Spring Betrayal

by Tom Callaghan

  That was when I saw the burly guy with a shaven head and a chest full of prison tattoos as he came into the shower room.

  And when he noticed me.

  Chapter 53

  He started to move toward me. Naked, the slabs and sheets of muscle across his arms and chest were clearly visible. He could snap me in half with all the effort it takes to part a pair of chopsticks. The plaster cast on his hand was a souvenir of my hitting him with the tire iron back at Graves’s house, and his scowl suggested he wasn’t in a forgiving mood.

  He stood between me and the changing room, and I knew there was no other way out of the banya, or time in which to get dressed. I moved away from the steam rooms, toward the corridor that leads to the circular pool, pushing through the door as he followed me. He moved slowly, with the curious grace you sometimes see in burly, overmuscled men. He knew I was cornered, intended to relish the time he had in which to kill me.

  In the pool room, he took hold of a nearby broom, jamming it through the door handles to prevent anyone else joining us. The pool was deserted, the water impassive, motionless. Light from the windows placed high upon the walls spilled down through the water, reflecting and shimmering off the blue tiles. It looked like a very good place to die.

  I moved to the far edge of the pool, so we faced each other. For every step he took in either direction, I could match him, so we remained opposite each other. Theoretically, it was a dance we could carry out for hours, or until someone came to investigate why the pool room door wasn’t opening. But I couldn’t rely on him not having a colleague with him, still getting changed, who would spot his partner’s absence, follow him, and then have me trapped as they closed in on either side. I had to act.

  I walked slowly around the pool toward him, flexing the muscles in my back and shoulders. I got to within three meters of the man, his eyes never leaving my face. The light reflecting off the water gave him an almost unreal intensity. I could see every pore in his skin, every hair on his arms and legs, the heft of his belly. The blue-gray tattoo in the center of his chest was of a Russian church with three onion domes: he’d served three prison sentences. The dagger piercing his neck told me he’d committed murder while in prison, and he was available for hire. It wasn’t a hard guess to work out his latest assignment.

  I knew that the plaster cast on his hands would be a weapon as long as he wasn’t in the water, where it would become a liability. So I dropped my head, raced toward him, then dived into the water, dragging him in with me.

  We both touched the bottom of the pool at the same time, my arms wrapped around his waist, while he tried to club at my neck with his cast. The cold water bit into my wounds like a starving wolf. I kept my head tucked into my shoulders, so they took the worst of his blows. The resistance of the water and the weight of the cast meant he couldn’t really hurt me. I kept hold of his waist, punched his stomach as hard as I could. It was like hitting a side of beef, his muscles rock solid. I clenched my fist, hit him again. The air in his lungs exploded upward in a giant bubble. Still holding my breath, I reached down and twisted his balls. His mouth opened in a silent scream and he started to panic. I let go of him, and pushed myself up to the surface. The pool is three meters deep, so I started to tread water, waiting to see him appear.

  It was then I realized he couldn’t swim. He broke the surface, eyes wide in terror, his legs unable to find the bottom, arms thrashing the water and sending waves over the tiled surround. I swam to the far side of the pool and clambered out. If I tried to help him, he’d probably drag me down in his panic, drown me with him. A result, even if it didn’t work out so well for him. I stood there, water dripping down my body, hair plastered to my head, looking down.

  His arms waved underwater, the way weeds sway with the current of a river, quickly at first, then slower, losing momentum as his lungs filled with water. Finally, he lay motionless at the bottom of the pool, anchored by the cast on his hand.

  I knew he would have killed me, choked the life out of me or held me underwater. I was sure he’d killed before, watching the life go out of his victim’s eyes, replaced with nothingness. Perhaps he’d been the man who’d raped and murdered Alina back at the hotel. I imagined he would lie in bed and relive the taking of life with a pleasure that went beyond sexual feeling.

  But none of that made me feel any better about standing by and watching another man drown.

