The Adversary (29 page)

*

The house wasn't quite what Tunjin had expected. It was an impressive enough place, but he had expected—well, something more grandiose, more impressive. Something in keeping with Muunokhoi's status. This was, admittedly, only one of several residences Muunokhoi possessed, although, from Tunjin's recollection of the files, this was the place he was most likely to call home.

There had been something in the files, too, about the history of the place. As far as Tunjin could recollect, the house had originally belonged to one of the bigwigs in the Party, in the days when communist grandees lived in places like this. It was, Tunjin supposed, a summer house, a dacha, located a few miles outside the heat and fumes of the city center, but close enough to allow the occupier to continue working in the city.

It was a wooden construction, a chalet design, with long sweeping rooflines, tucked away amongst the trees, designed to be cool and shaded through the warmth of the summer. Tunjin had taken the Vincent motorbike around the house, keeping his distance, ending up on the undulant hillside and woodland that overlooked the house from the rear. From here, he could gain a good vantage point of the layout of the building and its surroundings.

Tunjin wished he had binoculars so that he could get a better view of the estate. As far as he could see, there was no obvious security, though he was under no illusions about how well protected the house and gardens would be. The garden itself was not particularly large and mostly laid to grass, scattered thickly
with fir trees. A curving drive swept from the imposing front gates to the house itself.

There was no sign of life. There was a single car—a large black Mercedes—parked to one side of the building, but Tunjin had seen no one enter or leave. He didn't even know for sure that Muunokhoi was staying here at present. The files had indicated that he had another house up in the north of the country, in the picturesque Khövsghöl Nuur region, as well as an apartment in the city center. But Tunjin's impression had been that the second house was used largely for holidays—or possibly for more clandestine meetings—while the apartment was used as a place to bunk down when Muunokhoi was engaged in his characteristic long working days. He might not be back here tonight, but he typically spent only one or two nights a week in the apartment.

And even if Muunokhoi wasn't here, it was likely that the house was staffed with both domestic and security people. Someone would be down there.

Tunjin had sounded confident enough, in his conversation with Nergui, talking about the need to take Muunokhoi out of the picture. And there was no question that, in principle, he was right. If he wanted to regain his own security, his own peace of mind—no, forget that, if he wanted to live—then that was the only option.

But he didn't have a clue about how he might bring it about.

What was it that he had had in mind? Was he planning to break into Muunokhoi's house and perhaps steal some incriminating documents, some perfect piece
of substantive evidence which Muunokhoi happened to have left handily lying about on his dining room table? He would probably have a better chance of success if he just tried to talk Muunokhoi out of killing him.

No, like everything else Tunjin had attempted in respect of Muunokhoi, this was worse than half-baked. He didn't even have a clue what the ingredients might be, let alone how to start cooking up anything. He had no equipment, no support, no resources and—above all—no ideas. Perhaps he should just walk up to the front door, hand himself over, and invite Muunokhoi to do his worst.

Tunjin slowly lifted himself off the bike, kicking down the stand as he did so. He was positioned near the top of the low hill, up amongst the thickening fir trees, where he hoped that he was invisible to any observers below. There was always a risk that the chrome on the motorbike might reflect the sun, but as far as Tunjin knew this was open land so it would not be unusual to find walkers, and perhaps even the occasional biker, up here.

It was another beautiful spring day, only a few wisps of cloud in the sky. From the hillside, the grassland fell away, a patchwork of emerald green and darker shadows, down to the house and garden below, then across to the road. Beyond that, there was more grassland, a few houses, and nothing but the open steppe until the distant blue haze of the city.

Tunjin slumped down on to the ground and took stock of his position. All he could do was to keep watching, in the vague hope that inspiration would strike. He scrutinized the layout of Muunokhoi's house
carefully. From here, he was at a diagonal angle to the house and could see both its front and rear elevations, though not its far side. It looked to be a fairly simple layout. At the rear he could see large double patio windows, which opened out onto a paved area arranged with an array of tables, chairs and other garden furniture. There was another window to the left of that, which Tunjin assumed was probably a kitchen. Above were lines of windows on the first and second floors, presumably bedrooms, with the occasional frosted window indicating a bathroom.

