“Not even in Chechnya?”
“You can get tired of winter snow.” Boris smiled.
I must have made some sudden movement as the black hole at the business end of his gun suddenly grew a lot closer to my face.
“You don’t have to kill me,” I said. “All you have to do is give me the girl and I’ll give you the codes. You win, I win. We both get what we want.”
“That’s a very sensible suggestion, Inspector,” Boris said, “but with one flaw, a major one. If you and the girl are still alive, you’ll be able to tell your boss where the money went, and who took it. Dead, there’s no one left to point at me.”
“And what about this one?” I asked, nodding toward Lin.
“A piece of street meat, raddled with who knows what diseases. Why would anyone care if she’s alive or dead? She probably doesn’t even care herself.”
Boris placed his gun at Lin’s temple, his finger tensing on the trigger. It must have been the prospect of imminent death that made Lin draw the concealed knife from her belt. With all her strength, she struck upward, the blade gleaming and deadly in the light, slicing through Boris’s wrist. Blood flecked across the floor and spattered the white walls. Boris grunted with shock and surprise, the gun spinning from his nerveless hand.
I snatched up my own gun and took aim, but Lin was still locked in Boris’s grasp, kicking and scratching to get free, so I didn’t have a clear shot.
The bullet that burst Boris’s face as if it had been hit by a sledgehammer passed so close to my ear that I felt the air sway against my skin. The shot took him just beneath the left eye, the impact tearing through his skull, ripping open his cheek and revealing a row of teeth. Brain matter erupted from his ear like blood-streaked vomit, and his remaining eye gave an involuntary blink in a hideous yet somehow comic moment of surprise.
The second shot ripped out his throat, and a fountain of deep red blood splashed like a wave over Lin’s face and hair. And then Boris was falling back, dragging Lin down with him, the remains of his face pointing up at the ceiling.
In a reflex action that had nothing to do with consciousness, Boris pulled the trigger of his gun twice, the second shot punching a hole through the bedroom door. Then he jerked, convulsed, his heels drumming on the floor, and was still.
“You took your fucking time,” I said, my voice hoarse, before I turned to see Saltanat standing in the doorway to the apartment, her gun still leveled worryingly in my direction.
But she wasn’t looking at me. Instead, she was staring at the floor, at the body sprawled there in the broken-stringed puppetry of death.
Lin.
Chapter 49
Boris’s first shot had taken away the back of Lin’s skull, leaving bloody splinters of bone gleaming through her hair. But her damaged face was shockingly serene, as if she’d merely closed her eyes to take a nap or rest them from the light.
I knelt down beside her, tugged her away from Boris’s embrace. It was the least she deserved, dying far from her home, her family. Children living in a hut beside a rice paddy or in a rat-infested slum on the outskirts of Ho Chi Minh City. A brutal life, with a great deal of pain and fear and very little consolation, now ended.
Perhaps there’s a peace to be found in death, but that doesn’t mean it’s not terrifying in the seconds when the light is snapped off.
“Fuck!” was all I said. Not much of an epitaph, but sometimes words are not strong enough to bear the weight. Perhaps that’s why we write names on tombstones, not to commemorate the dead, but to remind ourselves that they too once walked and laughed, loved, existed.
I reached for Lin’s purse, found what I was looking for, slid it into my pocket.
As always, Saltanat appeared unmoved, professional. She kicked the gun away from Boris’s hand just in case he decided to perform a miracle and rise from the dead, holstered her gun, looked down at the bodies and then asked the obvious question.
“Where’s the girl?”
For a few seconds my mind remained focused on Lin, so I couldn’t understand why Saltanat didn’t believe the truth of the dead woman at our feet. Then I realized she was talking about Natasha.
I tucked my gun back into the back of my trousers, covering it with my shirt.
“We should search the rest of the apartment,” I said, “and quickly. Someone must have heard the shooting. I’m surprised the police aren’t here already.”
“No need,” a woman’s voice said. “I’m here.”
