The Adversary (2 page)

Tsengel coughed, looking between Nyamsuren and the judge. Behind them, the other judges and the citizens' representatives had been watching the discussion with
close attention. “Well, yes, but the situation is very—” He caught the judge's eye and coughed again. “The situation is very difficult. You will appreciate that I am in an awkward position—” He trailed off, as if unsure what to say next.

“You place us all in an awkward position, Mr. Tsengel. I think Mr. Nyamsuren would be entirely within his right to object very strongly to your proposal.”

“With respect,” Nyamsuren said, his glance moving from the judge back to Tsengel, “I am still not entirely clear what Mr. Tsengel's proposal actually is.”

“Mr. Tsengel?” The judge gestured pleasantly toward the young man.

Tsengel shifted awkwardly. “Well, we're seeking an adjournment of the trial. While we resolve the issues that have arisen.”

Nyamsuren smiled without any evident humor. “I see. And how long an adjournment are you seeking?”

“Well, I can't exactly—”

Nyamsuren laughed. “I must confess, I had not previously been aware that the State Prosecutor's Office possessed a sense of humor.”

“I'm sorry, I don't—”

“Mr. Tsengel, Mr. Muunokhoi has been continually harassed by the police and by the State Prosecutor's Office for many years. Statements have been made about my client's business activities which verge on the libelous. He has been accused of trafficking everything from heroin to, I believe, uranium. And yet, not only has my client never been prosecuted, until now no charges have ever been brought against him. Six
months ago, for reasons best known to themselves, the police decided that they had amassed sufficient evidence to justify my client's arrest on various charges including—” He glanced down at his notes, as though the precise charges were a matter of indifference to him. “Including charges of, ah, underpayment of import duties. Since then, he has been subject to the most stringent bail conditions, severely curtailing his ability to conduct his legitimate business. And now, when my client finally has the opportunity to demonstrate his innocence, you come forward to seek an indefinite adjournment on the grounds of some—difficulties which you are apparently unable to share with us. I can conclude only that this is an elaborate joke.”

Tsengel looked miserably at the judge, as though pleading with her to take pity on him. “With respect, the core charges relate to illegal imports. Rather more serious than the underpayment of duties—”

“Yes, of course,” Judge Radnaa said. She raised her eyebrows inquiringly toward Nyamsuren. “I take it that you are not prepared to accede to Mr. Tsengel's request?”

Nyamsuren smiled. “I think you can take it that that is our position,” he said.

She turned to Tsengel. “And you are not in a position to present the State Prosecutor's evidence?”

Tsengel hesitated, as though trying to come up with an alternative answer. “As we speak, no,” he said, finally.

She nodded slowly, and then looked back at her colleagues. “We will need a brief adjournment to consult,” she said, “but as I see it we have only two
routes available to us.” She paused. “First, we can continue the trial on the basis of whatever evidence you can present. I take it that this would not be your preferred option?”

Tsengel blinked and nodded faintly.

“Or,” she went on, “since Mr. Nyamsuren is, quite reasonably, not prepared to agree to an indefinite delay, we can perhaps agree to a short adjournment while the Prosecutor's Office considers its position. Perhaps until tomorrow morning?”

“It is not your fault. You need to realize that.” Nergui was sitting in Doripalam's office, leaning back in his chair, his ankles resting neatly on the corner of the desk. Doripalam thought that he had never seen him looking quite so relaxed. He only wished that he could share Nergui's composure.

“It's a mess,” Doripalam said. “The whole thing's a mess.”

Nergui shrugged. “We know that. But nobody's blaming you.”

Doripalam leaned forward across the desk. While they had been talking, Nergui noticed, Doripalam had been doodling aimlessly on the lined pad in front of him, large spirals, starting at the outside and working down to a tiny enclosed point in the center. “Maybe you're not blaming me,” Doripalam said. “Because you know what this place is like. But others will be.”

“Of course. There will always be ignorant people looking for scapegoats. But this is not your fault.”

“It's my responsibility.”

