The Adversary (14 page)

“We all remember the old days,” Tunjin said. “Things have changed. But not necessarily always for the better.”

Agypar nodded. “So,” he said finally, “you need to get away from here. You will need some help.”

Tunjin stretched out his bulk, feeling the chair again creaking beneath him. He wondered yet again quite how he'd gotten into this. When Doripalam had interviewed him, he had been deliberately blasé, as if this had been an entirely natural thing for a policeman to attempt as he neared the end of his career. But even if, like Tunjin, you had a suspicion that your career was spiraling out of control already, this had still been an insane move. Not just career suicide, but probably the literal version as well.

He heaved himself slowly up from the chair, conscious of how time was passing. Quite probably he was already too late. His half-baked escape plan was already falling apart. “I definitely need help,” he said. “The question is where do I find it?”

Agypar smiled and reached past Tunjin to one of the ornately decorated cupboards. He pulled open the cabinet at the bottom and dragged out a canvas shoulder bag. “Take this,” he said.

Tunjin looked quizzically at Agypar, then unfastened the top of the bag and peered inside. He reached in and pulled out a handgun, well-polished and in apparently good condition. Below that, nestled in the bottom of the bag, there were several rounds of ammunition.

Tunjin looked back at Agypar, who was sitting, rocking slightly on his chair, looking very pleased with himself. “What is this?” Tunjin said.

“What does it look like? Don't worry. It's in good condition and it's loaded. Don't forget to take the safety catch off if you want to use it.”

“But where—?”

Agypar shrugged. “I'm an old soldier,” he said. “We all kept a few souvenirs. This was one of mine. I've looked after it. You never know when it might come in useful.”

Tunjin opened his mouth to say something, but could think of nothing sensible to say. “Thank you,” he said, finally.

“Now,” Agypar said, “we've got to get you out of this place.”

It was likely that, by now, the main road at the front was being carefully watched, and it was probable that similar observation was being carried out at the rear. “Is there another way out of here?” Tunjin asked.

Agypar nodded, looking as if he'd been waiting for Tunjin to ask precisely this question. “There's one other way,” he said. “Come with me.”

Agypar led them out of the room, the shotgun still wedged firmly under his arm. They walked down three more flights of stairs, Tunjin peering cautiously through the landing windows to see if he could see any movement outside. The
ger
camp showed little signs of life, other than the herd of goats munching placidly through a pile of grass and leaves. As they reached the bottom of the final flight of stairs, Tunjin paused to listen, trying to discern any sounds of disturbance
from the street outside. He could hear nothing, but that provided only the mildest of comfort. Maybe someone was already waiting for him out there.

The lobby itself was deserted. It was less cluttered and in a better state of repair than that in Tunjin's block, but displayed the same mix of pale wood veneer and beige painted walls. Tunjin began to move nervously toward the glass paneled front doors, but Agypar held up his hand. “No, this way,” he said.

He turned back behind the stairway. Set into the wall under the stairs was a door with a combination security lock. Agypar adeptly entered a sequence of numbers and then slowly pushed open the door. Beyond, Tunjin could make out a further flight of stairs heading down into a basement.

Agypar reached behind the doorframe and pressed a light switch. There was only a single, low-wattage bulb hanging halfway down the stairs, but it was sufficient to allow a safe passage. Agypar gestured Tunjin in front of him, and the two of them began to make their way down, Agypar carefully closing the door behind them.

“The rubbish bins are down here,” Agypar explained. “I think the layout of this block is a little different from the others.”

It was certainly different from Tunjin's block, which had concrete floors at ground level and no basement. Tunjin was aware that the land fell away behind the rows of apartment blocks, so he assumed that while the ground floor of this block was at street level at the front, there was room for an additional lower story at the rear.

At the bottom of the stairs, there was a further
door. Tunjin pushed it slowly open and peered into the gloom beyond. It was, as he had expected, a utility room—there were a couple of large-scale sinks, a workbench with some evidence of recent use, a scattering of household furniture and appliances in varying states of repair, and what appeared to be part of a motorbike. At the far end of the room there were two pale rectangles where daylight shone faintly through two grimy windows.

