Using a pillow to end Chinara’s final suffering, I’d spared her some small amount of pain. The world at large would call it a mercy killing. In the deepest caves of my heart, I could call it nothing else but murder.
‘You’re offering me condolences now?’ I asked.
‘You’re not the only person who’s lost someone,’ Aliyev said, a surprisingly gentle tone in his voice. ‘Maybe I’ll tell you about it one day.’
I didn’t reply, stood up.
‘Sit down.’
I remained standing, and I saw the attention of the guard in the room suddenly switch to high alert.
‘Sit down. Please.’
I couldn’t see an alternative that wouldn’t get me shot, so I did as he asked.
‘You need to get out of the country.’
A statement, not a question, and one with which I could only agree.
‘You don’t have any money, any hidden savings, unless you’re not the policeman I take you for.’
It’s all very well being told you’re an honest cop, but honeyed words did nothing to get me out of the shit I was in.
‘Your former colleagues will shoot you down on sight, and if you survive, then the minister will pick your bones clean.’
I nodded.
‘So really, the only choice you have is to work for me.’
Aliyev saw the self-disgust in my face, took a cigarette, sparked it and inhaled.
‘Don’t worry, I’m not suggesting you become a hitman. One simple job and you’re done, with enough money to stay out of trouble as long as you stay out of Kyrgyzstan. Interested?’
‘I’d like to hear more.’
‘Of course, but first let me ask you something. You’re not afraid of flying, are you?’ he asked, and I could hear the concern in his voice. ‘You have flown before?’
‘Sure,’ I said, ‘I just hate—’
‘I know,’ Aliyev interrupted, ‘helicopters. I’m not surprised, after what you’ve seen today. But you don’t have a problem with regular flying?’
‘No.’
‘Good. Because you’re going to be doing a lot of it.’
Chapter 30
Nothing prepares you for the sheer scale and noise of Bangkok. People in a raging hurry wherever you go, swarming like ants along the pavements, faces taut and stressed, as if a moment lost meant an opportunity missed. The scent of exotic spicy foods hanging in the thick moist air that drapes itself like a wet blanket around your face. Endless streams of cars beyond counting, drivers hammering on their horns as if the din could make the gridlocked traffic creep forward even a few metres. The high-pitched scream and blare of thousands of vehicles bounced off the glass-sided towers clinging to the roadside. I was overwhelmed by the energy, the ferocious never-ending pace of the city. I felt helpless, a swimmer struggling against a current dragging me inexorably to a waterfall whose journey ended on jagged rocks. I was a long way from Bishkek.
I’d watched the green fields turn to endless rows of buildings from the aircraft window, leaning over in the business-class seat Aliyev had provided.
‘Thailand isn’t like Kyrgyzstan,’ he’d said. ‘Here, we keep our heads down. But in Asia, you need to put yourself about a bit. The best hotels, fine restaurants, a limousine service at your call twenty-four hours a day. You’ll be representing me: that means they have to believe you’re important, a big man in my organisation. No backpacker hostel on Khao San Road and a one-week Rabbit Travelcard for the Skytrain. Who knows, Inspector, once you get a taste of luxury, you might even get to like it.’
I decided not to fight it. And as Aliyev pointed out to me, flying business means you stand out from the crowd of tourists, and being in full sight was the best disguise I could have. One of the guards had taken my measurements, came back a few hours later with a couple of suits, shirts, shoes, and an elegant leather case to put them in. They were the smartest, most expensive clothes I’d ever worn, and I could almost forget the blood and tears staining them.
I’d flown to Bangkok from Tashkent, since heading to Manas Airport would have meant my sure arrest. Aliyev could have fixed me up with a new passport, but I knew my face would be in front of every immigration official, ticket counter clerk and security guard at the airport. A change of name and nationality wouldn’t help.
