I stood at the bottom of the stairs, listening for a car engine, hoping we would be able to leave before then, hoping they’d return so I could kill them.
Saltanat crouched down, her face at a level with the boy’s, speaking softly. He whispered something in her ear, and she turned to me, her face feral with anger.
“He says his name is Otabek,” she told me, with a voice of sharpened steel.
“Privyat, Otabek,” I said. “Do you remember meeting me at the orphanage? Director Shokhumorov’s friend?”
He stared at me, nodded briefly, a single jerk of the head, whispered something to Saltanat, never letting go of her hand as they walked toward the stairs. Her face was that of a goddess, vengeful and merciless, carved from stone. Only God could help whoever had done this.
“He wants to know,” Saltanat said, and at that moment, she was terrifying, “are you going to kill the bad men?”
I nodded, never taking my eyes off the orphanage identity band on his left wrist.
Chapter 31
The three of us left the basement, went back outside, stopping only to snatch up a pile of papers on the kitchen table. I stuffed the papers into my jacket pocket, wondered about exploring the rest of the house, but we’d spent too much time in there as it was. And I had no stomach for whatever might be tucked away in the other rooms.
Saltanat locked the outer door as efficiently as she’d opened it, and we made our way back to the door in the wall. We were only just in time; as we reached the cover of the trees, the steel gates slowly swung open, powerful headlights illuminating the house and throwing long shadows across the wall.
“Don’t move,” I whispered, but Saltanat had already dropped to the ground, her face turned away, pushing Otabek to the ground. The people carrier trundled through the gates, which closed behind it. Two no-necks got out and looked around. Basic security, but we were still trapped. I knew our best chance of remaining undetected was to stay still. It’s movement that catches the eye of someone looking around, and it was dark enough under the trees for me to think we had a pretty good chance of getting away.
The Voice was still in the people carrier, and I saw a flash of light, as if someone was making a call on their mobile. Then the iPhone in my pocket started to ring.
The response of the bodyguards to the sound of the mobile going off was immediate. Unable to locate the exact source of the ringing, they dropped to the ground, unslinging their guns from their shoulders. I knew we had maybe two or three seconds before the Uzis opened up, and emptied their magazines in our direction.
“Run for the door,” I told Saltanat, “and leave it half open.”
She nodded and ran in a half-crouch, clutching Otabek’s hand, hardly visible but enough to turn the bodyguards in our direction. I scuttled to the cover of the nearest tree, not very dignified, but a lot better than being perforated. I looked down the barrel of my gun toward the people carrier, and started firing. I didn’t aim for any particular target, but with any luck the heavy caliber bullets slamming into the car would buy us a few seconds.
Almost at once, the Uzis began their horrible staccato cough, like watch dogs with bronchitis, and fragments of brick from the wall behind me spattered the back of my jacket and neck. But in their surprise they were aiming high, and the only casualty was the tree in front of me. That couldn’t last though, and I had to move.
I rolled over, cursing as the stitches in my shoulder tore. There was a pause and relative silence as the Uzis ran out of bullets, and I took advantage by scrambling through the door and away from my new role as target practice.
Saltanat was driving toward me, headlights rising and falling as she rode up onto the pavement. I dived toward the passenger door and hauled myself in as the Uzis started up again. I was out of bullets, and Saltanat thrust her Makarov into my hand. I emptied the clip through the open doorway and then we were halfway down the road.
I looked back to see if the people carrier was following us, but a quick left then a ferocious right hid the house from view. Saltanat swerved into a narrow alleyway and a half-skid, sending me slamming into the windshield. Two more sharp corners and then we were running parallel to Chui Prospekt.
I sat back and fastened my seat belt. In the side mirror, I could see the dark smudge of a bruise already beginning to form on my forehead. Together with the blood ruining my jacket, I looked like shit. Saltanat was as cool and collected as ever, though her hand gave the slightest of tremors as she changed gears.
