Authors: Michael Walters
Tags: #Fiction, #Crime, #Mystery & Detective, #General
The Outcast
MICHAEL WALTERS
New York ⢠London
© 2008 by Michael Walters
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ISBN 978-1-62365-296-8
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, institutions, places, and events are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual personsâliving or deadâevents, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Also by Michael Walters
FICTION
The Shadow Walker
The Adversary
To Hazel and Murrayâ
for making it possible in the first place
And, as always, to Christine
for making it possible now
Medley for Morin Khur
The sound box is made of a horse's head.
The resonator is horse skin.
The strings and bow are of horsehair.
The morin khur is a thoroughbred
of Mongolian violins.
Its call is the call of the stallion to the mare.
A call which may no more be gainsaid
than that of jinn to jinn
through jasmine-weighted air.
A call that may no more be gainsaid
than that of blood kin to kin
through a body-strewn central square.
A square in which they'll heap the horses' heads
by the heaps of horse skin
and the heaps of horsehair.
Paul Muldoon
SUMMER
There was nothing. Nothing for miles. Nothing for days.
After all these years, it had overwhelmed Samâthe rolling steppe, the distant mountains and, far to the south, the vast terrain of the desert. He was dizzied by it, unable to comprehend the distance, the sense of space. So different from the confined clutter of what was now his home.
If anything, it was better than he remembered, better than his imagination.
He had forgotten the deep intensity of the colours, the expanse of the liquid blue skies, the lush richness of the northern landscapes. And the sheer vastness of the space that lay around them on all sides.
And now, at last, he was free. His hosts had understood what he was looking for, and identified Sunduin, an unemployed graduate, to act as his guide. They would travel east, out into the empty grasslandsâthe supposed birthplace of Genghis Khan himself.
Sunduin spoke excellent English, but it was easy to see why he had failed to secure more permanent employment. He was a slovenly creature, dressed always in a faded T-shirt and battered jeans, his lank, too-long hair overhanging his pallid forehead. He was surly and taciturn, clearly unenthused by the prospect of acting as a guide and interpreter to an over-indulged Western visitor. Sam kept a watchful eye on his bags and money, certain that Sunduin would not miss an opportunity for an easy profit.
As they flew out on the bumpy MIAT flight, watching the grasslands open up before them, Sam felt both excitement and trepidation. Sunduin was slumped next to him, apparently asleep.
He had barely spoken since they had met at the airport, doing just enough to get them through the check-in processes. He woke only as the aircraft touched down at Ondorkhaan, and was equally taciturn in leading them through the primitive airport and out into the sunlight.
As they emerged from the airport, Sunduin gestured across the road and moments later, a truck pulled up. The driver had clearly been waiting for them.
Sam pulled out his wallet to pay the sum that had, according to Sunduin, been agreed. The owner had insisted on US dollars, and to Sam the amount was pitifully small. He half expected a demand for some additional payment, but the man simply counted the bills carefully, stuffed them into the breast pocket of his shirt and nodded. He spoke a few words to Sunduin, and climbed out of the truck. Sunduin threw his own bag into the back seat and took the man's place behind the wheel, gesturing that Sam should follow.
Sam looked at the driver, who had lit a cigarette and was watching them expressionlessly. “Is he staying here?”
Sunduin shrugged. “He has other business.”
It was a mile or so into town. Sunduin, for the first time showing some enthusiasm, slammed his foot down hard on the accelerator, and they sped along the narrow dirt road. It was not yet nine a.m., but the sun was already growing hot. The landscape was bare but beautiful, mile upon mile of open rolling grassland.
Sam stared around as they approached the outskirts of Ondorkhaan. It was the regional capital, but there was little to the townâa few wooden houses, with an occasional larger, more official-looking edifice along the main street. Sunduin made no effort to reduce the vehicle's speed as they entered the town.
“Are we stopping?” Sam asked. He had left Sunduin to deal with the detail of their accommodation.
Sunduin shook his head. “I thought we should head straight across there. I've booked us a hotel in Dadal.”
Sam nodded. Genghis Khan's supposed birthplace was close to the small township. “That sounds good. How far is it?”
Sunduin shrugged. “A little way. Eighty, ninety kilometres. Maybe a couple of hours. It's not a good road. Sleep if you want to.”
Against his expectations, Sam did sleep, lulled by the bouncing rhythm of the truck and when he opened his eyes, the sun was higher in the sky, the temperature still rising. Sunduin glanced over and said: “Not far now: ten, fifteen minutes.”
“Do you know this area?” Sam asked.
“It's my country. I know it well enough.”
“It's a beautiful country.” Sam was conscious that his words were a tourist's platitude. There was no way he could convey how much this country meant to him, even after all these years.
They were still on the grassland, but the altitude was increasing. There were sparse clusters of trees, tall conifers that threw dark shadows across the intense green of the steppe. Ondorkhaan was far behind, and there was no sign of human habitation.
“That's it,” Sunduin said. He took a hand off the wheel and gestured ahead of them. “That hill, there. The birthplace of our great leader. So they say.” It was impossible to interpret his tone.
“I look forward to seeing it.”
They drove another half mile, and then Sunduin hit the brakes and pulled them off the road on to the grassy plain. “We stop here.”
Sam looked around, startled by the suddenness of Sunduin's action. “Is this it?”
“You want to see the birthplace?” Sunduin looked bored suddenly, as though this whole expedition was a waste of his precious time.
“Yes, but I thought we'd go to the town first.”
Sunduin glanced wearily at his watch. “It's only eleven,” he said. “There's no point in going to the hotel. I thought you wanted to see the birthplace.”
“I do.” Sam realised that, for all his plans, he wasn't sure what he had been expecting.
Sunduin opened his door, and climbed slowly out into the warm air. “Are you coming?” he said.
Sam watched him for a moment. “Yes,” he said, finally. “Of course.”
He opened his door, and climbed down. The high sun was hot on his back.
And then, as he straightened, the sky went dark, and a chill ran through his body. It was as if all the light and heat had been drained from the world.
He looked up, startled, half-expecting some unpredicted solar eclipse. In the otherwise empty sky, a single small dark cloud had momentarily drifted across the sun. In a minute, the light would return.
Sam stared across at Sunduin, striding away across the grassland. The sun was already brightening again, but the chill stayed with him. The truth was clear: two of them were setting out on this journey. Two of them would see Genghis Khan's birthplace.
But only one would return.
Â
He had found a public phone, just off Sukh Bataar Square, but there was no way he could use that. He cursed himself, and he cursed this whole bloody country. The state that it was in. At least at home he understood things. Here, he was operating on instinct, guesswork.
And there were no fucking phones.
He hadn't planned for this, which was a mistake. But what did he expect? This was his first time on mission. He couldn't be expected to think of everything.
Public call boxes were out; they were bound to be monitored. The same went for his office phone; the line would be bugged. They kept an eye on everyone, just as they did back home. Especially if you were foreign; especially if you were Chinese.
In the end, he broke into one of the offices at the university. It wasn't difficult, and if the phone was monitored, it couldn't be traced back to him.
Even so, his hands trembled as he dialled. The phone rang for endless minutes until he became sure it would never be picked up. Then there was a click and a voice. “Yes?” In just that one word, Sam recognized authority.
“I'm sorry,” he said. “I'm trying to call the museum. I thought I'd dialled 237 1505.” The agreed format. The venue, and, in the last four digits, the time they should meet, the following day. All planned.