Agypar moved to stand beside Tunjin and gestured down the length of the room. “The door there,” he said. “It has a security lock on the outside, but you can open it from in here. It comes out into the camp, so it's not immediately visible from the road or the back of the apartments.”

He led Tunjin through the dimly lit maze of junk toward the door. “I will not turn on the lights in here,” he said. “We do not want to risk giving any prior warning. We need to gain as much time as we can.” It was clear that he was enjoying the experience. This was, Tunjin supposed, the closest he had come to combat since retiring from the army. Tunjin wondered whether he had had a civilian job, or whether, like so many discarded from the army as the Soviet Union imploded, he had found himself without any job or prospects. At least, unlike many others, he had not found himself on the streets.

As they approached the windows, Agypar paused, raising his hand to stop Tunjin moving further forward. The windows were grimy and dust stained, and had clearly not been cleaned for many years. Combined with the bright sunshine, this meant that
their movements were unlikely to be visible to any external observer.

Agypar pointed through the window. “There,” he said, “you see the row of motorcycles.” It was the same row that Tunjin had observed from the landing windows earlier—a line of aged but apparently serviceable machines. “The one on the far left, the black one. That is mine.” He reached into his pocket and produced a single ignition key. “Do you know how to ride a motorcycle?”

Tunjin glanced down at his overweight body. “I used to,” he said. “I was a real enthusiast when I was younger. Used to ride out on to the steppes. But I haven't done it for a long while. I guess you don't forget, but I don't know that my body's got as good a memory as I have.”

Agypar smiled. “I don't think you forget,” he said. “I still ride it from time to time. But not much now. So take it. It will start perfectly, first time. It always does.”

“Are you sure? I mean, it's—”

“You need help,” Agypar said. “I am in a position to provide it. That is all. Basic hospitality. And I am sure when you return here, you will return the bike.”

“Well, yes, of course,” Tunjin said. “But I don't know when that will be. Or even if it will be. I don't know how far I'll get.”

“If you don't get far,” Agypar laughed, “I will come and collect the motorbike for myself.”

“Okay. Well, thanks. Thank you very much.”

“So,” Agypar said, reverting to his military manner, “you open the door. You run, as far as you can—” He glanced down at Tunjin's body, tacitly acknowledging
that this was unlikely to be particularly quickly. “Get the bike and get the hell out of here. Do you want me to cover you?”

“Cover me?”

Agypar waved the shotgun in front of him. “Cover you.”

“No,” Tunjin said. “You've done more than enough for me. You mustn't do anything to put yourself in danger.” He wondered whether the old man really understood what he was potentially involved in here.

Agypar shrugged. “A pity,” he said. “I was always good at providing cover.”

“Thanks, anyway,” Tunjin said. “For everything.” He had little time to waste, he realized. There was no telling where Muunokhoi's people were by now, no telling how much—or how little—time he might have.

“Okay,” he said, breathlessly, and, twisting the handle of the security lock, he stepped out into the cool sunlight.

The
ger
camp seemed deserted, although there was still smoke rising from one or two of the tents themselves. Off to his left, a flock of chickens in an enclosure was burbling gently, scratching in the dust. Somewhere in the distance, he could hear the faint hum of traffic, the shouts of children.

He looked right toward the main street, but there was no sign of life. To his left, behind the apartment blocks, the land fell gently away into waste ground. Beyond that, there were the remains of some industrial buildings, now unused and collapsing, their roofs open to the sky.

Tunjin took a deep breath and began to jog as
quickly as his bulk would permit. The motorcycles were perhaps a hundred meters away, no more. He clutched the key firmly in his hand and pounded on, his breath already coming in gasps.

He was perhaps twenty-five meters from the bikes when he heard a shout behind him. For a moment he almost paused, tempted to look back in case Agypar was trying to attract his attention. But there would be time enough for that when he reached the bike.