I turned and saw Natasha leaning in the doorway of the kitchen. The first thing I noticed was the blood-stained bandage covering the place where her missing finger had been. The second thing I saw was the Glock in her other hand, pointed at Saltanat but equally ready to turn toward me. I guessed that Natasha had no intention of returning Tynaliev’s money or of coming back to Bishkek to face the music. She would probably be more than happy to shoot me and Saltanat, head for the border.
“Losing the finger must have hurt,” I said more as a conversational distraction than out of any real concern. Behind me I could sense Saltanat shifting her weight, and I wondered how long it would be before her throwing knife planted itself in Natasha’s throat. Not that that would help me much; I’d be dead meat before Natasha coughed up the first spray of blood from her lungs.
“I take it you’re still not planning on giving the minister most of his money back,” I said, weary that I’d been sucker-punched again. “But you know he’s not going to stop hunting you.”
Natasha smiled, and I caught a glimpse of the woman that Tynaliev had lusted after, perhaps even loved.
“I think ten million dollars will buy me a pretty good hiding place. Somewhere that doesn’t have snow and ice or extradition treaties. And the minister’s going to be pretty busy defending himself after I send all the documentation about his assets to the papers. I wouldn’t be surprised if he ends up in a new office in Penitentiary One. You’ve hitched your wagon to a falling star, Inspector.”
I shrugged. There didn’t seem to be anything I could say. I realized I’d been checkmated, and all that was left for me to do was knock over my king, wondering if I’d survive to set up another game.
“I don’t understand,” I said. “If this was your plan all along, why did you give me the SIM card with the codes to take care of?”
“I knew there would be people after the money.” She kicked Boris’s body. “There always are when hot money goes missing. So I needed you as a fallback, protection if it all got too rough.”
“And a bargaining card if you needed one,” Saltanat said.
“I hadn’t anticipated your arrival,” Natasha said, “but you kept our lovesick detective’s mind from following me too closely. Little head distracting big head, and all that. Never a good rule in business.”
“I suppose Tynaliev was strictly business,” I said and watched her nod.
“I grew up on a farm, Inspector, in the Fergana Valley. A smallholding growing barely enough potatoes to keep us alive. Bartering vegetables for clothes, bathing in the cold water of the muddy canal at the bottom of the field. I saw how it wore my mother down into dust, and then my father. I wasn’t going to let that happen to me.”
Natasha gestured with the gun for emphasis.
“I used what I had to sell, and I sold it for plenty. Making all the right moans then looking adoringly at Tynaliev as he rolled over after some pretty unimpressive sex. Being the sweet and not-too-bright mistress on the side. Well, the investment has paid off rather handsomely, wouldn’t you say?”
“Spending your life looking over your shoulder, watching every stray shadow that falls across you at the pool or the beach; I suspect that ages you pretty quickly,” Saltanat said.
“I think with a little facial work, I might get away with it—” Natasha smiled “—but the first thing I’m going to do is get rid of these ridiculous tits.” She weighed one breast with her free hand and grimaced. “Maybe I’ll send them to the minister—return his present
s. He was the one who was so keen for me to have them.”
I could hear sirens howling in the distance and thought of the wolves that live in our mountains, waiting for their prey to relax its guard.
“You have the SIM card with you?” Natasha asked.
I shook my head. “Back at the hotel.”
“Then perhaps it’s time we left,” Saltanat said, urgency in her tone. None of us wanted to be in the room staring down at two bodies when the law arrived, not to mention the other corpses in the rest of the apartment.
“You’re parked outside?” Natasha asked.
“Two blocks down, at the side of the building,” I said.
“Then let’s go,” Natasha said and nodded toward the door with her gun. It was then that I thought Saltanat would make her move, but she simply shrugged, and we left the apartment. We walked toward the stairwell, fast but not running, just in case there were any curious eyes watching from the spyholes in the doors we passed. We speeded up once we were on the stairs. With police on the way, it’s best not to linger.