Finally we parked by the side of the Metro Bar.
“I want a drink,” Saltanat said, “and you’re coming with me.”
We reloaded our guns, walked into the bar arm in arm, an innocent couple out for an evening stroll with their son.
The Metro used to be a puppet theater a long time ago, the high ceiling and elaborate glass-paneled bar a testimony to more affluent days. The foreigners who came here when it was known as the American Bar have mainly gone home to count their tax-free earnings, leaving only a few eccentrics who are on the run from either their country’s police or embittered ex-wives.
Saltanat disappeared to the toilets downstairs with Otabek, and I waited until they emerged, his face now clean but still scared and distrustful. A pretty Kyrgyz waitress with bleach-blond hair and a crop top showing her navel ring came over to serve us.
“What would you like to drink, Otabek?” Saltanat prompted. “Moloko? You like pizza?”
The boy said nothing, but nodded, never letting go of Saltanat’s hand. Saltanat ordered milk, a Baltika Nine, the strong stuff, for herself, and pizza. I asked for coffee. When it came, it was lukewarm. We’re really much better at making chai.
Otabek sipped at his milk, eyes wary, saying nothing.
“Close call,” I said, stirring my coffee, the spoon rattling against the cup as my hands shook. Saltanat said nothing, rummaging through her bag for a pack of cigarettes. She lit up, snorted smoke through her nose, watching as it dissolved into nothing. Her eyes looked across the bar, but I sensed she saw nothing but muzzle flashes, heard nothing but gunfire that clattered like pebbles on a tin roof. And beyond that, a vision of the Voice, sprawled on the gravel, executed with a bullet in the back of his head.
“You’ll need to stitch me up again,” I said. “Sorry.”
Saltanat nodded, showing as little surprise as if I’d asked her directions to the bus station. I reached into my jacket to find my own cigarettes, but instead found myself holding the papers I’d liberated from the house.
They were crumpled and spotted in places with blood I sincerely hoped was mine, but still legible. I spread them out and started to read. I pushed the top page toward Saltanat, but she ignored it, continuing to stare out at her recent brush with mortality.
It looked like a bank statement, but in English, so all I could understand were the figures. Pretty impressive numbers, almost four million in some unstated currency. Great if it’s in dollars, even better in pounds, not to be sniffed at even in som.
“You wouldn’t know what this means, would you?” I asked Saltanat. She broke away from her reverie just long enough to scan the top page.
“It’s a bank statement, Akyl, even you must have seen one before,” she said.
“Never with so many zeroes in it,” I replied. “Do you know what currency it’s in?”
“Euros, most likely, since it’s from a Spanish bank,” she said. “What does it matter? It’s not like you have the ATM card to go with it.”
“No,” I said, annoyed by the sarcasm, “but there’s a clue right there, at the top of the page.”
Saltanat looked at it, then over at me, and smiled.
“You must be a detective.”
“It’s a name. It’s just a shame I can’t read it, with it not being in Cyrillic. English was never my strong point at school, so I never learned the letters.”
“Did your mother never tell you to study hard?”
I gave a bitter smile, and lit another cigarette, stirr
ed the lumps in my coffee into submission.
“Not when she was away working in Siberia. And no one at the orphanage gave me much encouragement either.”
Saltanat gave me an appraising look, sensing the pain, the resentment I carry with me like a hunchback with his bent spine. I’d like to think I’m not bitter about some of the cards I’ve been handed out. But that doesn’t mean I don’t have the scars. Only one person ever gave me the support I’d wanted, needed, and she was dead and buried in a grave I’d helped dig. There’s no statute of limitations when it comes to mourning and missing someone you loved, and still love. And if there’s one thing I’ve discovered, it’s that sorrow never leaves you.
“I was a good girl, top of the class, I know my letters,” she said.
“And?”
“The name of the account holder?”
“Yes.”
Saltanat studied the letter again, taking her time, keen to make the most of my impatience.
