Spring Betrayal

by Tom Callaghan

  “Wait here,” he said, and left the room.

  I looked over at the vodka bottle, felt more tempted than I had for months. I might have insurance in the form of documents with Usupov and Saltanat, but that wouldn’t help me if I was found floating face down in the Chui.

  Tynaliev came back, this time with a gun in his hand. My gun. If you’re going to die from a bullet in the head, I decided, there was a sort of poetic justice in it being the one you’d used to kill other people.

  Tynaliev sat behind his desk, my gun pointed loosely in my direction, not loosely enough for my liking.

  “This could be the story. You somehow got your gun past my security people, maybe a temporary failure in the scanner, or you bribed someone to smuggle it in beforehand. You came to my study, waved the gun about, and then confessed to taking part in filming the rape and murder of young Kyrgyz citizens. You told me you couldn’t stand the guilt and shame any longer, then you put the barrel of your gun in your mouth and blew your brains out all over my very expensive Parisian wallpaper.”

  He paused, raised an eyebrow, moved the gun to aim directly at me.

  “I don’t think there would be a problem with anyone believing that story, do you? And your ‘insurance’? Lies spread by an unnamed foreign power, out to discredit me and cause political unrest. Not much of a legacy you’d leave behind you, Inspector.”

  “If you’re going to do it, then do it,” I said. “Otherwise, with all due respect, Minister, I don’t think you’ve got the balls.”

  Tynaliev nodded, considering his options, pushed the gun toward me.

  “Put it away. We’re going to visit my friend, Mr. Graves.”

  Chapter 60

  We left the minister’s house in a convoy of three, topped and tailed by SUVs filled with Tynaliev’s security team. The lead car had some sort of radio device, because every red light changed to green as we approached Graves’s villa. The metal gates swung open and we drove in. I could see the scorch marks on the gravel from the grenade I’d thrown over the wall, but there was no sign of the car. A handful of Graves’s thugs stood at strategic points around the drive, and the tension and reek of violence hit me like a hammer on the head. One sudden move, a scowl that became a challenge, and guns would start blasting at everything that moved.

  Tynaliev took a call on his cell phone, listened, spoke a few words in English, then opened the car door.

  “Out,” he said. “And come with me.”

  I wondered if this was a setup; there seemed no alternative but to obey. Flanked like a warlord by his warriors, Tynaliev walked to the front door of the villa, still marked with shrapnel scars. As we arrived, Graves opened the door, put out his hand. The two men shook, both too confident to indulge in anything as obvious as showing off their power.

  “Mikhail.”

  “Morton. Can we speak in Russian, so the inspector can understand you?”

  “Da.”

  Morton Graves seemed even more intimidating than when I’d seen him before. Then he was violent, insane, obsessed. Now, a calm business persona gave him respectability. But there were still the same hard muscles under his shirt, his shaven head massive, his eyes calculating, unreadable.

  “You’re here to investigate the attack on my compound?”

  Graves pointed to the scarred door, the scorched gravel, shrugged his shoulders, as if genuinely surprised such a thing could have happened to a respectable businessman.

  “Please, I’m forgetting my manners. Do come in. Chai? Something stronger?”

  His Russian was precise, if oddly inflected, slightly old-fashioned. I found the courtesy with which he spoke more menacing than when he’d announced he was going to kill me. We followed him into a room that obviously served as an office. The bodyguards remained outside, sizing each other up, working out who was the hardest.

  “I was surprised to get your call, Mikhail,” Graves said. “Not least when you said serious charges had been laid against me.”

  He smiled, and I sensed the confidence of the man, his ruthlessness. Tynaliev sat down and gestured at us to do likewise.

  “This is the officer accusing me of something?” Graves said, staring at me as if I were prey, and he was one of our mountain eagles waiting to swoop, then strike.

  “Inspector Borubaev—” Tynaliev began, before Graves interrupted him.

  “Forgive me, but I was under the impression the inspector had been suspended for possessing and distributing hard-core pornography. And he has some sort of involvement with the Uzbek security forces. Not really very wise, or patriotic, wouldn’t you say, Inspector?”

  “Don’t mess around with me, Graves, you’ll regret it if you do,” I said. “I know what you’ve done, what you like to do. I’ve been there, and I’ve got the burn marks to prove it.”

  Graves smiled, lit a cigarette. The smoke wreathed around his head and for a moment he looked truly demonic.

  “I don’t have the slightest idea what you’re talking about, Inspector,” he said, the amusement and contempt in his voice obvious.

  “You’ll know about Albina Kurmanalieva?” I said.

  Graves was instantly alert, his eyes moving between Tynaliev and myself.

