The Adversary (30 page)

“It's a long story,” Nergui said. “But, yes, I think she's been kidnapped by Muunokhoi's people.”

There was a long silence. Finally, Doripalam said: “You do know what you're saying? I mean, you were concussed.”

Nergui was sitting bolt upright in bed now. “I know exactly what I'm saying. The only question in my mind is whether I ought to be saying it to you.”

The silence was even longer this time.

“What do you mean?” Doripalam said at last.

Nergui shook his head. He realized, only now, that his head was aching, very intensely, a dull numbing ache that still seemed to cloud his reason. His normally razor sharp instincts seemed blunted, and he felt unable to trust his judgment. “This is a very long story,” he said. “How badly hurt am I?”

“Hardly at all,” Doripalam said. “I've always suspected you were indestructible and this proves it. Not many people get into an argument with a car and walk away.”

“I didn't exactly walk away,” Nergui pointed out, “and it wasn't really an argument. More like a very brief exchange of views. And it doesn't really feel like I'm hardly hurt at all.” As his senses had slowly
returned, Nergui was becoming increasingly aware that some parts of his body—his hip, one of his arms—were in considerable pain.

“Even so,” Doripalam said, “I checked with the doctor. You suffered some bruising—some of it very painful but not serious. You hit your head, but they've done a scan and there's no lasting damage. Not that I could have deduced that from the way you've been talking.”

“No,” Nergui said. “So when can I leave?”

“I think they'll sign you out as soon as you think you're ready,” Doripalam said.

“I think I'm ready. I think I'm more than ready.” Nergui twisted himself across the bed with some difficulty and sat up on the edge. He was wearing a hospital issue gown. “Where are my clothes?”

“I really don't think you ought to—”

Nergui looked up at the younger man. His dark face was as impassive as ever but his blue eyes were blazing with an emotion which Doripalam could not read. “Listen, Doripalam. There isn't time. Sarangarel's been taken by Muunokhoi's people. We don't know where. We don't know what might happen to her. But we have to assume the worst.”

“But you don't know for sure—”

“That Muunokhoi's behind this. I do know. But, no, I can't prove it. And if Muunokhoi is true to form, he'll make sure that he's a long way away from whatever might happen. Although—” He stopped and stared at Doripalam, as though trying to fathom some intricate puzzle.

“What?”

“It doesn't feel right for Muunokhoi, all this. All these years of caution. All this time we've never been able to lay a finger on him. And now—”

Doripalam was watching Nergui, clearly wondering whether the concussion had been more serious than he had originally imagined.

“Now,” Nergui went on, “he seems rattled. He seems almost to be panicking. It's—” He stopped, still perched on the edge of the bed and looked back up at Doripalam. “I need to know,” he said. “I need to know whether I can trust you.”

Doripalam opened his mouth to speak, but no words emerged. Finally, he said: “What are you talking about?”

“Find me my clothes,” Nergui said. “We need to get out of here. We need to talk.”

It was nearly dark outside.

Tsend's main office window faced north and the setting sun was already invisible, lost behind the endless forests and low hills, the last crimson rays draining from the sky. He could almost see the movement of the night's shadows spreading across the rolling grassland.

The call would come soon, he knew. The second call since the young man from the city had been here. Doripalam. So confident and cocksure. So patronizing. And so much further out of his depth than he could ever have imagined.

Tsend smiled, standing by the window, staring out at the darkening landscape. It was amusing, he thought. Ironic. Left to himself, he would have never made the connection, never realized who the four men were. He had been following, with some detached amusement, the news stories of the missing son and then the murder of the mother. And he had noted, with no real interest, the official request that any new arrivals in the area should be reported back to headquarters.

But he had not taken the request seriously. And he had certainly not registered its deeper significance to his own position.

So it was thanks only to some over-enthusiastic local rookie that the men had been spotted. And—even more amusingly—it was thanks only to Doripalam's own assiduousness that the four men had been positively identified and then brought back here. Into Tsend's safe-keeping.

It was only then that Tsend finally learned who the men were. And who else was interested in them. And just how much that interest might enhance his own standing. For the first time, he had the opportunity to prove himself, to show that he was more than just another local hick on the take.

The only question now was what happened next. The first call had simply told him to keep hold of the men, ensure they were kept safe. Someone would be coming up from the city to question them, but that was okay. That was all in hand.

But once that was out of the way, the matter would have to be finished off. Tidied up. Tsend should await further instructions.

He was still gazing fixedly out of the window when the cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out and thumbed the call button. “Yes?” Use only this phone, they had said. Never give your name.

“Someone will be coming up from the city tomorrow morning,” the voice said. Tsend thought the speaker sounded familiar, but immediately put the idea from his mind. He didn't want to know. “Make them welcome. They will question the men. You should cooperate. That's all under control.”

Tsend had never doubted it. “And then—?” he breathed.

“Then the men should be released,” the voice said.

“But I was told to keep—”

“The men should be released,” the voice repeated, as if Tsend had not spoken. “They should be sent back to their camp. They should be told that there is nothing to worry about. That they are safe and under your protection. You will keep them under observation until we contact you again.”

“And then—”

“Then, with your assistance, we will take care of things,” the voice said, evenly. “We will take care of everything.”

“This is outrageous,” she said. “I've never been treated like this.” The words were automatic. She hardly knew what she was saying, her mind still struggling through the fog of semi-consciousness. But already she was recognizing the need to assert her will, to try to gain some control of the situation.

The man sitting opposite her merely nodded and shrugged. He was watching her closely, but it was clear that he had no intention of engaging in any kind of conversation or offering any kind of response.