The front was similar. There was an imposing double door as the main entrance, with a substantial pine-built porch over it, studded with lamps. And then lines of large windows, presumably of bedrooms and reception rooms.

Tunjin was surprised that, other than what looked like a standard domestic burglar alarm, there were no obvious security measures. He guessed that, somewhere around, there would be CCTV cameras, though he could see no sign of them from up here. He'd also presumed that some of Muunokhoi's security staff would be located on site, but again he had so far seen nothing.

Tunjin might be aware of the true nature of Muunokhoi's operations, but to the world at large he was simply a very successful businessman. People would expect him to have some security in place, but would not expect to see his domestic residence swarming with hired hit men. Muunokhoi had an image to sustain.

But none of this was helping Tunjin. He needed some idea, some spark of thought that would give him a way forward. Anything.

And, as if in answer to this plea, there was finally some movement in the panorama spread out below.

Tunjin heard it before he spotted it. A car engine, distant, but unmistakable in this silent landscape. He looked up and scanned the scene in front of him, and finally made out the rapid movement of a car, still miles away, heading away from the hazy fog of the city out in this direction.

He watched the car's progress, fully expecting that it would bypass the house and head on out north into the steppes. As it came closer, he saw it was a large black vehicle—a saloon car rather than a 4x4, probably Western. A Mercedes, maybe, or a BMW, but it was too distant to be sure.

To his mild surprise, as it approached the house, the car slowed. In almost perfect synchronization, the large wrought iron gates at the end of the drive began slowly to open, clearly operated by someone from inside the house. The car turned into the entrance and made its way, at a much slower speed now, up the driveway toward the house.

At the same time, Tunjin noticed that the large double doors at the front of the house had been opened, and two men—both dressed in the standard leather jacket and dark glasses that seemed to be the uniform for Muunokhoi's hired help—stepped out into the sunlight. Both were holding something. In one case, this seemed to be a cell phone, as the man was holding it close to his ear. In the second case, Tunjin caught the glint of sunlight on the metal. A handgun of some sort.

Tunjin watched in some fascination as the car
pulled to a halt. The two men stepped down to greet it, as the two front doors of the car opened. Two further men, dressed in identical fashion to the first, emerged and conversed briefly with their colleagues. Finally, one of them opened the rear door of the car, reached inside and, with assistance from his colleague, he pulled out what Tunjin at first took to be some kind of bundle—a parcel or a roll of cloth.

Then Tunjin realized that it was a body—a woman. She had dark hair, and was wearing a brightly colored silk dress which fluttered gently in the breeze as the two men lifted her carefully toward the door of the house.

The other two men watched him for a moment. Then the one holding the gun slipped it back into his pocket, said something to the other, and they followed their colleagues and the woman into the house.

Tunjin watched for a few more moments, trying to take all this in, wondering whether anything else would happen. But the house remained as silent as before, the scene unchanged except for the addition of the new car parked on the drive.

Finally, Tunjin slumped backward and lay on his back on the damp grass, watching the slow movement of the scattered clouds across the empty blue of the sky.

Okay, so something was happening here. Something that perhaps required some response, some action. Tunjin still had no idea what he was going to do. But at least now he had a positive motive for trying to do it.

*

“You don't believe in a quiet life, do you?”

“I don't recall it being part of the job description—” He hardly knew what he was saying. He was engaging in badinage on automatic pilot. It was like being in a dream, or perhaps just waking from a dream, except that he was unsure whether he was awake or still sleeping.

“Not of yours, certainly.” The volume of the voice faded in and out, so that he was still unsure whether or not he was really hearing it or whether it was just imagined. His dreams were so vivid. Sarangarel. The car. The abduction.