I’d been smuggled into Uzbekistan in the middle of the night, thrown like a sack of potatoes into the boot of a Moskvitch that had never seen better days. The car had once boasted a suspension and efficient brakes, but those glory days were nothing but a memory. There were a few tense moments as we stopped at a checkpoint, and I had to hold the boot closed, but after a brief exchange of words (and maybe a quick gift of dollars), we were on our way again. I suspected I could probably have ridden across the border on a white stallion, dressed as a ballet dancer from the Bolshoi Ballet, given Aliyev’s connections, but I think the Moskvitch catered to his sense of drama and intrigue. As well as reminding me who was boss.
Twenty kilometres and several bruises later, I was hauled out of the boot and given the back seat to sit on. I wasn’t sure which was more uncomfortable.
Checking in at Islam Karimov International Airport wasn’t a problem. I used my own passport, expecting my name wouldn’t have been circulated outside Kyrgyzstan. One of the good things about not getting on well with your neighbours: they’re never too anxious to help you catch your domestic criminals.
I had a couple of hours to get through before my flight, so I wandered into the business class lounge, hid behind a newspaper for an hour, and made a free local phone call, got an answerphone, left a message. Then a charming stewardess told us we had ten minutes to get to the boarding gate, only six hundred metres away.
Once on board, I watched out of the window as we taxied to the runway, expecting a jeep full of soldiers to come racing up to stop the flight, haul me off, and hand me over to a Kyrgyz welcoming party, but we took off without incident. The six-hour flight was certainly the most luxurious I’d ever been on, with wide seats and good food. The seat turned into a bed, but even if it hadn’t been the middle of the day, I had too much on my mind to let me sleep.
Aliyev had given me a thorough briefing on who I was to meet, what I was to say, what I could offer, what compromises I couldn’t make. I was surprised he’d chosen me to make the approach, but his logic was supremely easy to follow.
‘The people you’re going to meet are naturally cautious, suspicious of new faces. But when I tell them I’m sending the man whose balls are so big he shot the Minister for State Security in the back – well, that kind of reputation can’t be bought, only earned. And I’ve made sure they know all about it.’
I’m not sure if high praise from a notorious criminal boss counts in your favour in most social circles, but if it meant I wouldn’t be found face-down in a rice paddy, I was willing to accept it.
I was fast-tracked through immigration, and walked to the courtesy vehicle pickup. The airport was enormous, but still felt packed with thousands of people milling around. I was already starting to feel claustrophobic, missing the emptiness and silence of the mountains. But I had a job to do, and I’d never see the Tien Shan again if I didn’t succeed. Perhaps I wouldn’t see anything ever again.
I saw a long black town car was parked by the kerb, dwarfed by the driver who stood in front of it holding a sign with my name on it. In Cyrillic, no less, which impressed me. Clearly, I was meeting people who paid attention to every detail. It’s strangely comforting to see your name printed in letters you can read; God knows what I would have done with the beautiful but incomprehensible Thai alphabet.
The nearer I got to the car, the bigger the driver looked, until I realised I was standing next to a man well over two metres tall, and broad to match. An immaculate black suit, not a chauffeur’s uniform, would have made him look like a highly successful businessman, except I’d already spotted the bulge under his arm. My guess was a Glock Parabellum, and I wondered how I was going to manage without a we
apon of my own.
The driver stared at me as I approached, or so I thought, his eyes hidden behind black sunglasses. Finally, I stood in front of him. No reaction, impassive. I think I was meant to be impressed, maybe even a little scared. I reached up and removed the glasses, and as he reacted, I slid my other hand into his jacket, lifted his gun partway out of the holster. His reaction was a half-second too slow, and he froze as I pulled at the gun.
‘If I pull the trigger now, my guess is I’ll hit a lung, maybe go through a kidney or the liver as well. You need less practice at looking scary, more time on the range.’
I let the pistol slide back into place, tucked the glasses into his pocket.
‘I’m Borubaev, and before I get in any car, I like to know where I’m going and who’s driving it.’
The driver glared, and began to lumber towards his seat. I simply stood there, my bag on the ground, my arms folded. Finally, he got the message, reached inside the car, released the boot lid, walked round to pick up my bag and stow it away.
