The Adversary (13 page)

As the state authorities were privatized, Muunokhoi had positioned himself as a Director and major shareholder of one of the newly privatized gas companies. The company had been sold to Russian investors, netting Muunokhoi and his fellow shareholders a substantial profit. It was difficult to imagine that this had occurred without some shady dealing, but the turning of blind eyes had been a characteristic of those early free-market
days. It was only when the money finally ran out that anyone thought to ask where it might have gone.

By the time the economy ran into trouble in the mid-1990s, he had established himself in a number of key monopoly positions. Money was scarce, but Muunokhoi was often the only game in town—particularly when it came to energy trading—and could command whatever price he liked. During the harsh winters of the late 1990s, it was probable that Muunokhoi was indirectly responsible for much suffering and some deaths. Nergui did not imagine that Muunokhoi would have lost much sleep as a result.

At the same time, Muunokhoi was a public figure, on the verge of celebrity. He was part of the glitzy new social scene of the city, an extremely eligible bachelor regularly photographed with an attractive woman by his side. He made frequent appearances in the privately-owned scandal sheets, though in practice there was little scandalous about his lifestyle. Or, at any rate, no evidence of the types of scandal likely to be of interest to the popular newspapers. He had a string of supposed girlfriends, but no serious relationships. He was polite to journalists, and friendly and personable with anyone he had dealings with.

But there were claims that Muunokhoi's legitimate trading was only the tip of a much less palatable iceberg. Muunokhoi was an astute businessman, but the size of his wealth did not seem commensurate with the nature and scope of his business. It seemed likely that his visible trading activities were paralleled by other, more covert transactions. There were countless rumors—drugs-, arms-, even people-smuggling.

Nergui consulted endlessly with tax and customs officers to shed some further light on the disparity between Muunokhoi's legitimate business activities and his apparent wealth. But all he had received for his trouble was a repeated shrugging of the shoulders and an increasingly obfuscatory set of technical explanations. Yes, there were inconsistencies, but investigations had uncovered no substantive evidence of wrong-doing. “It's not impossible,” one said. “He's a smart businessman. He knows the dodges. People like him don't pay tax anyway, not really, not these days. They're too busy creating wealth for the rest of us. It doesn't mean they're criminals.”

Nevertheless, the Serious Crimes Team built up a substantial dossier on Muunokhoi. Much was hearsay—more of those tiny, unsubstantiated strikes against his record. Once or twice, Nergui thought they might be getting close. There was a recurrent suggestion that Muunokhoi's people had gained access to caches of weapons intended for the Mongolian army or diverted from the Soviet army during the chaotic final months of the old USSR. The police and security services had made a few arrests, picking up shipments on Mongolia's extensive borders with Tomsk, Tyumeny, and Irkutsk, and even managing, in a few cases, to infiltrate the gangs operating in the dark mountains and forests to the north, identifying arms shipments due for exchange with consignments of heroin from Afghanistan.

This was the area that most interested Nergui. Mongolia had no major drug problem—certainly not compared with parts of the former Soviet Union—but the availability and abuse of hard drugs was increasing.
Alcohol remained the drug of choice, but there was growing use of heroin, amphetamines, prescription psychotropic drugs, morphine and other substances. The proportions of serious users were small, but the problem would escalate rapidly if serious commercial interests became involved. Nergui could see that such interests, combined with the relative youth of the population—two-thirds under thirty—and high levels of unemployment and economic deprivation, presented a volatile combination. The prospect that Muunokhoi might be involved was not comforting.

But the evidence never quite held up. Whichever side of the law they might respectively be on, Muunokhoi and the traffickers were in the same business—moving goods and materials across national borders. It was hardly surprising if, from time to time, they should encounter—and even do business with—the same people. It was frustrating but, to Nergui, hardly surprising. He knew enough about Muunokhoi to know that the man made few mistakes. He had a well-paid entourage around him whose role, in large part, was to ensure that their boss's tracks were well covered. He was unlikely to be caught unless someone got things badly wrong.