“The very rich gentleman is called Graves. Mr. Morton Graves.”
I shrugged.
“Never heard of him,” I said.
Saltanat tapped the bank statement.
“I have,” she said, spacing her words for extra effect. “And he’s very rich. Very powerful. And very dangerous.”
I had no answer to that, and no idea what to do next.
Chapter 32
I looked over at Otabek, who was concentrating on his pizza.
“So?” I said, once again unsure if Saltanat shared everything she knew, or if I was just a useful sidekick. “You know about this all-powerful pervert?”
“Let me tell you about Morton Graves,” Saltanat said, “and then you’ll have some idea what we’re up against.”
She screwed up the bank statement and placed it in the ashtray in front of us, using her lighter to set fire to one corner. I watched as the paper started to char, smolder, then burn, the flame eating the numbers, until black ash remained. Otabek stared at the flames, drank the rest of his milk, taking huge gulps. The pizza had vanished, so I guessed feeding him hadn’t been a priority for Morton Graves.
Saltanat ground the ashes into powder and looked across at me.
“We don’t want to be caught with any evidence of breaking and entering, do we? And it’s not as if having a bank account is illegal.”
“Even a rich man’s bank account?”
“Especially one of those,” Saltanat replied.
“So who is this man?”
Saltanat sipped at her beer, lit another cigarette, offered me her pack. For the ten thousandth time, I decided I was going to give up and shook my head.
“Morton Graves is an American citizen, although he hasn’t lived in the States for over twenty years. He’s been here in Bishkek for the last ten years, and his visa application describes him as a ‘businessman and entrepreneur.’”
“And you know this, how?” I asked.
Saltanat looked at me with the pitying glance she saved for my more foolish questions.
“Telepathy? Astrology? Educated guesses? If your ministry had any more leaks, you’d run out of buckets. And we like to keep a friendly eye on our neighbors.”
I nodded. Central Asia isn’t noted for principles before payments, and most upright citizens would dip their beaks if it meant a few som in their pockets.
“He has businesses here?”
“And Almaty, Tashkent, even Dushanbe; he’s a big player in the region. He’s a major investor in telecoms, cotton in Kazakhstan, a private bank in Uzbekistan, hotels, supermarkets, a couple of restaurants, precious metals, anything that wets his palm.”
“Drugs? Heroin, krokodil?”
Saltanat shrugged, took another mouthful of Baltika, watching the bubbles simmer in the glass, tracing the condensation with a single scarlet-tipped finger.
“Rumors, but no one’s ever proved anything. And if he’s connected to the drug trade, then it would have to be with the consent of the Circle of Brothers. Payoffs, a quiet word in the right ear at the right time.”
After the collapse of the Soviet Union, a lot of the criminal gangs in the former “stans” grouped together in a loose collective called the Brothers’ Circle. Each of the countries has their own crime boss sitting at the table with their foreign counterparts, doling out territories, alliances, joint operations in information, not just in Central Asia but in Europe, Africa, Latin America, and the Middle East, the UAE in particular. Drugs are the big money-spinner, but they branch out into robbery, prostitution, counterfeiting, smuggling, anything else that can make money and isn’t legal. Devotion is absolute: break the rules and the only question is just how long it will take you to die, and how painfully. Even the Russian gangs admit to being lightweight in comparison.
The Circle’s possible involvement wasn’t the best news I’d ever heard, especially since I’d been involved in the assassination of Maksat Aydaraliev, the local crime boss in Bishkek. If Graves was linked to the Circle, he probably wasn’t a very nice man.
I looked over at Saltanat, felt the weight of the iPhone in my pocket, the weight of its contents heavy on my conscience.
“I suppose Tynaliev knows who he is,” I said. “Maybe even does business with him?”
“You think you’re being set up by him?” Saltanat asked.