  “A potential business partner,” he said. “I have various interests in Tashkent, and we’ve been discussing ways to maximize our investment and profit there. You’ve met her, I think, Mikhail, as a guest at my house?”

  Tynaliev nodded, but said nothing.

  “I’m afraid you’re going to have to revise your plans, Mr. Graves,” I said. “Ms. Kurmanalieva was found dead in Panfilov Park earlier.”

  Graves’s face gave nothing away. For all the emotion he showed, I might have been discussing the price of horse meat.

  “This is terrible news, Inspector,” Graves said. “Was it her heart? I always thought she was very fit.”

  “In a manner of speaking,” I said. “Her heart didn’t have any blood to pump around her body. She’d been stabbed and bled out on the spot.”

  “Murder? Do you have any suspects?” Graves asked.

  I hesitated before replying. I didn’t know how much Tynaliev knew, and I certainly didn’t want to draw his attention to Saltanat as a possible suspect.

  “My colleagues will be investigating her death, and I’m sure they’ll keep the minister fully informed. But I’m here about a number of other deaths.”

  “However I can help, Inspector. But I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “I’m talking about the rape and murder of young boys and girls, here in the cellar of this villa. About filming them for rich sick perverts like yourself. For illegal trafficking of young children. About murdering and dumping the ones you had no use for.”

  Graves laughed, the sound of a cut-throat razor scraped across brick. He stubbed out his cigarette and a smile crossed his face, to be quickly replaced by anger.

  “This is absurd,” he said, turned to Tynaliev. “Are you going to allow this nobody prick to talk to me like this?”

  “I’m sure there is no basis for his claims, Morton,” Tynaliev said, “but I’m sure you’d prefer to have his allegations thoroughly crushed.”

  Graves spread his hands in a gesture of resignation.

  “Very well, Inspector, what do you suggest?”

  “We should take a look in your cellar, Mr. Graves. The torture chamber where you filmed all those rapes and deaths. Where your friend Albina Kurmanalieva tortured me.”

  “My cellar? How do you even know I have a cellar?”

  Graves feigned puzzlement for a moment, then nodded.

  “We had a break-in here the other evening. Nothing was taken apart from a few unimportant papers; we surprised the intruders but they managed to escape. You wouldn’t know anything about that, Inspector?”

  Now it was Tynaliev’s turn to stare at me. I shook my head, not wanting to take that path.

  “How would a villa this size not have a cellar?” I said. “So I suggest we go and ins
pect it.”

  “Morton?” Tynaliev asked.

  Graves shrugged, led the way to the cellar door. On the threshold he paused, his hand on the latch.

  “This really is unnecessary, Inspector, I don’t know where you got your information, but your sources are obviously either complete fantasists or business rivals of mine. I have nothing to hide.”

  He opened the cellar door and switched on the light.

  I felt sick as I limped down the stairs, the raw taste of bile and vomit suddenly sour in my mouth. I felt the pain in my foot, the tug of the stitches in my shoulder, the tightness of the burn scars on my hand. This was where my life could have come to an end, where my career might still collapse in a cover-up and money changing hands.

  The bare bulb spat light out onto the walls and lit up the shelves. They were still there, but the whips, chains, belts? All gone. The floor was scrubbed clean, the walls newly painted, the smell of disinfectant heavy in the air.

  Graves looked around, innocence hanging like a cloth over his face.

  “Just a cellar, Inspector. Nothing sinister here, I’m sure you’ll agree?”

  I didn’t know what to say. Of course Graves was intelligent, he wouldn’t have been such a successful businessman otherwise, but he’d second-guessed me. I could have sworn he wouldn’t be able to part with his trophies, his church, his acts of worship, but I was wrong. And I knew that in some other cellar, in some other quiet and secluded villa, the torture chamber was ready to start work again.

  Tynaliev turned to me, raised an eyebrow.

  “Inspector?” he said, the anger in his voice evident. He turned to Graves, offered his hand.

  “Morton, I am most grateful for the complete cooperation you’ve shown us,” Tynaliev said. “I’m sure the Inspector will wish to apologize.”

  Both men turned to look at me. I remembered the fear I’d felt strapped down and helpless. Of the smell of sweat and vomit that seeped out of the walls. Of the wide-open eyes of children who looked for help and were given only death.

  “Gentlemen,” I said, and started to make my way back up the stairs, “you can both go fuck yourselves.”

  Chapter 61

  I waited by the car while Tynaliev said his goodbyes, a handshake, a brief hug, then he was with me. He pointed to the rear seat of the car.

  “In,” he ordered, and I obeyed.

  “I think you’ve just about used up the last of my favors, Inspector,” he said. “I’ve persuaded Mr. Graves not to insist on your badge. I’ve also told him he no longer plays a part in our investigation. And nor do you.”