After a moment, he reached for the rear door handle, but as he did so, I stepped forward, opened it myself, slid inside. Always keep men like that uncertain what you’ll do next, whether you’ll smile and ask after their children or start throwing punches and pulling triggers. It means they’ll be alert, which is never a bad thing in a bodyguard.
‘The hotel, sir?’ he finally said, and I nodded.
Against Aliyev’s advice, I’d had him book a small boutique hotel on Langsuan just up from Lumpini Park. It didn’t look like the sort of place where a successful international criminal would stay, and that suited me just fine. Big luxury hotels have lots of security men, CCTV cameras and staff who can spot when someone’s not quite right. It’s also all too easy for someone to find out what room you’re staying in, knock at the door, then put a bullet through the spyhole when it goes dark as you look out.
Langsuan isn’t a long street, at least not by Bangkok standards, with the park at one end and Chit Lom Skytrain station at the other. The road is one-way, so it’s easy to shake off anyone in a car or riding a motorcycle, and with only one entrance, the hotel seemed as secure as anywhere.
We rode the expressway into the city centre to avoid the worst of the traffic jams, stopping only to pay the tolls at regular intervals. The manic jumble of Bangkok revealed luxury tower blocks jostling up against rundown houses, shops with garish neon signs, stalls with a couple of chairs selling street food. I felt tired after the flight, but alive in a way I hadn’t felt for a long time, as if some of the city’s energy had transferred itself to me.
I reached for the wooden box lying on the seat beside me, opened it, recognised the black metal of a Makarov. Thoughtful of someone to provide me with a gun I’d carried for most of my career. Maybe they didn’t want me to shoot my toe off by mistake.
The car windows were tinted, so I checked the gun was loaded, knowing no one outside could see what I was doing. Two spare magazines, more than I needed. That many bullets, you’re either facing an army or about to wind up dead. I put the gun in my jacket pocket: it would spoil the line of the suit, but bullet holes would ruin it.
The gun meant I could finally relax, wonder where I was going to meet Aliyev’s friends, whoever they were. Perhaps I even allowed myself to smile.
Chapter 31
I was feeling distinctly less confident by the time we’d reached Langsuan and spotted the discreet sign for the Luxx XL Hotel, pointing down a narrow drive between two buildings. I found the scale of Bangkok intimidating, as well as the sheer foreignness that surrounded me. It’s not easy being out of your depth when there are eight million people all around you who know exactly what they’re doing. But I knew I had to carry on with Aliyev’s mission – if Tynaliev ever found out where I was, I’d be looking at an unmarked grave face-up from the inside.
Tyres crunching on gravel, the car pulled into a small walled courtyard with an elaborate shrine in the far corner. What I know about Buddhism could be written on the head of a prayer wheel, but that didn’t mean I didn’t appreciate the colourful flowers and garlands draped around an image of the Buddha. Two massive plain wooden doors, maybe four metres high, were set back from the courtyard; the entrance to the hotel.
True to stereotype, I waited for the driver to open my door, then followed him into the reception area. A very pretty Thai girl placed her hands together and bowed her head to me, long liquorice-black hair spilling down over her shoulders. I didn’t know whether I was expected to return the greeting wai, so I simply nodded as the driver set my bag down beside me.
‘I pick you up, four hours, meeting,’ he said, his broken Thai-inflected English almost as bad as my English. I nodded, and handed the receptionist a credit card, another gift from Aliyev. She examined my passport, then the card, gave a slightly puzzled look.
‘You speak Russian?’ I asked, and she held up her thumb and forefinger.
‘A few words. For work,’ she said, in a low husky voice.
‘Corporate card. My company.’
She nodded her understanding, processed the payment, before handing the card back to me. I looked once more at the name. Bolshoi Vor. Big Thief. Aliyev’s idea of a joke, obviously.
She handed me one of those plastic cards with a built-in chip to activate the lock of my room. The sort of place I usually stayed at used the old-fashioned metal key, attached to a piece of wood the size of a brick, to make sure you didn’t accidentally forget to hand it in at reception when you left. I was moving up in the world.