Nergui opened his eyes suddenly. “Where is she?”

“Where's who?” The response was soothing, as though patronizing a child or someone mentally ill.

Nergui sat up in the bed. “Where is she?”

It was Doripalam sitting by the bed, anxiety etched into his features. “Who? Who are you talking about?”

Nergui shook his head, trying to clear his fogged brain. “Her. Sarangarel. Where is she?”

Doripalam stared at him. “Who's Sarangarel?”

“She's—she's the judge. Judge Radnaa. Where is she?”

Doripalam was looking at Nergui as if, finally, after all these years, he really had lost his reason. “You've been injured,” he said at last. “Concussion. You really need to rest.”

Nergui's eyes were wide now. He was beginning to distinguish between dream and reality. He was beginning to work out where he was. “No,” he said. “It's true. She's been kidnapped. She's in danger.” He paused, taking in the implications of this statement.
“No. Really. In real danger. Muunokhoi.” Even saying the name seemed to exhaust him.

Doripalam blinked. “Muunokhoi? What do you mean?”

Nergui leaned forward, forcing himself to think clearly, trying to sort fact from—whatever else was clouding his brain. “She was with me. When the car—whatever it did—when it hit me. She was with me. And they took her into the car. They kidnapped her—” He stopped, feeling exhausted by the explanation.

“We don't know what happened to you,” Doripalam said. “We don't know how you were injured. We don't know what the story is.”

This was finally making sense to Nergui, though he was not yet in a state to work out the implications. “I was attacked,” he said. He paused, trying to get the narrative straight in his mind. “It was like this. I was having lunch with her. With Sarangarel. Judge Radnaa. She's a judge—” he added, perhaps unnecessarily, but knowing that the narrative would be making little sense to Doripalam. And then there was the question—which his damaged, sleep-raddled mind hadn't begun to come to terms with—of whether it was wise for him to make sense to Doripalam in the first place. “We went for a walk in the park,” he went on, “and then came back to the hotel parking lot. I was going to give her a lift because—” What should he say? What version of the truth was it appropriate to share with Doripalam? How far—because this is what it came down to—could he be trusted?

Nergui paused, partly to regain his breath, partly to work out how much he should say. But his mind was
still confused. He could not come to grips with the idea of not trusting Doripalam. “We were having lunch together,” he repeated, finally. “We went back to the hotel parking lot. The Bayangol. And then this car—it came from nowhere. It was parked. Drove out. Hit me. But—no, this is the point. The back door of the car opened and—they grabbed her—”

“Who? They grabbed who?”

Nergui knew that Doripalam was an intelligent man. He seemed to be being almost willfully obtuse. “Sarangarel,” he repeated patiently. “Judge Radnaa. They kidnapped her.”

“They kidnapped a judge?”

Nergui breathed out, like a runner who had finally reached his destination. “Yes. Exactly. They've kidnapped a judge. Judge Radnaa.”

Doripalam was staring at him. “You said Muunokhoi. What did you mean?”

It was Nergui's turn to stare, all his doubts returning. “I don't know,” he said. “What did I say?”

Doripalam sat back, looking at his former boss, sitting propped up in the hospital bed. “I think I'd better tell you what I know. How we found you.” He paused. “All we know is that you were found in the Hotel Bayangol parking lot. One of the hotel staff found you. You were bleeding from the head and he assumed—rightly, as far as we can tell—that you were hit by a car. An accident—”

“It wasn't an accident.”

“No, well, that wouldn't be a surprise. Anyway, he called for medical help. You were brought in here. And they found your Ministry ID and so contacted us.”

“I wasn't alone,” Nergui insisted. “When I was hit by the car.”

“Yes, well, I'm beginning to understand that. You were with Judge—”

“Radnaa. She's been kidnapped.”

“Judge Radnaa. Why do I—?”

“She was the judge in the Muunokhoi case. The aborted case.”

“Is that why you think—?”