A Summer Revenge

by Tom Callaghan

  I shrugged, sipped at my water. Privately I thought he would probably agree. Not out of generosity, but because he was a powerful man with powerful enemies. There was no benefit in making himself vulnerable for a mere million dollars. And after all he could always steal more.

  “Who knows? She’s taking a big gamble. But if he does, he gets most of his money back, and she promises not to tell the world about his secret account.”

  “Although,” Saltanat said, “he might decide to make sure she keeps quiet with a machete.”

  “It’s a risk,” I admitted, “but then she does know how Tynaliev works, and we are talking about a million dollars if she succeeds. And of course she’ll cover herself by making sure the newspapers get the full story if anything happens to her.”

  Saltanat drained the last of her beer and looked skeptical. She obviously had no more belief in the integrity of the press than I did.

  “It explains why the Chechens are interested in her,” she said. “You can buy a lot of trouble with ten million dollars.”

  I nodded. I’d read reports that the attacks on the World Trade Center in New York had cost the terrorists less than half a million dollars, and as everyone knows, that event had changed the world.

  “You think they’ll use the money to spread terror, rather than just fund their independence movement?” I said.

  “Sure, there’s a strong element that just wants independence,” Saltanat said. “At the same time the extremist wing of the movement wants jihad. It’s not just about getting the Russians out of Chechnya.”

  “I’m sure you don’t need my help to find them,” I said, “but when you track them down, I’d like to be with you.”

  “To rescue Natasha? Isn’t that being rather too much of a gentleman?”

  “Better the money’s in Tynaliev’s pocket than being used to buy automatic weapons, plant bombs, assassinate leading politicians, don’t you think?”

  I could see Saltanat thinking it over. If I was willing to get the codes out of Natasha and return the money to Tynaliev, then I wasn’t one of the bad guys. Which meant I was safe from Saltanat, at least for the moment. Once it was all over it might be a very different story.

  “Do you have any leads?” I asked.

  “There’s a guy who’s supposed to be a Mister Fixit, a real bastard called Marko Atanasov. He can get guns, girls, whatever you want, for a price of course.”

  I explained how I’d made the brief acquaintance of the late and very unlamented Mr. Atanasov, and suggested that we’d be very unlikely to get any answers from him, since he was lying in pieces in a morgue somewhere.

  “How did you run across him?” Saltanat asked.

  “Tynaliev had someone working for him here in Dubai, that Chechen, Kulayev. He gave me Atanasov’s name, and I went to see him, found him dead and sliced up.” I didn’t mention that I’d gone to buy a gun.

  “So I talk to Kulayev?” Saltanat said, annoyed at my earlier silence.

  I had a pretty good idea what being talked to by Saltanat might entail, but I also knew that he too wouldn’t be answering any questions, even the painful kind. I explained about how I’d handcuffed Kulayev to the bed in my room at the Denver, about the fire-bombing, about seeing the twisted and blackened body being loaded into an ambulance.

  “So basically the trail’s gone cold for the moment,” I said. “But they have something I want, and I have something they want. So I’m expecting a call pretty soon.”

  Which showed that when I’d quit the Murder Squad, I hadn’t lost all my powers of detection. Because at that moment my phone began to ring.

  Chapter 29

  The screen on my phone said “Number blocked.” I let it ring for a moment, then declined the call and switched off my phone. Saltanat stared at me, her hands spread in a gesture of puzzlement.

  “Let them sweat a little,” I explained. “We need to convince them that we’re not at their beck and call. Let them get tense and fearful.”

  It was a ploy I’d learned during a couple of hostage negotiations back in Bishkek. One of them had worked, in that the hostages had been freed and the gunman taken down. In the other no one inside the apartment had survived the firefight.

  “I’ll give them an hour,” I said, “then we’ll talk.”

  Saltanat opened the minibar again, took out a drink and popped the tab. Alcohol isn’t a good idea at such times. I noticed she didn’t offer me anything.