In the end, Nergui had scaled down the inquiry, knowing that this covert digging was unlikely to yield any real results. But he kept the files open and encouraged his team to keep their ears to the ground. Because, while Nergui knew that Muunokhoi would have covered all the bases, he also knew enough about humankind to know that, someone—somewhere, sometime, somehow—would eventually make that
mistake. And Nergui wanted to ensure that, when it finally did happen, he would not be too far away.

His musing, spurred by his aimless flicking through the notepad, was interrupted by the sight of Sarangarel easing her way through the crowded café toward his table. Nergui glanced at his watch. He had lost track of the time, and she was late, though by only a few minutes. She looked, he had to acknowledge, stunning. Even if he had not been waiting for her, he would have been struck by her extraordinary presence among the chattering crowds. It was not just her physical appearance—though that was certainly striking enough, with dominant features, her long flowing black hair, and the sense of an unconventional beauty. It was also her manner—calm, untroubled, but with a visible sense of purpose. She was going somewhere—figuratively as well as literally—and there was little that would stand in her way.

That, Nergui supposed, was how he remembered her originally, though it had been less obvious in those days. Then it had been her late husband, Gansukh, who was going somewhere. And the place he was going, it seemed all too clear, was prison. That was why her appearance at this moment felt more than coincidental. Because Gansukh, or so Nergui had believed at the time, had been the man who had finally made the mistake.

“Don't move,” the voice said.

Tunjin had no intention of arguing with the instruction. The twin barrels of the gun moved slowly down from his forehead toward his chest. The figure behind them, no more than a silhouette against the light from the open door, leaned forward and Tunjin felt a hand slowly patting his pockets, moving down his body to check whether he was armed. It was hardly a professional search, but it seemed thorough enough. Finally, the figure seemed satisfied and pulled back, gesturing brusquely with the gun. “Stand up.”

Tunjin staggered slowly to his feet, clutching on to the toppled table. His feet stumbled on one of the paint-pots, which clattered off somewhere behind. He still could not make out the face of the man in front of him.

The figure waved the gun vaguely up toward the skylight. “Quite an entrance,” he said.

Tunjin shrugged, feeling the bruises around his back and legs. “It wasn't quite how I intended it,” he admitted.

The man with the gun stepped aside and gestured Tunjin to walk in front of him. “You're either the most incompetent burglar I've ever encountered, or this is something else.”

“This is something else,” Tunjin agreed. He was beginning to relax slightly now. He had initially assumed that this person was one of Muunokhoi's people who had somehow managed to predict his intended escape route. But that didn't seem to be the case. Maybe this was nothing more than a resident who had—reasonably enough—reacted aggressively to the sight of an eighteen stone man falling unexpectedly through his rooftop.

The man nodded, as though this explained everything. “Downstairs,” he said. “We can talk there.”

Tunjin made his way slowly down the staircase to the third floor. This block was virtually identical to his own, even down to the color of the cheap paint on the walls. The view from the landing windows was different, though, looking out beyond the end of the street to one of the
ger
camps that clustered on the outskirts of the city. Tunjin could see the rows of round gray tents, billows of smoke issuing from their central chimneys, whipped away by the strong breeze. There was a man tending a goat, and beyond that—and much more interesting to Tunjin—a row of old but apparently serviceable motorbikes.

“This way,” the man said, waving Tunjin forward toward the door at the foot of the stairs. Still holding the shotgun firmly, he pushed open the door and led Tunjin inside.

The apartment was similar in size to Tunjin's own, although considerably tidier. It was, Tunjin thought, like stepping into a
ger
. There was the usual mix of brightly painted cabinets, rich embroidered rugs and tapestries stretched across the walls and floors, and, by
the far wall, a single camp bed. There were two hard backed chairs against the wall, and the man gestured Tunjin to sit in one of them. He spun the other round and sat on it, with his gun resting on the chair back, pointing steadily at Tunjin.