Chapter 50
We went out of the side door, watching the blue lights flashing at the front of the building, and then we were back in the car we’d stolen, moving slowly until we could turn the corner, and I could put metal to the floor.
From the back seat, Natasha kept her Glock neatly trained on the back of Saltanat’s head; she knew where the real threat would come from. Saltanat stared through the windscreen, saying nothing, her face marble and unmoving in the streetlights. I determined that when it kicked off I’d slew the car to the right, open my door and roll to the left. It probably wouldn’t do me any good, but it was at least a sort of plan. The problem with plans is that sometimes they don’t work, and you wind up with your brains in a sloppy puddle by the side of your skull.
Nobody spoke, but it wasn’t the sort of silence that comes from comfort and companionship. Natasha had to be wondering what her next move should be; I was wondering if Tynaliev would have my body flown back to Kyrgyzstan, and Saltanat . . . well, I almost never know what she is thinking, and she wasn’t great at sharing.
Finally we pulled into the hotel drive. Natasha had repacked the weapons in the bag and told me to put it in the truck. I did as I was told and handed the car keys to a waiting valet. I had wondered about grabbing a weapon and taking my chances, but I knew that wouldn’t fly. I could taste fear, like metal, in the back of my throat.
As we walked through the lobby toward the lifts, I knew that Natasha’s gun was out of sight, but I had a pretty good idea it wasn’t out of mind. Certainly not my mind, at any rate.
Heading along the corridor to my room, I thought about the banality of dying in a place like Dubai, where nothing bad is ever supposed to happen. It wasn’t that I’d never considered the possibility—no, the certainty—of death before, but I’d hoped it would be somewhere more interesting than a hotel room with en-suite shower and complimentary shampoo.
Natasha kept a couple of paces back as I unlocked the door, certainly not close enough to swing round suddenly and slap the gun from her hand.
Once we were inside, Natasha kicked the door shut with her heel, told Saltanat to lie face down on the bed, hands by her side. I knew Saltanat had a blade tucked inside her boot, but whether she’d get the chance to use it seemed unlikely. And while Natasha may not have been up to Saltanat’s standards, she was clearly no slouch either. She would have put two bullets in me while I was still fumbling for my gun.
“All right, Akyl, time to stop dancing and cut the cake. Where are the codes?”
I pointed at the desk, on which the in-room safe sat.
“Something that valuable, they’re in the safe, of course,” I said, trying for an aggrieved tone and almost managing it.
“Then I suggest you open it. And if your hand comes out with anything but fingers on the end, then you can get yourself fitted for a wheelchair.”
I tapped in the four-digit code, one four zero two, remembering once again that had been Chinara’s birthday. I wondered if my life was going to flash by me, but there was no great revelation, no moment of enlightenment. Only the sense that this was about to end extremely badly. I tried to remember Chinara’s smile, her laugh, but the fear was too great.
I reached into the safe, brought out the small wallet containing the SIM card with the codes.
“Put it on the desk,” Natasha said. “Slowly, no rash moves or cheap heroics.”
I did as I was told, noticing that my hands were shaking slightly. It was probably too late to consider a career change, but it felt like an excellent idea.
“Now kneel down with your arms folded on the top of the desk and rest your head on them.”
I obeyed, wondering if my final moment would be now. I felt numb, like a sheep dragged out to be slaughtered in a Kyrgyz mountain village.
In the mirror above the desk, I could see Saltanat, face down, her fingers almost resting on the throwing knife she kept behind her collar. I didn’t know if she was going to make the play, but either way there was going to be blood spilled.
“Don’t bother trying anything,” Natasha told Saltanat, and I could see her finger tense on the trigger. “I’ve no quarrel with you, but that doesn’t mean I won’t kill you if I have to.”
Natasha reached into her shoulder bag, pulled out an envelope, threw it toward Saltanat.
“A little present for you,” she said. “Just to show the noble boyfriend you’ve hooked up with.”