  Chapter 54

  There was no sign of Usupov as I left the banya, which was encouraging, as long as he came through with releasing the material in the event of my death. The wail of a police siren meant someone had discovered the body in the pool and put in a call. I crossed the rough ground that passed for a parking lot, worked my way along behind a brick wall. Don’t run, don’t look worried or suspicious, just a regular citizen going about his lawful business.

  I called Saltanat, arranged to meet her at the Metro Bar in an hour’s time. That would give me the opportunity to walk across the city, to try to put the pieces together in some kind of order. I’ve always thought best when walking, often at night, when the streets are empty, and the darkness empties my mind of distractions. The routine of footstep after footstep, the pattern and rhythm, seems to create new links, fresh connections. It would also help me distance myself emotionally from the death in the banya. I told myself I hadn’t killed him, that he would have killed me, that I shouldn’t blame myself.

  I took my own life in my hands, and crossed the road onto Chui Prospekt, ignoring the horns and shouts of the drivers trying to steer a way around the worst of the potholes. From there, I could walk through the center of the city, invisible in the crowds. My gun was hidden in Saltanat’s car, and I felt oddly naked without the reassurance of its weight. I’ve always believed you should never get too attached to weapons, because that’s when they become the solution of choice, the easy option. But without even a nail file to fend off my enemies, I was wondering whether I should revise my opinions.

  I wondered about going to see a doctor about my shoulder, which had more stitches in it than my jacket. The hot shower followed by the cold pool had cleaned the wound, but the fight had opened it up again, and I could feel my shirt sticking to the bloody edges. I decided against a doctor, at least for the moment. If I was on a Be On The Lookout list, then som, or maybe even dollars, wouldn’t guarantee silence.

  As I crossed Ala-Too Square, I looked up at the giant national flag as it flapped in the breeze, a crimson red broken only by a stylized yellow tunduk in the center.

  Our flag has always given me hope there is more to men and women than brutality and greed, lust and terror. But now I wondered if it was an empty promise, a passing illusion like headlights reflected on dark windows. The flag’s halyard clattered against the flagpole in a jerky rhythm like distant rifle shots. I looked toward the monument in memory of the protesters shot during the last revolution, remembered the day when the square echoed with bullets ricocheting off buildings and into flesh.

  Sometimes you despair, but you carry on. What else is there to do?

  Saltanat was waiting at the Metro Bar, a Baltika already half drunk in front of her, clouds of cigarette smoke spilling and drifting above her head. She managed to look both incredibly beautiful and incredibly pissed off.

  “You’ve eaten?” I asked, waved at the pretty red-haired waitress to bring menus. I ordered chai, then we discussed the merits of various pizza toppings before agreeing to share a Diavolo.

  As we ate, I told Saltanat about the drowning in the banya. She looked at me, sipped her beer, lit another cigarette before speaking.

  “You know he would have killed you. He probably took part in all the rapes and killings. But you still feel bad about him being dead?”

  I shook my head.

  “Not exactly. But I feel bad about the way he died. That I did nothing to save him.”

  Saltanat stubbed out her half-smoked cigarette.

  “One of your great virtues, Akyl, is that even with all the d
eath and violence you’ve seen, you haven’t acquired a taste for killing. Of course, in your job, that’s also your problem. A second’s hesitation on the trigger, an impulse to try to wound rather than blast some shithead into eternity; that could be your biggest mistake. And your last one.”

  “I joined the police to protect people from the bad guys,” I said, surprised at the slight shake in my voice, “not to become one of them.”

  Saltanat winced at what she saw as my naïveté.

  “Akyl, an exterminator isn’t a bad guy because he kills rats. It’s just something that has to be done. Let the rats live and they damage all of us. The rats do what they do because they’re rats. We do what we do because there’s no alternative.”

  “It’s a philosophy, I suppose,” I said, not wanting to get into the argument about my many shortcomings, as a policeman, as a lover, as a human being.

  “For you, maybe,” Saltanat said, a hard edge to her voice. “For me, it’s a practicality.”