“Now,” the man said, “why don't you tell me what this is all about?”

Tunjin was beginning to recover both his breath and his presence of mind. He could feel the wooden chair creaking slightly under his weight, and he hoped that he wouldn't soon be responsible for the destruction of yet another piece of furniture.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his identity card. “I'm a police officer,” he said, waving the card in front of the man's face. The man calmly held Tunjin's wrist and surveyed the card carefully. After a moment, he nodded, apparently satisfied and lowered the gun slightly, though still leaving it resting on his knees.

He was, Tunjin now realized, a relatively old man—probably midseventies. He was dressed in traditional costume, the brown thick felt
del
wrapped around his frail-looking body, heavy brown boots sticking out beneath. He was gazing at Tunjin through untroubled gray eyes, his thinning white hair combed back from his forehead.

The old man nodded slowly. Finally, with a sudden movement, he held out his hand. “Agypar,” he said.

It took Tunjin a moment to realize that this was the old man's name. He shook the man's hand and said, pointing to himself, “Tunjin.”

“It is good to see more officers on patrol,” Agypar said. “But there is no need for you to patrol our rooftops.”

Tunjin smiled obligingly. “It's a long story,” he said. “I am being pursued.”

“Pursued?” Agypar said. “On the rooftop?”

“Well, no. But that was why I was on the rooftop. I live in one of the blocks further down the road. There are intruders. So I escaped on to the roof.”

Agypar nodded as though this was perfectly conventional behavior. “These intruders,” he said. “They are pursuing you because you are a policeman?”

Tunjin nodded. “More or less, yes,” he said. “As I say, it's a long story. Let's just say that I have made some enemies.”

“I heard the gunshot,” Agypar said. “That was them, yes?”

“I think so,” Tunjin said. “To be honest, I didn't stay to check.”

“You will wish to be leaving shortly,” Agypar said.

“Very shortly,” Tunjin said. “I don't know how much time I've got. They'll have realized by now that I'm not there, but I don't know how long it will take them to work out where I've gone.”

Agypar nodded, taking in this information. “And they will be watching the street, I imagine.”

“I imagine,” Tunjin agreed. In all honesty, he hadn't really thought this part through, but Agypar was almost certainly right. By now, they would have stationed someone out on the street, surely, as they tried to understand how Tunjin had disappeared and where he might have gone to. They might also, he realized, have stationed someone at the rear of the blocks in order to cut off his escape in that direction also. All in all, his prospects were beginning to look
considerably less positive. Agypar might, he supposed, be willing to lend his shotgun, but it was difficult to see that much else was in his favor.

“These are bad people?” Agypar said.

“These are very bad people,” Tunjin said. “As bad as they come, I think.”

“You are unable to contact your police colleagues? Surely it must be possible to summon some backup?” He spoke the words as though an expert in matters of police procedure. Everyone watched the television shows, Tunjin thought. The problem was that life was more complicated.

But Agypar did have a point. Tunjin realized, with a mild shock, that he had almost ceased to think of himself as a policeman. It was as if a thirty year career could just melt away overnight. Suddenly, he was just another civilian. Though even a civilian was entitled to help from the police.

But he knew he would not be calling them. In reality—and this was another shock—he realized that he did not believe that the police could help. At best, they could get him out of his current predicament, and maybe, assuming that they believed his story, they could provide him with some sort of protection. But the truth was that Tunjin did not know who he could trust. There was no doubt that Muunokhoi had unraveled what was going on very quickly, despite all Tunjin's best efforts to cover his tracks. That suggested that he had inside information. If Tunjin were to call the police now, there was no knowing just who might take the call.

“I don't think that's an option,” Tunjin said.

Agypar regarded him silently for a moment, then
nodded. “Out here,” he said, “none of us trusts the police. We have seen them do too many bad things to ordinary people. And we remember the old days.”