  The hour dragged, as such times always do, when you’re waiting for the moment to act, for the adrenalin to start to pump. Saltanat lit a cigarette, inhaled, stared at it in disgust, stubbed it out. The tension in the room was almost as overpowering as the heat outside.

  “I wanted to ask you how Otabek is,” I said.

  Saltanat glared at me. “I wondered if you were going to mention him,” she said. “I assumed you weren’t interested.”

  “That’s not fair,” I protested then wondered if, after all, she might not have a point. Maybe because I’ve never had any children of my own, I’ve never felt particularly paternal. And if you’re in a job that could get you face up on a morgue slab, fatherhood doesn’t necessarily seem like a good idea.

  I remembered how we’d found Otabek hiding in a cupboard down in Morton Graves’s cellar, the room where he’d shot his vile films, where he’d tortured and murdered children. Otabek had been mute, his eyes wide and terrified, assuming that his own suffering was about to begin. He’d clung to Saltanat as a drowning man hangs on to a piece of driftwood, hoping it will provide salvation.

  Saltanat perhaps decided that I had a right to know.

  “He still doesn’t say much. And he has nightmares, wets the bed sometimes.”

  I nodded. Otabek wasn’t the only one whose dreams took place in that cellar. Maybe I didn’t wet the bed, but some nights the damp sheets clung to my sweating body like a shroud left in the rain.

  “He’s living with you? In Tashkent?”

  Saltanat shook her head. “I don’t really think I’m the motherly type, do you? And I’m away a lot as well.”

  I looked at my watch.

  “He’s living with my sister. And not in Tashkent.” She paused, stared at me. “You’re not thinking of seeing him, are you? Not a good idea.”

  “It’s not as if I’d be exactly welcome in Uzbekistan,” I said. “And I’m sure the authorities would have something to say if one of their top agents was playing happy families with a Kyrgyz former police officer.”

  I knew that Saltanat was more than capable of taking care of herself. I’d seen her kill her mentor and enemy, Albina Kurmanalieva, in a knife fight in Panfilov Park back in Bishkek. I knew the speed with which she could move, the power and single-mindedness she brought to everything she did.

  But power and single-mindedness are sometimes not enough, not for those moments when the unmarked van pulls up outside in the early-morning street, and you hear the dull clatter of heavy boots climbing wooden stairs to escort you to some basement.

  “You think I don’t care?”

  Saltanat looked at me, as if examining some rare example of wildlife.

  “Akyl, you know you don’t care. Not about the living, at any rate. You care about Chinara in her grave; you care about the victims lying in the morgue trays. But living, breathing, flesh-and-blood people? There isn’t room for them in the way you view the world.”

  I remembered watching Saltanat carve Albina Kurmanalieva the way a chef carves a joint of meat. I remembered her shooting her colleague Ilya in the head, his brains decorating the wall. I did my best not to think about her remark that she was wondering whether to kill me.

  “Morgue trays? You’ve helped fill a few of those in your time, Saltanat.”

  “No one who didn’t belong there,” she said, lighting a cigarette, turning away, dismissing me.

  There didn’t seem any point in saying anything else.

  “Turn your phone back on.”

  “It can wait a little longer. We h
ave to force them into realizing they don’t have control.”

  Saltanat dropped her cigarette into her empty beer bottle, got up and walked toward the window, stared out at the heat haze that blurred the distance. Then she turned and strode over to me, snatched the phone from me and turned it on. The phone immediately began to ring. Saltanat raised an eyebrow, handed the phone to me.

  I stared at the screen for a moment. Natasha’s number. I answered the call.

  Chapter 30

  “Inspector? You were wise to decide to talk to us. And your friend is very lucky that you did.”

  My throat was dry as I listened to the voice. Chechen accent, male, middle-aged, the sort of deep, menacing voice you associate with bodyguards and convicted murderers. Or maybe that was just my Kyrgyz prejudice against most foreigners coming out.

  “I’m afraid I don’t know who I’m talking to,” I said. “You could be anybody; maybe found the phone in the street or pickpocketed it out of a handbag.”

  “In that case, how would I know you’re Inspector Akyl Borubaev?”