  There didn’t seem a lot to say, so after that I only opened my mouth in order to sip my chai.

  “While you were at the bathhouse, I ran through the list of foreign agencies we got from that shithead at the adoption agency, Sakataev. Who ran them, if they had any directors or owners indirectly involved. And tucked away behind a holding company owned by a holding company, guess whose name was there in small print?”

  “Our friend, Morton Graves?”

  “Exactly. Registered to help find potential adopters from abroad, vet them, and then suggest potential adoptees. All legal, above board, and fully signed off.”

  I looked hungrily at Saltanat’s cigarettes, decided to forgo the pleasure.

  “And?”

  “I went back to pay a visit to Sakataev. I caught him just as he was getting ready to drive his BMW to his dacha. Rewards for all his hard work. He was so keen to help me with my questions he managed to break two of his fingers in his desk drawer.”

  “And?” I asked, picturing the scared and overweight bureaucrat, not wanting to linger too long on how such an unfortunate accident might occur.

  “When I mentioned Graves’s name, I thought he was going to piss himself. Stammered he couldn’t possibly discuss confidential information, government regulations, all the usual nonsense.

  “Graves runs a legitimate adoption agency, calls it Hoping For Love, highly recommended, testimonials from delighted parents in New York, San Francisco, Toronto. And the photos, some of them broke my heart, Akyl.”

  I looked up to see a hint of tears in her eyes.

  “Little children born with cleft lips, terrible birthmarks, unloved, unwanted. Before and after photos, showing what money and surgery can do. Little boys showing off in their Spider-Man T-shirts, their cleft lips repaired so they smiled and it didn’t look like they were snarling. Small girls in pretty dresses laughing, showing off the cheek they’d always turned away from the camera. Nice clothes, a warm house, toys, hugs and kisses from parents who couldn’t have children themselves.”

  Saltanat wiped her eyes, glared at me as if I’d somehow failed to help these children.

  “All it takes is fucking money,” she said.

  “And love, Saltanat,” I said. “Don’t ever underestimate love.”

  Chapter 55

  I bought Saltanat another beer, felt the rough wood of the table under my fingertips.

  “So we know Graves has helped some children. Maybe part of how he conceals his other activities, looking like the noble benefactor. Does that change anything?”

  “It’s a good cover, and he’s certainly in it for the money. Bribes, certificates, flights, medical checks, it all adds up. But nothing compared to the money if he sources illegal adoptions on the side.”

  Saltanat blew smoke toward the ceiling, sipped her beer.

  “Say the courts won’t approve you as an adoption parent, but you’re desperate to have a child. Well, Graves’s agency can help you with that.”

  “Follow the money?”

  “Here’s how it works. First of all, you get approval to run a licensed adoption agency. The certificate doesn’t cost very much, but the bribe to get one is going to set you back fifteen to twenty thousand dollars. Then you set up a website, contact adoption agencies in other countries, let people who are desperate to have a child know you’re in business. More time, more money.”

  I nodded, scrawling some figures on a napkin.

  “Each time you get a referral, that there’s a child in the system that can be adopted, a couple of thousand dollars gets left in an envelope, as a ‘present.’ Getting the paperwork sorted out is another thousand. So the costs are rising. And then the foreigners enter the picture.”

  Saltanat looked around, but all the tables nearby were empty, and I didn’t imagine Graves’s caution would extend to bugging the Metro Bar.

  “Imagine you’ve been married for twelve years, trying for a child for the last ten. The tests can’t point to a specific problem, IVF hasn’t worked out for you, her biological clock batteries are almost exhausted. What do you do?

  “You go to the adoption agencies in your own country. They say you’re too old, you’ve been married before, there aren’t any children available in your ethnic group. Come back next year, but no promises.

  “You’re spending your evenings arguing about this, you don’t have sex anymore, it’s splitting you apart. Then you read an article about the orphans in Kyrgyzstan. Beautiful Asian children living in poor conditions, horrible surroundings you wouldn’t keep a dog in, poorly fed, barely educated, often with physical or mental handicaps, no one to love them, care for them.”

