I put on one of the midnight-blue wool ski masks I’d taken out of storage, and handed the other to Saltanat. With only eyes and mouth visible, it would be difficult for anyone to identify us, unless we were dead, in which case it was all academic, and Usupov would do the final honors.
You set up something like this by arranging the meet to give them the bare minimum time to get there, with not enough time for an ambush, making sure you’re already in place. You wait until they arrive with a shriek of tires, hurl themselves out of an armor-plated Hummer like a Spetsnaz team on high alert, cover the street with Kalashnikovs primed to fire.
But nothing happens, no gunshots from the dark, no grenades thrown from the rooftops. So everyone starts to relax and get sloppy, the adrenaline beginning to flush out of their systems.
They all tense again as the car door opens, always the front passenger door, and the big guy, the number one, the bratski krug, gets out and takes the few steps to the meet door and safety.
That’s when everyone is waiting for the hit. Which is why you don’t do it then. You wait. Wait some more. A bit more after that. And then you hit them.
We were invisible, thanks to the car’s tinted windows and our dark clothing. I reached up and switched off the interior light; no point in giving someone a clean shot.
I heard Saltanat’s breath, sharp and ragged, almost loud enough to drown the way my heart hammered in my chest, death’s knuckles beating on the door, demanding to be let in. I wiped my damp palms on my trousers, wishing I’d wound tape around the butt of my gun for a better grip. I needed a piss as well. Too late now.
Twenty minutes before the rendezvous, so I knew they’d be here in the next five.
Saltanat reached over and squeezed my hand.
“This is the bit I hate,” she whispered. “Waiting. Always have.”
I squeezed back, then stroked the back of her hand. The bones felt thin, fragile, unable to pull a trigger and blow a man’s life into a memory. Appearances deceive.
As I sat there in the darkness, preparing for chaos and death, I remembered Chinara quoting one of her favorite lines of poetry, by some foreign poet, how love was what would survive of us. I wasn’t sure it was true. Because love isn’t the only emotion to linger after we die. Let’s not forget despair and his best friend, hate. And since the cancer devoured Chinara, they’d both visited me several times to offer their sincere condolences.
It was Saltanat who spotted the headlights, growing larger, throwing the trees into light and shadows that spun away, parting before the black people carrier as it prowled the street.
The car pulled up outside the Kulturny, Lubashov snapping to attention. Regular customers obviously, or big tippers. The expected no-necks bailed out of the car, clutching those nasty little Micro Uzis, looking around for potential targets. After a moment, the front passenger door swung open and a giant emerged. He must have been two meters from army boots to watch cap, so he would stand out in most places.
The Voice was a Western man, in his mid-forties, burly but not fat, shoulders threatening to split his jacket apart. His shaven head glowed almost white under the Kulturny’s single light. Simply standing there, he exuded power, strength, ruthlessness. His mouth was wide, determined, like a shark hunting down its prey. His eyes were black coins in his face. We couldn’t have chosen a worse foe.
The Voice looked around, head up as if he’d scented our presence, reached for his phone. I covered the iPhone with my hand, not wanting its glow to betray our position, sliding down in my seat, out of view.
“You’re at the Kulturny?” I asked.
“Yes, where are you?”
“Never mind that, do you have the money? All thirty thousand dollars?”
“Yes,” the Voice answered, emotionless, deadly.
“Take ten thousand and go into the Kulturny. Alone. Walk down the stairs, go into the toilet, stuff the money behind the tank. Don’t look around, don’t talk to anyone. Come back outside.”
“What the fuck?”
I broke the connection.
“What the hell are you doing?” Saltanat asked.
“Don’t worry,” I said, worried. “I have a plan.”
“A plan you’re planning to share with me?” she asked. “Or do I get killed so you can show how superior you are?”
“Saltanat,” I said, hissing the words into a whisper, “trust me, I know what I’m doing.”