Nergui carefully dropped his feet from the desk to
the floor and leaned forward. As always, his clothing was an apparently unstudied blend of the conventional and the eccentric—a dark, well-cut business suit, offset by a lemon shirt and a louder-than-usual tie in varying shades of yellow. His socks, Doripalam had noticed as Nergui had balanced his ankles on the desk, had apparently been selected to match the shirt.

“And what form should your responsibility take?” Nergui said. His dark features were as expressionless as ever and his tone was casual, but Doripalam felt obliged to take the question seriously.

“I don't know,” he said. “But if it's thought that I'm not up to the job, then I shouldn't be in it.”

“So you would resign?”

“If it came to it, well, yes, I suppose I would.”

“Then I suppose I would have to ensure that your resignation was not accepted.” Nergui smiled. “If it came to it. But I think we can assume that it will not. Not over this, anyway.”

Doripalam pushed back his chair. “But it's a mess, though, isn't it? After all this time. After all the effort we've put in. We nearly had Muunokhoi. And now the whole bloody thing's down the pan.”

Nergui shrugged. “We have to be philosophical. You are sure there's no chance of salvaging it?”

“Some of the evidence we've got holds up. So it's not quite dead, but it's as good as. It's all tainted by the fake stuff, so nobody's going to take the case seriously. We tried to buy ourselves some time, see if we could make more of the evidence we've still got, but they weren't having it.”

“No, well, that is not so surprising.”

Doripalam smiled for the first time. “No, but at least we forced those smug bastards in the Prosecutor's office to do some work. Though I imagine that's the last satisfaction we'll get in that direction.”

Nergui nodded slowly. “They are looking for an inquiry, you know?”

Doripalam rose and walked across to the window. It was a cold clear spring day, the sky a brilliant cloudless blue beyond the clutter of gray buildings. The view from his office was not impressive—the back of a disused office block, most of its windows smashed. Between the two buildings, there was an abandoned yard, filled with the detritus of the failed business—an old desk, some office chairs, even a broken filing cabinet. Somewhere beyond all this, he thought, there was the open steppe, the mountains, the miles of emptiness. “I didn't know,” he said, “but I presumed they would.” He laughed faintly. “They behave as if they're the ones who've put in all the work. Perhaps we should institute an inquiry into all the times they've messed up our evidence.”

“We could have only so many inquiries,” Nergui said. “But, no, I don't think we can avoid it this time. There will be too many questions.” He paused. “I have put my own name forward.”

Doripalam turned from the window. “You have?”

Nergui shrugged. “Why not? I understand the operations of this place better than anyone. Of course, if you are uncomfortable—”

Doripalam shook his head. “No, of course not. But wouldn't they see a conflict of interest?”

“If I were to chair the inquiry? I don't see why.”

Doripalam leaned back against the window, his thin figure silhouetted against the daylight. “Well, for a start, you appointed me.”

“But I am clear,” Nergui said. “This is not an inquiry into you or your performance. There is no suggestion that you were even aware of what was happening.”

“I know that,” Doripalam said, “and I hope you know it too. But I'm sure that others will be only too keen to think the worst.”

“There are always such people,” Nergui said, apparently with genuine regret. “But I think the situation here is straightforward. I know what you inherited here—not least, because I was the one who bequeathed it to you. And the Minister knows all this. He knows that the civil police force was a shambles from the start—the ones the military didn't want, the detritus who couldn't find a better government job. He knows how much we've done to develop some professionalism—”

“Or at least come competence,” Doripalam added softly.

“As you say. He also knows how much we have done to change things, you and I. And how unpopular we have made ourselves in the process.”

“Very gratifying,” Doripalam said, with only a mild edge of irony. “The Minister's good opinion does of course mean a great deal to me. But I'm not sure I see the relevance.”

“The Minister is no fool. He knows the problems you are facing. An inquiry is necessary, but he does not wish to make your life any more difficult.”

“So he wants a whitewash?”

