an easier solution. With someone of your status, it must be possible to concoct some sort of deal. Nobody’s going to want this to come out.”
“That’s what you think, is it?” the minister said. “It might have been true once but not today. There are too many people who want to destroy me.” It was amazing, Solongo thought, that even in these circumstances, the politician’s rhetoric and self-regard still came to the fore. “They don’t want a quiet deal, knifing me in the back and shipping me silently into exile. They’ll want to bring me down with as much noise as po
ssible. They don’t just want to destroy me. They want to destroy the government. Our democracy.”
Solongo struggled to reconcile the minister’s impassioned espousal of democracy with the gun that was pressed firmly into Lambaa’s neck.
They were close to the stadium now. The police car that had been moving to intercept them had paused, fifty yards ahead, the driver waiting to see what would happen next.
“So what are we proposing to do?” Lambaa asked calmly.
“Get close to the stadium. Over there. Then stop.”
“If you say so.” He pulled the wheel to the left, slowing as they reached the shadow of the arena. “This do?”
“Perfect,” Bakei said. He leaned back in the rear seat, the gun still inches away from Lambaa’s neck.
Lambaa turned off the engine, and glanced back over his shoulder. “So what now?”
“Now we stay here,” the minister said. He laughed, unexpectedly. “It’s only just occurred to me that it’s the safest place. I know these cars. Bullet-proof. Blast-proof. Pretty much impenetrable from the outside so long as you keep it locked. Designed to protect the likes of me. Ironic, isn’t it?” He smiled. “So I can just sit here and negotiate with those people out there until they let me through. This is going to be easier than I thought.” He pressed the gun harder into Lambaa’s neck. “You’d better give your colleagues a call to break the good news.”
The helicopter hovered briefly over the stadium, and then began to descend, aiming for a clear space in the parking lot on the opposite side from where the minister’s car had come to a halt.
Nergui had completed his summary of the events that had brought them all to this point. Odbayar was blank-faced, looking like an overwhelmed teenager rather than the demagogue who had paced the stage at the previous night’s rally. It was difficult to tell what affected him more—his betrayal by his supposed political ally, Sam Yung, or the revelations of his own father’s more substantial treachery. He had the air of a young man who had had all his illusions stripped away at once.
“So what’s going to happen?” he said, finally. “To my father, I mean.”
“I think that depends on him,” Nergui said. “There would have been a time when someone like him would have been allowed a quiet exit.”
“Handed a revolver, you mean?” Odbayar said, bitterly.
“Maybe. Or, more likely, a one-way ticket to Beijing or Washington, whichever was appropriate. But I fear those days are gone. One of the disadvantages of democracy; we’re held to account.”
Odbayar gazed back at him with an air of deep cynicism. “When it suits, yes. Democracy always seems to be a convenient excuse.”
“Not to me,” Nergui said. “I tend to find it deeply inconvenient. But necessary. As to what will happen to your father—well, if he’s arrested, he’ll no doubt be tried.”
“But you don’t think he’ll be arrested.”
“It’s not his style. He wants to be the one in control.” He paused. “Whatever the cost.”
“It sounds like a variant on the loaded revolver,” Odbayar observed.
“Maybe. He’ll do his best to find a way out of this, but if that fails—well, as I say, he’ll try to keep control.” Odbayar opened his mouth to speak, but Nergui interrupted. “And you should know, before you say anything else, that he may have a strong hand.” He gestured towards Doripalam. “We understand he has a hostage. My colleague’s wife.”
Odbayar turned and stared at Doripalam. “Your wife? I didn’t realise …” He stopped. “I’m really sorry,” he said, as though the fault was his own. Then he added, with sudden vehemence: “The stupid fucking idiot.”
“What do you want me to say?” Lambaa asked. His voice carried the unhurried nonchalance of someone seeking directions.
The minister pressed the gun barrel into the back of Lambaa’s neck. Solongo watched the whitening of the skin around the grey metal. “Just tell them what’s happening. And what I want.”
“And what do you want?”
The minister glared at him for a second, rattled by Lambaa’s calmness, unsure whether Lambaa knew something he didn’t. “A safe passage through the roadblock to the airport. And then to be allowed to leave the country unhindered. That’s all.”
“It doesn’t sound a lot,” Lambaa said, “but they might object anyway.”
“Just tell them.”
Lambaa shrugged, as if absolving himself of any responsibility for the minister’s actions, and then reached forward to pick up his cell phone from the passenger seat.
The movement was so quick that Solongo hardly saw it. In one elegant turn, Lambaa spun in his seat, pulled his head away from the gun barrel, grabbed Bakei’s wrist in both his hands, and twisted it hard. The minister let out a high-pitched scream of agony and dropped the pistol. It fell neatly into Lambaa’s waiting hand, and Lambaa jammed the gun into the side of the minister’s startled face.