Now it was my turn to shrug. I thought about the films I’d seen, gaping mouths with screams torn out of their throats, the eyes filled with dread, knowing there was no help or hope left. I saw how the knives filleted slices of flesh, rivulets of blood spilling over the chains and leather straps that held the children down. The weeping, the pleading, and then, finally, resignation, eyes filming over as death approached.
“It doesn’t matter. Only one thing does.”
I wasn’t surprised at the anger in my voice. I could see the masked man smiling, enjoying the degradation, the terror, the despair. The glint of camera lights off the blade, and then the blood.
“I want the bastard who did all this. Not to send him to court so he can buy his way out. Not to a comfortable cell with three meals delivered a day.”
I paused, wondered about another cigarette, decided against it. I stood up, wincing at the pain in my shoulder. Somehow that didn’t seem important. In fact nothing seemed important, except for one thing.
“I want him under the ground. And I want to be the one who puts him there.”
“How are you going to do that?” Saltanat asked. “He’s got connections from here to Moscow, maybe even further.”
“First of all, I’m going to rattle some cages, give our Mr. Graves something to worry about. Push a few buttons, stir the shit, watch what happens.”
I took the iPhone out of my pocket, dialed a now-familiar number.
“He’ll kill you,” Saltanat warned.
“Not if I kill him first,” I said, rewarding her with a smile that stopped somewhere south of my cheekbones.
The phone rang and was answered.
“I imagine that so far this evening has cost you some time,” I said, “trouble, and perhaps even a little expense.”
There was only silence at the other end of the phone. The silence when the wolves are about to attack the sheep, when the farmer’s finger tenses on the trigger.
“We’ve both learned something tonight. You’ve learned I’m not in this for the money, and I’m not an amateur.”
“And what have you learned?” The Voice, dark, menacing, storm clouds looming over the Tien Shan mountains.
“I’ve learned who you are, Mr. Graves. Where you are.”
I paused for effect. Saltanat stared at me, perhaps wondering if I’d lost my senses.
“And most worrying for you, what you are.”
And I listened as the phone went dead.
Chapter 33
I held up the phone, then passed it to Saltanat.
“Can we leave this with your friend, Rustam?” I asked. “There isn’t anyone I can trust, not even Usupov.”
Saltanat th
ought about it, then nodded.
“Rustam doesn’t say much, but if he likes you, he’ll always be there for you. If he thought Graves had anything to do with the heroin that killed Anastasia, he’d go up there with one of his boning knives and gut the American himself.”
I wondered what it would be like to lose a daughter. All the hopes and ambitions you’d cherished for her, memories of those first staggering steps, the school prizes, the graduation ceremony. And the events you’d never see, the wedding, your first grandchild, the eternal circle starting again. Worse than losing your wife to cancer? Loss is loss, and it comes to live with us all.
Saltanat touched me on my arm and I came back from my reverie.
“Let’s get back to the hotel, and I can stitch your shoulder up again,” she said, and I was touched by a tenderness I heard in her voice.
I placed my hand on hers, the slender fingers warm and alive against mine. I wanted to tell her I cared for her. But the words wouldn’t come. So instead we each took one of Otabek’s hands, and with him secure between us, walked out into the night.
As before, we parked inside the hotel grounds, the high steel gates hiding us from view. Carrying our bags, Rustam led us through the kitchen and up a flight of narrow stairs to the first floor. Without saying a word, he nodded as Saltanat explained about Otabek. Rustam pocketed the iPhone, crouched down so as not to frighten the boy, said there was a special bedroom with lots of toys for brave boys. Otabek looked at Saltanat for reassurance, worry clear in his eyes. She nodded and took his hand. Rustam handed me a key to one of the rooms, and then the three of them climbed up the next flight of stairs.
The room was fairly basic, twin beds set against one wall, a small bathroom, a wardrobe big enough for one person’s clothes. I waited until Saltanat returned, closing the curtains, pushing the night away, a circle of light from the bedside lamp soft in the darkness.
“Poor child,” she said. “He was asleep in seconds. He must have been terrified.”
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