“On the contrary, he wants a thorough and rigorous inquiry into all the circumstances behind this case. He wants transparency and openness. He wants, I suppose, an appropriate apportionment of accountability and blame.” As Nergui mouthed the ministerial vocabulary, it was impossible to tell whether there was any undertone of satire. “He wants to ensure that you have the resources to resolve the situation.”

Doripalam nodded. “And the Minister wants all this? He is taking such a personal interest in the case?”

“He is aware of it. I speak on his behalf, you understand,” Nergui said. “Perhaps, from time to time, I paraphrase.”

Doripalam shook his head. “You cunning old bastard,” he said.

“So I'm fired?”

Doripalam shook his head. “It is not within my power to fire you, even if I wished to. You know that.”

He's playing games, Doripalam thought. Why does he continue to play games, even now? “But of course you are suspended from duty,” he added. “On full pay. Pending the outcome of the inquiry.”

“So I will be fired? In due course. Pending the outcome of the inquiry.”

Doripalam sighed gently. An apology would have been nice, he thought. Some kind of recognition of the inconvenience, the embarrassment, that Tunjin had put them all through. Not to mention the implications of Muunokhoi potentially being out on the streets again, more untouchable than ever. Doripalam had intended to approach this interview in a spirit of equanimity
and fairness, but he found himself losing his temper. “You do realize what you've done, of course? I mean, you do understand the implications of your actions?” He was talking to Tunjin as if he was some sort of imbecile, rather than an officer with thirty or so more years' experience than his own. But he found it hard to regret either his tone or his words.

Tunjin leaned back in the seat facing Doripalam's desk. He looked considerably more relaxed than Doripalam himself. “I'm sure I do. But you may care to remind me. Sir.” Tunjin presumably assumed that his long career was already over, and was behaving accordingly. Or, more likely, he well understood the impact of this kind of behavior on Doripalam, particularly when exhibited by junior but more experienced officers.

“Do you know how long we have been trying to get to this point?” Doripalam asked, almost instantly regretting the question.

“For many years,” Tunjin said. “Since well before your time. Sir.”

Doripalam nodded slowly, trying hard to control his anger. “I am sure you can tell me precisely how long, Tunjin. I am told it is at least fifteen years.”

“I think it's longer. Sir.”

“Well, I am sure you are right. So—how long? Eighteen, twenty years. Perhaps longer—” Doripalam held up his hand, sensing that Tunjin was about to provide the relevant information. “And, now, when we get so close, this happens. No. I am sorry. I underestimate your contribution.
You
make this happen.” He paused. “And so, after whatever it is—nineteen, twenty
years—we are back where we started. Which in my view is precisely nowhere.”

Tunjin, gratifyingly, seemed rather taken aback by Doripalam's short speech. “With respect, sir—” Doripalam was pleased to note that, for the moment, neither of the latter words sounded entirely ironic. This, he supposed, was progress. He decided to press on. “No,” he added, as if after some thought. “I am wrong. We are somewhere. We are deeply in the shit. The criminal world sees us as a laughing stock. The Prosecution Service believes that we are considerably worse than useless. The Ministry believes that we are either corrupt or inept, or more likely both.” He paused, but not long enough to allow Tunjin to interrupt. “I find it difficult to see any positive aspects to this position. And there's only one person responsible for our predicament.”

Tunjin was, he noted, finally beginning to lose his temper. Doripalam was unsure whether this was desirable, but, given his own current state of mind, it was at least moderately satisfying. “With respect, sir,” Tunjin repeated, with the ironic note now reinstated, “given that we had, in effect, made no progress in the last two decades, I thought my actions were justified. The evidence we had wouldn't have stood up on its own. I thought it was worth the risk.”

For the first time, Doripalam's anger and irritation were overtaken by something close to astonishment. He sat back in his chair and stared at the figure sitting opposite him. Tunjin was a mess—physically and, it was beginning to seem, perhaps mentally as well. He was a short, fat, shapeless figure of a man, completely
bald, who stared back at Doripalam over a stack of badly shaven chins. He was wearing a cheap black suit, worn shiny at the elbows and knees. The jacket and pants were dotted, at disturbingly frequent intervals, with what were presumably stains of spilled food.