  “It wasn’t like that where I grew up—” I started to say, when Saltanat held up her hand to silence me.

  “Akyl, ‘poor conditions’ to these people means not having Wi-Fi and a 42-inch flat-screen TV in every room. Their heart goes out to these orphans, of course it does. So they get in touch with an agency, like Hoping For Love, and are told to fly to Bishkek or Osh, to meet some of the children. And once they do that, they’re hooked.”

  “Once they’ve found a child, they can’t walk away,” I said. It wasn’t a question.

  “Of course not. The smart ones, they find a lawyer to help deal with the agency, to keep the bribes down to a minimum and to make sure the paperwork’s legitimate.”

  “How much are we talking about?” I asked.

  “Maybe as much as fifty thousand dollars,” Saltanat said, rubbing thumb and forefinger together to emphasize her point.

  Fifty thousand dollars. That’s a lifetime’s earnings for a lot of people in Kyrgyzstan, years of rooting up potatoes, growing fruit to sell by the wayside, slaughtering a goat or a sheep and hacking it up to sell in the market you set off for before dawn, with a cold wind coming down off the mountains.

  “The thing is,” Saltanat continued, “if you’ve paid that sort of money, you end up with a child to take back to your country. It’s expensive, but you get what you paid for. And compare it to the cost of surgery if it’s needed, school fees, college, it’s not that much if a child is all you’ve ever wanted.”

  I nodded. I didn’t like the idea of children being taken from their roots, detached from their culture, never knowing their birth brothers or sisters, but I wasn’t stupid enough, or patriotic enough, not to realize it could be a ticket to a better life.

  “So everyone feeds their beak, everyone gets what they want?”

  Saltanat stared at me, and shook her head.

  “Say you don’t have the fifty thousand? Or before you can lawyer up, someone says, we can cut out the paperwork, get things sorted faster.”

  I knew I wasn’t going to like hearing what was to come next.

  “We know it’s expensive, that’s the government, but for thirty thousand, paid direct to us, we can get you a child from outside an orphanage, better looked after, healthier, yours to take home, no complications.”

  I reached over, took the last cigarette from Saltanat’s p
ack. Time to reclaim my gun; I wanted to be tooled up when I next met these fuckers.

  “Imagine you’re a family over in Karakol, or up in Talas or way down in one of the villages past Osh. Poor, but honest. The only crop you’re good at growing is children. Too many mouths to feed, clothes, shoes, no money coming into the house.

  “An agency approaches you. Chance of a new life for your new baby. Wealthy foreigners. They’re looking for a handsome malysh or a beautiful malyshka. Boy or girl, whatever you’ve got. They show you pictures of the big white house outside Vancouver, the farm in upstate New York, places you’ve never even heard of, luxury you can’t imagine. That’s where your baby’s going to grow up. Of course you’ll miss them, but there’ll be photographs, letters, maybe even visits over the years. How can you deny them that?”

  Saltanat took the cigarette out of my fingers, inhaled, handed it back, waved her empty glass at the waitress for another beer.

  “Of course, they want to compensate you for your loss. A thousand dollars, look, I have the money right here, clean new hundred-dollar notes, never even been folded. Pay off your debts, new clothes for the older children, maybe a new dress for the wife. What are you going to do?”

  I could picture the father, hands roughened by years in the fields, the mother, worn out before her time by too many children and the endless battle against mud and hunger. I thought of my mother with her cheap plastic suitcase with the split handle leaving for Siberia, my grandfather unable to meet my eye as we arrived at the orphanage, the dormitory where I covered my head with a blanket and silently wept, night after night.

  “The agency takes pictures of the child, sends them on to prospective parents. They always want a baby or a toddler, someone who won’t remember their earlier life, never a sulky teenager. And one couple will say, yes, that’s the baby for us, then the money changes hands and so does the kid. Probably handed over to Albina, pretending to be caring and maternal, to reassure the mother.”