“How long are you intending to keep me here?”

The man shrugged again, this time smiling faintly. His impervious calm was almost the most infuriating aspect of the situation in which she found herself.

She was still half-asleep, her mouth was dry and her head was aching. She was lying uncomfortably on an overstuffed sofa, a blanket draped decorously across her, although she was still fully clothed. She had no idea how long she had been unconscious, but her
stomach felt empty and nauseous, as if she hadn't eaten for days. She pulled herself upright and looked around her.

In other circumstances, this would have seemed a very comfortable environment. It was a large, well-appointed living room, clearly the property of someone possessing both good taste and the wealth needed to express it. The furniture was expensive and well-chosen—mahogany woodwork, plush upholstery, delicate splashings of gold and silver here and there. At the far end of the room was something she had never seen before—a large, flat-screen television. There were shelves of books—all leather bound, apparently unopened.

Through the window beyond the television, she could see a large expanse of grass, dotted with some pots of apparently exotic flowers. The garden was bounded, at the far end, by a large fence, fronted by rows of dense fir trees.

There was no way of knowing where she was. As soon as she had been pulled into the car, she had been blindfolded and moments later she had felt the prick of a syringe in her arm. She had fought hard against the blankness that began to overwhelm her, trying to maintain consciousness. Her last recollection had been a brief exchange of words that had told her there were two men in the front seats, and then she had remembered nothing until waking up in this room.

How long had she been unconscious? She had no watch and no idea of the time. But the sunlight streaming through the windows was low, and something about the quality of the light suggested that
it was morning rather than evening. Was it possible that she had been unconscious overnight?

“Won't you at least give me an idea what this is all about?” she said. “I mean, is it some kind of joke?”

It was a ridiculous question. What sort of joke could this be? What sort of joke would involve seizing a member of the judiciary, while apparently in the process also running over a senior officer from the Ministry of Security?

The last question sent her thoughts back to Nergui. Could he possibly be all right? The sound of the car hitting his body had been indescribably awful—all the more dreadful for its softness. She had seen him—only for a moment before she was dragged into the car—fall backward, his head thudding against the concrete of the hotel parking lot. It was possible, she supposed, that he was badly injured or even dead, though she rapidly pushed the thought to the back of her mind.

She looked back at the blank-faced man sitting opposite her. They were seated like prospective diners or perhaps chess players, facing one another across the polished mahogany table.

She rose slowly from her seat and made her way toward the rear window. The man watched her movement with no apparent interest.

As she had expected, the view from the window told her nothing more. There was a well-tended garden at the rear of the house, largely laid to grass, scattered with conifers and potted plants. The concept of a garden was not widely appreciated in this land of vast open plains and desert, and she could only assume that the owner of the property had spent some time in the
West—or, she supposed, in Japan, although the style of the garden was essentially European. She wondered quite how expensive it would be to maintain this kind of garden in this extreme continental climate, with its sub-zero winters and dry summers.

The rear boundary of the garden was marked by a high solid fence lined with tall conifers. She could see nothing beyond—no sign of the mountains or forests, no clue as to where this house might be located.

She moved away from the window, and wandered back across the room, pausing to glance at the glass fronted bookshelves that lined the adjacent wall. The books were all antiquarian, leather bound, virtually all of them—other than an ornate edition of
The Secret History of the Mongols
—with titles she did not recognize. The library looked like the kind of anonymous collection that might be held by any rich man as an investment or perhaps simply as an indicator of his wealth. There was no sign that any of the books had been read. There was also no clue even to the personality, let alone the identity, of the owner of the house.

She turned back from the bookshelf as the door opened and a figure stepped quietly inside. For all the absence of evidence, she had been assuming—on the basis of her discussion with Nergui—that she had been brought here at Muunokhoi's behest. She had similarly assumed that Muunokhoi would appear to greet her and carry out whatever purpose had been behind her apparent abduction.

But, she realized, this was naïve. Muunokhoi had not revealed his hand so far, and there was no reason to assume he would start now. She could not even
assume that this was Muunokhoi's house—it was far more likely that he would find some anonymous location to take whatever action he had in mind, rather than have her taken to his home. Not that there was anything obviously anonymous about this place.

Certainly, the man who now entered the room was not Muunokhoi, and did not look like one of his henchmen. He was a short, relatively young man—probably in his early thirties—dressed in a smart dark suit. His hair was trimmed short, and he wore angular black framed glasses which Sarangarel presumed were some kind of fashion statement rather than simply an optical aid. In his hands, he carried a small silver tray, with a plate of bread and cold meats and a jug of water.

He moved softly across the room and placed the tray carefully on the table. Then he sat down opposite the first man, who nodded and left the room.

The young man gestured Sarangarel to take the vacated seat. “Mrs. Radnaa,” he said. “Will you join me?” It was a voice which carried no expectation of a negative response.

She nodded to him and walked slowly back across the room, but made no move to sit down. “I presume you're going to tell me what this is all about?”

He smiled. “Please sit down, Mrs. Radnaa. It is very awkward holding this conversation with you standing up. If it's any reassurance, I think that even sitting down you are likely to be taller than I am.”

She watched him for a moment, then nodded and sat down on the chair. “So, Mr.—”

He smiled. “I don't think that the name is important,” he said.

“That rather depends,” she said, “on what you have in mind. I don't think it's unreasonable to want to know the name of my abductor.”

“‘Abductor' is rather a strong term,” he said. “I'd rather think of myself as your host.”

She stared at him for a moment. “Well,” she said at last, “I think you leave me speechless.” She paused. “So this place is yours?”