The indignant snort from the driver’s seat didn’t say a lot for my powers of persuasion. So instead I watched until the Voice emerged from the Kulturny. Lubashov walked toward him, maybe to ask if there was a problem, if he needed some help. Without breaking step, the Voice backhanded Lubashov across the face, once, twice, not looking to see if the young man fell or not. Lubashov stumbled back, then held up his hands in submission, a clear indication death by gangster wasn’t on his agenda. The nearest no-neck nodded approvingly as the Voice clambered back into the car.
I switched the iPhone back on, and pressed redial.
“Drive to the junction of Ibraimova and Toktogul. There’s a shashlik stand there, with a trash bin in front of it. Place ten thousand dollars in the bin, then drive one block down and wait outside Dordoi Plaza, the big supermarket. You’ll be contacted there.”
“If you’re fucking with me, I’ll have your carcass dripping from a meat hook by tomorrow night,” the Voice said, menace sharp as a switchblade.
“We’re both sensible men, businessmen, we take precautions to secure our interests. I just want your money, you want your secrets back. It’s business, that’s all.”
The people carrier drove off east toward Ibraimova, and as the headlights faded from view, Saltanat rounded on me.
“What the fuck are you doing, Akyl? You want to go and retrieve that ten thousand dollars? You’re crazy.” Spitting out her words.
“I don’t give a damn about the money,” I said. “The first alkashi to stumble in there for a piss can have it, for all I care.”
“Then what are you doing?” she asked.
“The bleating of the sheep attracts the wolf,” I said.
“Very poetic. So?”
“Well, I’m just changing where the sheep’s tethered,” I replied. “And now we’d better get going.”
“Where?” Saltanat asked. “Dordoi Plaza? They’ll be waiting for us there.”
“I hope so,” I replied. “That’s why we’re going to his house.”
Chapter 29
“It’s like this,” I explained, as Saltanat drove us back toward Frunze. “While he’s chasing us all over Bishkek, we can do a spot of breaking and entering, try and get ourselves some evidence.”
“We’ve got the videos on the iPhone,” Saltanat said.
“Circumstantial. All we can prove is that someone who had the phone called him. And living where he does, the kind of money he must make, he’s going to have enough clout to close down any questions. If he even gets asked any.”
I reached under my seat, found a bottle of water, swirled some around my mouth to clean out the fear, spat out of the window. On either side of the street, tree branches clutched at the moon. It wasn’t the ideal night for burglary, but then it wasn’t the ideal night for anything except being several hundred kilometers away.
“I think the film clips were used to find potential customers for the DVDs. A sales promotion kit, if you like. And you can bet the salesman isn’t going to be found any time soon. Not with the back of his head intact. Dead men don’t betray bosses. So no use looking for him.”
“What do you think we’ll find at the house?” Saltanat asked.
“They’ve got to make these films somewhere. Somewhere private, secluded, soundproofed. You don’t film this kind of stuff in your bedroom. And there’s one other thing you need access to.”
“What’s that?” Saltanat asked.
I drank some more of the water, feeling it hit my stomach, wondering if I was going to vomit.
“Raw material,”
I said. “Children.”
We parked a couple of blocks away from the American’s house and walked toward it, on the far side of the street, holding hands, just another couple taking a romantic midnight stroll. If you consider two people dressed entirely in black and clutching high-powered weapons romantic. All the trees had been painted white at their bases, as if the wind had managed to partially uproot them, so we weren’t as invisible as I would have liked. We’d stuffed our ski masks into our pockets; no point in advertising. I kept an eye out for guards, for cameras, but saw nothing. Saltanat had linked her arm in mine, and I was very aware of the pressure of her breast against me. It didn’t help my concentration.
Just before we reached the house, I turned to Saltanat, stroked her cheek, and then kissed her, her lips soft against mine. That way, she could stare over my shoulder and check out any possible trouble. Her hair smelled of cigarettes and shampoo, her mouth tasted of coffee. I just smelled of sweat and fear.