I don’t normally like using lifts – too easy for someone waiting with a gun to shoot you as the doors open – but I figured this once would be OK. I’d check out the stairs on the way back down, explain to the receptionist I didn’t like cramped spaces.
The lift doors opened onto a whitewashed corridor with doors on either side. I found room 404, pressed the card against the lock, watched the light change, pushed open the door.
My room was clean, simple, furnished in what fashionable Europeans call minimalist and we Kyrgyz call empty. Wooden floors and white walls, a bed, a desk, a chair, a phone, and a bewildering array of light switches. A bathroom with a sliding wood and glass partition dividing it from the main room, the point of which escaped me. Floor to ceiling sliding glass doors with a narrow balcony outside, shaded by a tree with thick olive-green leaves.
The fierce shower pummelled every inch of me and managed to rinse some of the tiredness out of my body. Afterwards I lay down on the bed and shut my eyes for five minutes. Three hours later, the phone woke me, the soft-voiced receptionist informing me my driver had returned.
I took my time shaving and dressing, headed down to the lobby. My friend the driver was talking on his mobile, which he switched off when he saw me. I didn’t tell him I could lip read he was speaking Russian.
‘I’m impressed,’ I said, in my thickest Kyrgyz accent, ‘you must have a friend.’
I wondered if he’d been chosen for his language skills; his driving certainly wasn’t impressive. The driver shrugged, to show he didn’t understand me, then pointed at the door. My suit may have been the most expensive piece of clothing I’d ever worn, but I still got the obligatory pat-down. I didn’t mind; it meant I was meeting someone important. I hadn’t flown four thousand kilometres to go sightseeing.
The traffic was even more congested, but finally we crept up a major road which ran beneath the shadow of the Skytrain.
‘Sukhumvit,’ the driver explained, and I nodded as if I understood. He drove for the rest of the journey in silence, until we pulled off the main road into a side street. I looked out of the car window at a parade of Thai women in shorts, denim miniskirts, cropped T-shirts and high-heeled shoes. One of Bangkok’s red light districts, flashing neon lights, taxi and scooter horns blaring, rock music pounding out of the bars. A huge spaghetti-tangle of wires, electric cables, telephone lines and God knows what else drooped across the road or ran across the tops of head-high walls. There
was a sense of expectation in the air, the feeling anything could happen tonight, every event could turn into an adventure or a disaster.
A sign high above the entrance to a courtyard on our left read ‘Nana Plaza: The World’s Biggest Adult Playground’. The pavements were crowded with a procession of middle-aged, balding and overweight Western men hunting for their next bedmate or simply staring at the spectacle. Nana Plaza’s reputation for anything-goes sex had clearly spread far and wide. Dressed in faded singlets, oversized shorts and colourful trainers, the men all wore the roadmap of their lives on their faces, tired, cynical, hoping for a distraction from the failure of their lives.
The car pulled over to the side of the road, and the driver pointed to a bar opposite called the Lurch Inn. The bar frontage was open to the street, and the stools which gave a view of the passing street trade were all occupied. For the price of a Tiger beer, a man could stare at as many Asian prostitutes for as long as he wanted, until it was time to buy another bottle. A lot of the customers were already drunk, shouting insults at their friends, their arms draped over the shoulders or circling the slim waists of girls young enough to be their daughters.
I’d seen prostitutes before – show me a cop who hasn’t – but never on such an industrial scale. Even above the music, I could hear the high-pitched chatter of women. Maybe the laughter was real, maybe not. We all have to earn a living, and I certainly wasn’t looking down from any moral high ground.
I looked over at the driver, shrugged what now? He pointed again at the bar, mimed drinking, said, ‘Wait.’ He obviously wasn’t going to get out of the driver’s seat and open the door for me.
The car pulled away, sleek and expensively anonymous, as I stood there, looking out across the road at the hotel car park opposite, where the freelance street meat smoked, chatted, or tried to make eye contact with every passing male. Every now and then, a man would stop, a quick discussion would follow on price, preferences, location, and the two of them would get in a taxi or walk down the street.
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