Lambaa was still holding the old man’s wrist with his right hand. He twisted the wrist again, watching the minister writhe in pain. “Now this time I really do suggest you sit still,” Lambaa said. “Because if you don’t I’ll blow your fucking head off.” He reached around with his free hand and pressed a button on the dash. “That’s it, Solongo. Get out of the car. Go across to the police, as quickly as you can.”
For a second, he thought she was too bewildered to follow his instruction. Then she shook her head, still staring at the minister. Finally, as if suddenly released from shackles, she drew back her hand and struck him in the face with her closed fist. The minister emitted another shrill shriek and collapsed forward, clutching a bleeding nose.
Lambaa smiled gently at Solongo. “Very good. But I think you’d really better get out now. I don’t want to have to arrest you as well.”
She smiled back at him, suddenly looking relaxed, as though the punch had been cathartic, then opened the door and stepped out into the warm late-afternoon sunshine.
Lambaa watched as she made her way, with increasing speed, across towards the police. “Now,” he said to Bakei, “we need to get you out of here.” He pushed open his own door and climbed out, keeping the pistol trained through the doorway.
Holding the gun steady, he began to open the rear door. But this time the minister was too quick. He rolled backwards and frantically pushed at the door on the far side of the vehicle. Forcing it open, he staggered out and ran, weaving, towards the stadium.
Lambaa cursed his own complacency, and then aimed the gun across the roof of the car. He could have brought him down easily enough, but he hesitated. He was unsure of the protocol of gunning down a government minister, particularly one who had not yet even been arrested, much less brought to trial or convicted. He certainly knew that it was unlikely to play well in the private media.
On the other hand, he suspected that there were few who would share his reticence in circumstances like these.
“He’s all right, though?” Gundalai said. “He’s really all right?”
“He’s on the helicopter. Nergui didn’t say very much, but, yes, he’s fine.”
“I want to see him, then,” Gundalai said. “I need to see him.” He sounded like a small child demanding some treat from a reluctant parent.
“It won’t be long,” she said, aware that she was already allowing herself to slip into that parental role.
“I know,” he said, “it’s just that I want to be sure.”
“It won’t be long,” she repeated. “Nergui said we should stay well back. It could be dangerous out there.” Even as she said the words, she realised that she had made a mistake.
“That’s what I mean,” Gundalai said. “Odbayar’s safe for the moment, but anything could happen.”
“Nergui’s there,” Sarangarel pointed out. The words sounded reassuring to her, but she was conscious that they would carry little weight with Gundalai. “He’ll make sure that Odbayar’s safe. There’s nothing more we can do.”
“That’s your generation
’s mantra, isn’t it?” Gundalai said. “There’s nothing more we can do. That’s why people like Odbayar do what they do. Because they believe there is something we can do. Instead of just wringing our hands.”
She realised there was little point in arguing. In a way, he was right; her generation was complacent. Unlike some, they hadn’t had to fight for their freedom. It had just been thrust upon them. And now, perhaps, they were allowing the potential to slip away. Standing by, while politicians did deals, selling off the past, mortgaging the future. Odbayar’s idealism, however misguided, was perhaps something to be cherished.
She turned, preparing to offer some conciliatory word to Gundalai. But he was already gone. He was twenty or thirty yards away, running furiously across the concrete, his scrawny limbs jerking awkwardly.
She opened her mouth to call him back, but it was too late. And perhaps he could do something. Or, at least, perhaps he should be allowed to try.
Lambaa’s hesitation was enough to allow the minister time to reach the corner of the stadium. He flung himself around the building, aware that at any moment he might be struck by a bullet.
Beyond the stadium, there was an open field. A helicopter, which he had watched descending as they had sped across the open land, was standing two hundred metres away. There was a single police car parked near the main entrance to the arena, but no other sign of life.
It was all over, he thought. It really was all over. While he had still been in the car, he could delude himself that he might somehow manoeuvre his way out of this. But now there was no chance. Now, there was likely to be only one way out.
He fumbled in his jacket pocket, checking to see whether the key to that particular exit was still there. His fingers touched the cold metal of the second gun, the one he had taken to the museum with him. Then it had been his insurance policy. Now, it was his last resort.
He was almost at the main entrance to the stadium when something caught his eye, a flicker of movement in his peripheral vision. He slowed his run slightly and turned to look. A young man had been running from the far side of the parking lot, initially heading for the helicopter. His progress had been hindered by the still-spinning rotors, and he had hesitated momentarily, then continued running to his left, avoiding the blades but trying to attract the attention of whoever was in the aircraft.
The Outcast Page 32