“All clear,” she whispered, her breath hot in my ear. “But how do you plan we get through the gates? Levitate?”
I tried to ignore the effect of her body pressed against mine.
“If you look past the gates, there’s some kind of access doorway. You don’t want to fuss with opening the gates every time you want to go out for a liter of moloko, do you? There’s always a weak spot, a way in—the trick is finding it.”
I put my hand in my jacket pocket, felt the cold metal of my lock picks.
“The Great Borubaev. With his magic, no lock is impregnable.”
“I’d prefer it if you had a key,” Saltanat murmured as we crossed the road, her head on my shoulder, looking up adoringly at me.
I turned to her and smiled, stroked her hair as we reached the narrow wooden door.
“I’ll need you to keep watch; it shouldn’t take me more than a minute.”
Five minutes later, I was still twisting the slender pick in the lock, sweat trickling into my eyes, as I failed to open the door. The longer I took, the greater the odds of being spotted, by the bad guys or some concerned citizen with the police on speed dial. Either way, we’d be in deep shit.
“Are you doing this deliberately?” Saltanat hissed, fury in her voice. I looked over at her, back to the wall, gun down by her side, head turning through a hundred-and-eighty-degree sweep.
“Of course,” I said. “More exciting this way. Like a movie.”
“Shut up,” she suggested, taking the pick out of my fingers and pushing it into the lock.
Thirty seconds later, we were inside.
Chapter 30
“Ever thought of turning professional?” I whispered, as we stood in the shadow of the trees.
I put my arm around her shoulders, kissed her again, this time for real. I could feel her breasts against me, fear intensifying my desire. Saltanat abruptly pushed me away.
“Focus. Concentrate. This was your idea, remember?”
I looked around, across the perfectly manicured lawn toward the house. No lights, no sign of life. I’d banked on the Voice needing to keep the lowest of profiles, since even the Circle of Brothers wouldn’t approve of his trade. No ostentatious guards carrying Kalashnikovs, no watchtowers, just the home of a wealthy recluse. The security he would have was probably traveling with him in the people carrier, waiting outside the Dordoi Plaza, impatient for my call. It seemed a shame to disappoint him.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” I said. “You could always grab a burger, you know. Good American cooking.”
“I want—” the Voice snarled.
“It’s what I want,” I corrected. “And what I want is for you to drive to the Russian Orthodox Church on Jibek Jolu and wait for me there. With the rest of the money, naturally.”
I ended the call and took a deep breath. The air tasted of grilled shashlik and fresh leaves, the scent of Bishkek in the spring. I pulled the ski mask back over my face, watching as Saltanat followed suit.
“He’ll have left someone back at both the pickup points, to cover all the possibilities, and to recover his money,” I explained. “So he’s traveling light, on the back foot, his troops spread out.”
Saltanat nodded.
“Doesn’t mean he won’t have left anyone behind to guard the house,” she said.
“So we go quiet, in and out,” I answered.
We ran across the lawn and around the side of the house, guns ready. I’d once raided a drug den that turned out to be guarded by Dobermans, mute because of their vocal cords being severed. That time, my gun had been holstered, which is how I got one of the more interesting scars on my left arm.
A side door led into a kitchen area. I tried the handle.
“Locked.”
“That’s why you need me,” Saltanat said, using the pick. With the faintest click, the lock gave and we were inside. She produced a small flashlight from her pocket.
“What sort of detective are you?”
“The cautious, breathing kind,” I said, watching as she cast the light around the kitchen. The room smelled of damp and neglect, of faded spices and ancient meals. The house was silent, but I had the feeling it was simply lying in wait, that terrible things had happened here.
“What do you think?” she asked. I pointed to a wooden butcher’s block as answer. Perhaps two dozen knives of differing sizes rested together on top, next to a large meat cleaver. The shallow curve in the surface of the block showed where hundreds, perhaps thousands of blows had whittled away at the wood. I picked up the largest knife, the sort butchers use, took a practice swing.