  “I’m assuming there’s a contacts button, probably has my name on it, together with lots of other people.”

  “Ah, a detective who detects. I like that. It has style. Old school.”

  The tone of amused contempt gnawed at me, but I kept my voice calm, even. Dealing with criminals is a lot like playing poker: you keep a straight face, never show what you’re thinking, wait for the moment when you reveal your winning hand and scoop up the pot.

  “I’m sorry, but since I don’t know who you are, you’ll forgive me if I hang up. I’m expecting an important call.”

  “I’m afraid Ms. Sulonbekova can’t come to the phone right now, which is why it’s me talking to you. Please understand I’m not joking when I say she’s all tied up.”

  The amused contempt in his voice had been replaced with something steelier, more determined.

  “In fact, I’m not sure you’ll be able to meet her again if you don’t cooperate with me. Although I’m sure you’ll be able to identify her. If not by her face, then by her body, anyway.”

  I laughed, putting some bravado into the effort.

  “I think you’re mistaking me for someone who gives a fuck about some working girl.”

  The Chechen voice chuckled. Not a reassuring sound, for Natasha or for me.

  “Very good, Inspector. You should have been on the stage, rather than wasting your talents slapping drunks and pocketing speeding fines for breakfast money. You could almost convince me that Ms. Sulonbekova means nothing to you. Except, you see, I know all about our ten million dollars.”

  “Your ten million dollars? I thought it was mine.”

  “I’m sure we both agree that Ms. Sulonbekova is the rightful owner. Being as how she stole it in the first place.”

  “Well, possession is nine tenths of my law,” I said. “And Natasha can’t do much to change that. Neither can you.”

  The Chechen laughed. It wasn’t a pleasant sound, more like a broken bottle being scraped along a brick wall.

  “I think we should meet and discuss this properly, don’t you? If only for the sake of Ms. Sulonbekova’s future well-being.”

  I put a new note of irritation into my reply.

  “I’ve got everything I need, and you don’t have anything I want. If you decide to execute her, let me give you some advice. Don’t shoot her in the breast; you could take someone’s eye out with the ricochet.”

  The contempt was back in the Chechen’s voice when he spoke.

  “You have the mechanism, but we have the codes. Ms. Sulonbekova supplied them to us. Admittedly after quite a lot of persuasion. I don’t know that Minister Tynaliev is going to be quite so smitten when he next sees her.”

  “So we both have something the other wants, is that it?”

  “I admire your precision, Inspector.”

  “Then I suggest we arrange a meeting place. Neutral ground. Away from people, the police, shopping malls, CCTV cameras.”

  “I always suspected you were a pragmatic sort of man. A policeman with whom you can do business. And I’ve met quite a few like that in my time.”

  I didn’t disguise the anger in my voice when I replied. I’ve not always played by the strict letter of the law, but then, sometimes to get results, you have to step off the path and push through the undergrowth.

  “You’re calling me corrupt? You’re a greasy little pizda whose father should have had his balls cut off at birth. You think you’re important, a big man, a freedom fighter.” I spat the words out with as much scorn as I could muster. “If I had any choice, I wouldn’t wipe my arse with you. As far as I’m concerned, the only reason I’ve got to talk to you is financial. I’ll call you tonight, tell you where we’ll meet and when.”

  I paused for a second, then gave the coup de grace.

  “And, pizda? Remember something: I’m Murder Squad. I’ve put better men than you in the ground. Which means, don’t fuck me around or you’ll find yourself lying next to them, discussing what a bastard I am.”

  Then I broke the connection.

  My hand was shaking as I put the phone back in my pocket. I wasn’t sure if it was from fear or anger, but I could feel my heart hammering to be released from the prison bars of my ribs.

  When I turned, Saltanat was staring at me, as ever her expression unfathomable.

  “What’s your plan?” she said, and then looked more closely at me. “You do have a plan, I suppose?”

  I nodded. “They’ve no reason to leave me alive once they can access the money. So they’ll try to ambush me, take the SIM card, then kill me. Probably leave me out in the desert so my bones can turn a fetching shade of white in the sun. Maybe someone will stumble across me twenty years from now and assume I was a stupid tourist who got lost.”