I didn’t need to see to know that the envelope contained prints of the photos Natasha had taken while I was unconscious, my face buried in her hair, my hands placed around her waist.
“I hope you’ll take these as proof that Akyl really isn’t worth dying for. Pretty much like all men really, wouldn’t you say?”
I watched Saltanat roll over, open the envelope, flick through the photos, her face expressionless, revealing nothing.
“If you want to stay and die with him, it’s your call. But if I were you, I’d walk out of this room, catch a cab and then the next flight to Tashkent. I don’t recommend you go anywhere where Tynaliev has jurisdiction.”
Saltanat stuffed the photos back into the envelope, placed it carefully on the pillow, saying nothing. She nodded her head, asking permission to get up. Natasha took a couple of steps back, keeping the gun aimed at Saltanat’s head. Saltanat flexed her shoulders as she stood up, her hands well away from her body, always the professional.
There didn’t seem to be anything worth saying. Asking Saltanat to disbelieve the evidence of her own eyes wouldn’t work, and I didn’t want her final memory of me to be that of a whining coward. If I had only minutes to live, I hoped I could manage to die with a scrap of dignity.
In the mirror I watched Saltanat walk to the door. She stared at me for a moment with eyes as dead and lifeless as stones, gave an almost imperceptible shrug, opened the door and walked out of my life, what remained of it.
I’d gambled and lost, and now the croupier was demanding that I pay the bill.
“You’re not going to cut me the same deal?” I asked, determined to keep the tremor out of my voice.
“I can’t risk it, Akyl,” Natasha replied, and I wondered if there was the faintest hint of sadness in her voice. “I know you’d be perpetually after me, bankrolled by Mikhail. If taking the money is my revenge for how he treated me, then his revenge would be to set his bloodhound on my trail. If he doesn’t kill you when you report your failure, that is.”
I could see the logic in her argument, and Natasha’s assessment of Tynaliev’s likely reaction to my failure was all too believable.
Maybe my Tatar genes predispose me to anger, but I felt rage rather than resignation. Central Asians are not as fatalistic as people think, and I certainly had no plans to die on my knees and shot in the head.
But even as I planted my hands on the desk and started to pull myself to my feet, I heard the apartment door open. Before I could turn, the bullet hit me in the s
mall of my back, just above my kidneys, with all the force of a hammer blow, knocking me back down, slamming my head down onto the desk.
And I realized that death, like life, often happens when you’re thinking about something else.
Chapter 51
In the past I’ve used my Makarov to take away more than one life, but this time it saved mine. By pulling myself to my feet, I had caused Natasha to miss the head shot she was aiming for, and her bullet smashed into the butt of the gun I’d tucked into the back of my belt. My kidneys felt as if I’d been kicked by an extremely annoyed horse, and I could feel warm blood trickling down to my waist.
Almost fainting with the pain, I managed to haul myself onto hands and knees, to crawl to the bathroom, where I could inspect the damage. I’d never wear my shirt again, that was certain, but as far as I could tell, the gun had taken most of the impact before shattering and driving metal fragments into shallow cuts across my back. Nothing that was going to kill me, although I didn’t think I’d be doing any sit-ups for a while.
I stood under a shower as hot as I could bear it, washing away the blood, before wrapping a towel around my back and stomach, fastening it tight with the surgical tape in my bag. Not an elegant solution, and I’d have to have my back properly cleaned and maybe stitched in the near future, but effective for now.
I knew I wouldn’t be able to find Natasha once she got to the airport, but if I went to the apartment she’d been renting, maybe I could trail her from there. I was getting ready to leave when I noticed one of the pillows on the bed was askew. I lifted it and saw Saltanat’s gun; somehow she’d managed to reach and hide it, all under Natasha’s gaze. Mind you, I hadn’t noticed her do it either. I checked the gun was loaded, pocketed it, headed for the door. That’s the difference between professionals and amateurs; eventually the amateurs get caught out by their lack of tradecraft. And then they die.
A Summer Revenge Page 21