“An awful lot of knives for one house,” I said, and felt the hairs on my arms rise. Saltanat didn’t answer, headed for the inner door. We walked along a narrow hallway, stairs rising at the left-hand side. A recess under the stairs held a small wooden door. I tried the handle. Unlocked.
“A cellar?” I said.
Saltanat looked at me. I knew we were both thinking the same awful thing.
“Only one way to find out,” I said, and opened the door.
I’ve always disliked basements, like the interrogation room at Sverdlovsky station, or the Kulturny. Too many opportunities for pain or punishment, too many chances to wound or maim in the darkness and the silence. I suspected this was going to be just such a place.
Saltanat used her flashlight to show the wooden treads of the stairs, leading away into darkness. I gripped the handrail and made my way down. Suddenly the room was filled with blazing light. I stumbled and almost fell. A bare lightbulb dangled from the ceiling. I looked at Saltanat, saw her finger on a switch.
“You want to give me a heart attack?” I snarled.
Saltanat shrugged, smiled.
“No windows, so why not use the light?” she asked, as the smile on her lips faltered and died. I looked around, saw why.
A large table stood in the middle of the room, thick leather straps attached to each leg. Two narrow runnels ran lengthways toward two rusting buckets. They were stained black, the same black that spattered the whitewashed brick walls. In one corner, a couple of professional lights stood next to a video camera and tripod. A shelf along one wall held various lenses and photographic equipment. This wasn’t a basement, it was an inner chamber from hell.
The room stank of blood and sweat, semen and terror. I could imagine being dragged down the stairs, knowing this would be the end, struggling against remorseless hands that buckled straps to wrists and ankles. And then the sounds of the knives being sharpened.
“We need to get out of here,” Saltanat said, her face white with shock and nausea.
“Give me your phone,” I said, heard the tremor in my voice. “We need pictures, otherwise they can clean this place up and we’ve got nothing.”
I spent ten minutes making a comprehensive record of the blood spatter on the walls, the straps stained from scraped and torn skin, wood darkened from tears and spit and vomit. I forced my mind to ignore the horror of what we had found. I needed evidence. And after that, I wanted
revenge.
I looked at the lenses on the shelf. Nikon, expensive stuff, nothing but the best for child pornographers. Next to the chisels and scrapers and pliers, some of them bloodstained, there was a screw-top glass jar. I held it up to the light, gave a gasp of disgust, almost dropped it. Instead, I put it back on the shelf, wiped my fingers on my trousers. But I couldn’t wipe away the sense of having touched something vile, corrupt and corrupting.
“Fingernails,” I said, my throat sour with bile, “and fingers.”
I gave a final look around the room, saw a waist-high cupboard in the far corner. A heavy chain and padlock secured the two doors. I rapped a knuckle on the top, heard something move inside.
“Saltanat,” I whispered, my heart performing a manic tango. “There’s something inside. Something alive.”
I aimed my gun, as Saltanat used the picks on the padlock. After what seemed several days, she pulled the chain away and opened the cupboard.
A small boy, about eight years old, cowered away from us as far as he could, eyes wide with terror. His face was bruised, or dirty, and his clothes looked ragged. As he stared out at us, he started to cry, doing his best to stifle the sobs. Something about the rough haircut was familiar, then I realized. Otabek, from the orphanage.
Saltanat reached out a hand, and he flinched. She smiled, spoke softly, words of comfort, what a brave boy he was, we were the police, he was safe now. I put my gun away, smiled as best I could.
“We need to get out of here,” I said. “We haven’t bought ourselves that much time.”
She paid no notice, continued to reassure the boy, calming him, asking if he was hungry, if he was tired, would he like a nice bed of his own to sleep in.
Slowly, a kind of trust replaced the fear in his eyes, and he took Saltanat’s hand. She helped him out of the cupboard, never taking her eyes off his face. As he stood up, I could see dark bruises on his arms and legs, and pity and anger made my head spin.
Spring Betrayal Page 11