The Adversary (31 page)

He shrugged. “I live here,” he said.

She nodded. “I see. So this belongs to someone else. Who presumably shares your eccentric view that dragging someone involuntarily into the back of a car doesn't constitute abduction.”

He smiled. “You're a lawyer,” he said. “I am sure you know best. But—however you arrived—you are here as our guest. You will not be treated badly.” He gestured toward the tray. “You must be hungry.”

For a moment, she contemplated refusing the food, but realized that her hunger was too great. She pulled the tray toward her and took a slice of bread and meat, trying not to appear too eager. As she ate, the man poured her a glass of water.

After a few moments the food and water dispelled the worst of her nausea. Her mind was still fogged, but she felt more in control. “Guests are normally free to leave when they wish,” she pointed out. “I take it that is not the case here.”

“Not at present, no,” he admitted. “But I hope that we can conclude our business relatively quickly.”

She sat back in her chair and regarded him. “And that business would be?”

He hesitated for a moment, as though seeking the
most appropriate words. “We believe,” he said, “that you are in possession of some material, some—paperwork, that rightly belongs to us.”

“I don't think so,” she said. “Though of course it's difficult to be sure without knowing who you are.”

“I don't think there is much point in playing games, Mrs. Radnaa,” he said, calmly. “We know more than you can imagine.”

“I'm sure you know things I couldn't begin to imagine,” she said. “But I am not sure where that gets us. I am not playing games. I really don't know what you're talking about.”

The man leaned forward across the table, staring at Sarangarel. “I have told you,” he said. “We know. We know about your husband. We know that you recently—and unexpectedly—received a legacy indirectly from your husband.”

If Sarangarel was surprised by this announcement, she did not allow it to show. She smiled faintly. “You're very well informed,” she said. “But I fail to understand why this information should be of interest to anyone but myself.”

The man gazed at her for a moment, as though—against his expectations—it was he who had been surprised by her words. “We know about your husband,” he repeated.

“What do you know about my husband?” she said. “You know that he was a businessman? Not a very successful one, I should say.” She looked around as though seeing the room for the first time. “Much less successful than you, if you really are the owner of this place. And what else do you know? You know that he
was arrested, supposedly for smuggling, but that he was never brought to trial? You know that he died in police custody?” She paused. “I'm not sure what else there is for you to know. I can tell you his shoe size and probably several more intimate facts about him, but then you're probably ahead of me there as well.”

The man looked down at the table, as though Sarangarel's attempts to embarrass him had succeeded.

“But,” she went on, “all of this is public knowledge. Perhaps you thought it would cause me difficulties, as a member of the judiciary, but, no, I've been able to put all that history well behind me. So, you see, I really don't know what it is you're talking about.”

The man made no immediate response and at first it seemed as though he had no response to give. If it was the case that he was acting on Muunokhoi's behalf, then he was really now facing something of a dilemma. He had clearly hoped to intimidate her into handing over the papers immediately. Instead, all he had succeeded in doing was confirming that there was—or at least he thought there was—something significant in the papers. And if he were to say anything more, he would at the very least confirm that fact and might risk revealing something more. Even the issue of her husband's identity had no significance unless it really was the case that he was somehow linked with Muunokhoi.

Finally, the man looked back at her, his dark eyes revealing nothing. “All I can say to you, Mrs. Radnaa, is that while we do not, for the moment at least, intend you any harm, you cannot be released until you give us what we seek.”

“In that case,” she looked around her, “I am glad that you have provided me with such a comfortable prison.”

Even at the time, Tunjin had no idea how it happened. But that was the story of his life.

He had stayed on the hillside all night, initially with some half-idea that he might try to break into the house under cover of darkness. But he didn't fool himself that the security would be any less tight at night, and he still had no idea how he could gain entry. Eventually, he had wrapped himself in an old blanket he had found in the pannier of the motorbike, and settled down to try to get some rest. He had expected that sleep would be elusive, but in fact he had succumbed very quickly, cushioned by the soft grass and exhausted by the travails of the previous days.

When he awoke, the sun was already rising over the hills to the east. It was another fine spring day. He was cold and hungry, but beginning to recognize what sobriety felt like. It was years since he had felt this alert on first waking. He dragged himself to his feet, and dug out the last remnants of the bread and water that Nergui had given him. As he ate, Tunjin made his way back along the hill, trying to gain a good vantage point over the house, wanting to get as clear an understanding as he could of its layout, likely security protection, and anything else that might assist him in the—as yet unknown—activity in which he was about to engage.

He moved slowly, his eyes fixed on the estate below. Before him, the slope dropped gently away, a smooth
contour of grassland which became progressively steeper as it swept down toward tall blank fences that surrounded the house. The wind rippled gently through the grass, a brilliant green in the spring sunshine, and some way off before the trees a cloud of butterflies scattered into the shadows.

It was, perhaps, the butterflies that distracted Tunjin, though he had thought his attention was entirely fixed on the house. He stepped on—what was it? A loose stone, a more slippery area of grass? He wasn't sure. He knew only that, suddenly, his feet went from under him and his considerable weight toppled him, at first slowly then with increasing speed, down the hillside. His feet skidded on the grass, still wet from the morning dew. The next moment, he was, quite literally, rolling, his hands flailing to try to obtain some purchase. He saw the darkness of the trees, the brilliance of the clear blue sky, the dazzling sunshine, strobing through his vision as he fell, completely out of control now, spinning down toward the wooden fence.

His tumbling body hit the steeper part of the hill and bounced into the air, knocking the breath from his large body, and then he was rolling again, spinning faster, his flesh bruised and scraped despite the softness of the ground.