  Saltanat said nothing, so I continued.

  “I’ve got a plan. Simple but effective.”

  I paused and not for dramatic effect. I almost whispered, though there was no one else in the room beside the two of us.

  “I’m going to kill them.”

  Chapter 31

  “Look at the windows in the hotel opposite,” I’d said as we made our way down into the lobby. “They’re tinted against the sun. Which means it’s impossible for anyone to actually see into your suite during daylight. Different at night of course, when the lights are on, but during the daytime, no way.”

  We stepped out once more into heat that I would never be able to get used to and beckoned to an idling taxi. I asked the driver to take us somewhere we could rent a four-wheel drive, and we set off once more down Sheikh Zayed Road. It was a journey I was bored of making, but it was best not to use Saltanat’s Porsche, in case the authorities traced it.

  “So?” Saltanat asked. I could tell by her voice that she was becoming impatient with me.

  “So whoever fired those shots into your room wasn’t actually aiming at you. Or me. They probably didn’t even know I was there. It was done to warn you to go back to Tashkent and not interfere. They don’t know you’re the sort of person something like that only makes more determined.”

  Saltanat nodded, acknowledging the possible truth of what I said.

  “So they know you exist, and they know I exist, but they don’t know we’re working together. As far as they’re concerned, we’re two separate issues to be dealt with.”

  “Which means we’ll have the advantage over them when we meet,” Saltanat said, a new enthusiasm in her voice.

  “Exactly. Instead of trapping us, we’ll trap them.”

  We took a couple of turnings and found ourselves crawling through traffic. This was Karama. The streets were narrow, crowded with shops selling paint, hardware, vegetables. The pavements were packed as well, with Indian men riding bicycles, Arab families with children, Filipina girls arm in arm, chattering away on their mobiles. I felt I’d discovered the true heart of Dubai, a world away from luxury brands housed in glass and steel monuments to consumeri
sm.

  The taxi driver pulled over to the pavement, pointed to a shabby shopfront with the legend QUALITY CARS in Russian, and, I assumed, Hindi, Urdu, Arabic and English as well. All nationalities catered for.

  “My brother,” he said. “He will give you best price. You want I wait?”

  I thought of the meter going for the next hour while we haggled over insurance, driving license and money, shook my head. I thrust a handful of dirhams at him, and we clambered out into the furnace, narrowly avoiding being hit by a cyclist going the wrong way. I could smell spices, herbs, different kinds of cooking, the scent of roasting meat.

  Inside the shop an elderly, wheezing air conditioning unit did its best to calm things down, but I’ve still been cooler in the banya sauna on Ibraimova.

  Renting a car proved just as laborious as I’d imagined, but finally we selected a dark blue Pajero four-wheel drive that had seen better times cosmetically but seemed to run efficiently enough. Saltanat walked around the vehicle, pointing out to the brother all the scratches and dents. From his downcast look and his nod of unwilling acceptance, he obviously realized he wouldn’t be able to jack the hire fee up for damages when we brought the car back.

  Saltanat decided she would do the driving, without bothering to consult me. That was fine as far as I was concerned. The narrow streets and the terrifying driving on Sheikh Zayed Road were not at all to my taste. I tugged at the seat belt, strapped myself in and suggested we find a suitable ambush point somewhere on the edge of the city where the desert began.

  We followed the green and white signs pointing the way to Abu Dhabi, passing endless tower blocks and dramatic skyscrapers, the work of insane giant children by the look of them, ornate curves and fluting on one building, the next designed to look like a brutal steel obelisk. And, rising like silver birches nestling between the towers, slim white minarets topped by golden crescent moons that glinted in the sun.

  Heat haze made the road surface shimmer and waver, as if we were driving along a black silk scarf fluttering in the wind. Ripples of sand blown across the road twisted and turned upon themselves as if snakes were moving just below the surface. Vague shapes on the other side of the road grew nearer and resolved themselves into cars, trucks, buses. The air was gritty with dust and petrol fumes.