There was another shout behind him and then the sound of a bullet shot. He tensed, poised for the potential impact, but nothing happened. He pounded on. Ten yards. Five yards. The sweat poured from his body. Finally, he grabbed the motorbike handlebars, and pulled the machine toward him. Gasping, he lifted his leg over the seat, slumped down and looked for the ignition, forcing the key into the lock. It turned and, just as Agypar had predicted, the engine fired immediately.

Finally, the machine throbbing beneath him, Tunjin looked back the way he had come. There was a figure running toward him, brandishing a handgun, shouting. Still probably fifty meters away.

Tunjin hesitated a moment, wondering whether to try to flee and risk being shot in the back, or to drive straight at the shouting figure. He was beginning to rev the engine with the intention of doing the latter when a second gunshot echoed around the buildings. The man paused, as though surprised, and then fell forward, clutching his knee, his shouts transformed into screams of pain.

Tunjin looked back behind the man to where Agypar was standing in the doorway of the basement,
the shotgun in his hand. Tunjin was too far away to see his face, but he suspected that Agypar was smiling at the accuracy of his shot.

There was no time to ponder the implications of what he had just witnessed. He twisted the bike handlebars, and then—initially unsteadily as his large body grew accustomed to balancing on the narrow seat, but then with growing confidence—he accelerated the motorbike across the waste-ground, down between the walls of the broken down factories, and then out toward the open steppe.

The bike was a smart 1950s British Vincent, which must have been lovingly maintained by the old man. For a brief second, before rationality caught up with him, he almost enjoyed the sensation of power and speed as he pulled out of the dark alleys into the brilliant sunlight beyond. This machine would need looking after, he thought, until he could get it back.

But that, of course, was to assume that he ever could, or that Agypar would be there to receive him. In truth, the future looked bleak. He could scarcely look after himself, let alone the bike. He had no idea where he was heading, or what he was going to do once he got there. Behind him was a ruthless gangster who would, he was sure, now stop at nothing to catch up with him. And, in shooting the man chasing him, Agypar had very probably signed his own death warrant.

It was a mess. It was the biggest mess that Tunjin, never the most fastidious of individuals, had been caught up in. And, this time, he really couldn't see how he was going to extricate himself.

“They were here. Not so long ago,” Doripalam said. “Look, you can see the marks in the grass left by the tents.”

Luvsan was leaning back against the hood of the Daihatsu, smoking a cigarette. “I feel like the
Lone Ranger
,” he said. Luvsan prided himself on his knowledge of Western popular culture.

Doripalam raised an eyebrow. “Which would make me Tonto, I suppose.”

“Certainly not, Kemo Sabe,” Luvsan said. “I'm the sidekick here.”

Doripalam stared at him for a moment. There were times when Luvsan's youthful exuberance bordered on the insolent. “And you're the one with the tracking skills,” he said, gesturing toward the satellite navigation equipment in the front of the truck. “I'm trusting you know where we are.”

“More or less,” Luvsan said, in a voice that implied that he was above considerations of geographical precision.

“More rather than less, I hope,” Doripalam said. “All I know is that we're miles from anywhere.”

This was probably another waste of time, he thought, but there was a risk that everything was
slowly spiraling out of his control and he wanted to try to get some purchase on it before it was too late. It wasn't just the Muunokhoi case and everything that went with that. There'd also been the missing youth, Gavaa, a case that had seemed trivial but nevertheless brought them unexpected flak from the press. And then there was the murder of Gavaa's mother, which had come from nowhere and, so far, seemed to be leading them pretty much to the same destination.

Fortunately, for all their previous criticisms of the handling of the Gavaa disappearance, the press seemed more interested in the mystery of his mother's murder than in throwing more mud at the police. For the moment, anyway. Doripalam didn't delude himself that this was anything more than a respite. The truth was that for now the murder story—middle-aged woman found brutally slain in a
ger
, son missing, nomad family apparently moved on—was extraordinary enough in its own right. It didn't need the added spice of routine police-bashing. But as soon as interest in the story began to wane, the press would once again begin to ask how the police had allowed this to happen, why they weren't doing more to solve the crime, whether they could guarantee the safety of other citizens, and—well, any other hook they could find to spin the story out for a few more issues.