The end came suddenly and brutally, as his body slammed into the brown wooden fence. All the breath was expelled from his body and he lay on his back, gasping, assuming that at any moment his heart would give out and relieve him from the agonizing pain that coursed through his limbs.

It took him some minutes to register that, despite the pain, he did not appear to be seriously injured. His breathing slowed, and he lay on his back, staring at the blue of the sky, watching the slow drift of the white clouds above him. He could move his limbs. He stretched out his arms, feeling the ache of the bruises, but grateful that nothing seemed to be broken.

He was lying pressed against the wooden fence, still lacking the energy to move. He had struck the fence with a deafening crash. So much for his idea of approaching the place surreptitiously.

Finally, he pulled himself up to a sitting position. He looked back up behind him. At the top of the hill he could see the sun glinting on the Vincent motorcycle. Was there nothing he could do right? He hadn't even managed to conceal his transport.

But then he realized that his fall had actually achieved something. The impact of Tunjin's weight against the wood had cracked several of the slats, leaving a gaping opening. The fence was, Tunjin now realized, rather less substantial than it appeared. He sat forward, gasping slightly, and pulled gently at the wood.

The first slat came away very easily, and Tunjin tossed it away on to the grass. Behind it, he could see dark undergrowth, thick trees and, beyond that, more grass. He climbed up on to his knees, and began to pull at the wood. Two, then three more slats were pulled back, and thrown on to the grass. Very shortly, Tunjin had cleared a space large enough for even his body to squeeze through.

He kneeled in front of the hole, hesitating,
wondering what kind of security protection might lie beyond it. There was no way of knowing. It was likely that there would be some kind of camera arrangement, perhaps even alarms. But what were the options? He could turn and climb away—not that the prospect of climbing the hill was particularly attractive—or he could continue.

He pushed himself forward through the hole, squeezing with some difficulty through the limited space. On the far side he found himself in shady undergrowth, thick conifers towering above him. The sun barely reached here, shaded by the trees and the fence itself. Through the undergrowth he could see an expanse of grass and a network of paths.

Once through the fence, he climbed slowly to his feet, still feeling the bruises across his body. The garden was silent, apart from the faint whisper of the wind through the trees.

Tunjin pushed forward, feeling the thick conifers brushing against his face. Across the grass, he could see the solid wooden bulk of the house. He still didn't even have the beginnings of a plan, had no idea what he might be about to do now he had managed to enter this place.

There was no sight or sound of any alarm, though that didn't necessarily mean that strident sirens weren't sounding within the house.

Finally, Tunjin emerged on to the path, feeling an unaccountable sense of release as he entered the open light and air. He paused on the path, wondering precisely where he should proceed next.

But, almost immediately, the choice was taken from
him. As he straightened up, he heard a voice behind him.

“Well, I suppose it cuts both ways. You're fat enough to break through the perimeter. But you're not hard to track down.”

Tunjin turned slowly. A man was standing on the path behind him, having apparently appeared from nowhere. But all Tunjin really saw was the shining black barrel of a gun, pointing steadily toward his chest.

Earlier in the day, in the brightness of the spring afternoon, the place would have been heaving with people, locals and tourists alike, perhaps looking for a dose of spirituality or simply seeing the extraordinary sights. Now, though, as the afternoon came to an end, the grounds had emptied and provided a perfect backdrop to the uneasy conversation between Nergui and Doripalam.

“Are you all right?” Doripalam said solicitously as they made their way slowly up the steep hill.

Nergui nodded, though the honest answer would have been negative. He was not entirely all right, either physically or mentally. Perhaps not even spiritually, he thought, in which case they had at least come to the right place.

“I used to come here a lot,” Nergui said, looking around as they reached the summit of the hill. He was breathing heavily, his limbs still aching from the cuts and bruises. “But not for a while. Perhaps it's been too long.”

Nergui was not a religious man. Or at least not religious in a way that any conventional faith would appreciate. But he had always found that the Monastery of Choijin Lama, with its clustering of ornate temples, provided some kind of sustenance,
something which, he supposed, could be described as spiritual. Perhaps it was the history. Perhaps it was the way that this faith, these rituals, had managed to survive through all the days of suppression. Or perhaps it was simply the rituals themselves, the sights, the sounds, the sonorous music, all redolent of something greater than anything merely human.

Even now, as they strolled among the gaudily colored buildings, scattering pigeons as they walked, they could hear the clattering of the dazzling prayer wheels, the repetitive chanting of the monks faintly discernible from inside. Beneath the brilliant blue of the sky, it was as if they were somehow connected with a world with more significance than anything found in the hazy shadows of the city spread out below them.

Not that this improved the connection between the two men themselves. They had barely spoken as they made their slow way up the hillside. Doripalam had insisted that Nergui's departure from the hospital should be handled by the book, and Nergui had reluctantly acceded. They had had to wait until the doctor in charge had appeared and then had to spend further time persuading him to release Nergui. He was initially reluctant. He acknowledged that there was nothing seriously wrong with Nergui, but felt that he needed more rest. It was only as it became increasingly obvious that, inside or outside the hospital, rest was the last thing on Nergui's mind that the doctor finally agreed to his departure.

They stopped at the top of the hill, the temple behind them, and looked down at the sprawl of the city.

“So,” Doripalam said finally, “are you going to tell me what this is all about?”

“I'm not sure I can tell you what it's
all
about,” Nergui said, still staring down at the streets and buildings beneath them.

“And are you sure now that you should?” Doripalam said. “These things are difficult for me to understand, given that I don't normally move in your exalted circles.”

Nergui turned and stared at the young man, and then burst out laughing. “Is that what you think this is all about?” he said. “My over-inflated sense of my own importance?”

Doripalam shrugged. “As I say, it's difficult for me to judge.”