  I said nothing as we drove off in the center of the convoy.

  “I told him I had every confidence in his integrity and honesty,” Tynaliev continued. “I also said we intend to stamp down very heavily on such antisocial activities as the manufacture and distribution of pornography.”

  “So you believe me, then?” I said. “About the cellar, about Graves’s involvement.”

  Tynaliev gave me a world-weary look, settled back in his seat.

  “It doesn’t matter whether I believe you or not,” he said. “You have no evidence, no witnesses, nothing. And even if you did, think of who Graves is. A businessman who’s brought a lot of wealth to this country. Who employs hundreds of people, if not thousands. Who puts plov and kleb on a lot of tables. Weigh that up against, what? A few dead orphans no one knew, cared for, wanted?”

  “Rather cynical, Minister,” I said.

  “No, Inspector, it’s practical. Without evidence, you can’t put him on trial. Continue to make allegations, and he’ll leave Kyrgyzstan, and take his wealth, his jobs, with him. What good will that do? Do I think he did all the things you say? I don’t know. But he’s not stupid. He’ll see this as a warning, a hint not to stray from the path.”

  “That’s not enough, not for those dead children.”

  Tynaliev’s voice was soft, almost paternal, explaining the realities of the world.

  “Perhaps not. But it’s as good as they’ll get, you know that.”

  He turned, opened the window, lit a cigarette, watched the smoke spin out into the air, snatched into nothingness.

  “This is an end to it, do you understand? Finished. And one more thing. I’d advise your friend to head over the border in the next twenty-four hours, before anyone connects her to the Panfilov Park murder.”

  I stared out of the window, the breeze stinging my eyes, turning everything blurred, indistinct.

  “What do you mean, that’s it?” Saltanat said, her face harsh with disbelief.

  “Tynaliev wants the matter closed. Nothing’s going to happen to Graves, not with the connections he’s got.”

  “And you’re just going to roll over?”

  “He wants you out of the country and me back behind a desk.”

  Saltanat stared at me, and I sensed something new in her eyes. Contempt.

  “It’s all political,” I said. “Graves invests here, everyone makes money, we don’t have to rely totally on the rubles sent home from Moscow. The state survives, the government stays strong. That’s the way it is.”

  Saltanat said nothing, moved around the hotel room, pulling clothes out of drawers, off hangers, stuffing them into a large kit bag.

  “What are you doing?” I asked, realizing the stupidity of the question even as I asked it.

  “Taking your minister’s advice. I’ve had enough of being shot at, hunted, stabbed. Enough of knife fights, guns, the taste in my mouth when I saw those filthy films. And it’s all been pointless.”

  “Graves won’t dare start up again. He’ll close down his adoption business, he’ll be watched from now on.”

  “Great,” Saltanat said, zipping up her bag. “Maybe he’ll come and move to my country and start making his home movies again. You know he thinks he can get away with anything. And what does the famous Murder Squad inspector do? Shrugs, nods, walks away. So that’s what I’m going to do.”

  Saltanat slung her bag over her shoulder, and headed for the door.

  “You know, Akyl, I really admired your honesty, even your anger. You chose to do the right thing, even when it could have gotten you killed. You waded through the shit, but you didn’t let it corrupt you. But now?”

  She shook her head.

  “Either you’re no longer the man I thought you were, or you never were. You’ve got blood on your hands, Akyl, and it’s not just from the bad guys.”

  “I love you,” I said. It was all I could think to say, and perhaps it was even true.

  “No, Akyl,” Saltanat said, her hand on the door handle, a look of compassion crossing her face for a few seconds. “You might wish you did. But you’re in love with Chinara. So. End of story.”

  She stared at me, revealing nothing.

  “I’m taking Otabek with me. Someone has to care.”

  And then she was gone.

  Chapter 62

  I turned the computer screen away from the Internet café desk, but no one was paying me any attention. I finished typing my letter of resignation, read it through, sent it to the chief of police at Sverdlovsky station, adding a blind copy to Tynaliev for good measure.

  Outside, the summer heat was baking Chui Prospekt, dust hanging in the air and coating the pavements. Inside the café, a weary air conditioning unit gave an occasional cough and splutter, doing nothing to cool the air.

  I lit a cigarette, ignoring the notices about not smoking, looked at the memory stick in my hand. I plugged it into the computer, opened the video it contained. A couple of days earlier, I’d gone to my lockup to collect a few important items, and also sent money to Karakol to ensure the seven dead unknown babies were given a respectful funeral. They were laid to rest in a communal grave, in the same cemetery where I buried Chinara, a peaceful place overlooking a valley with the mountains in the distance.

  And then I turned filmmaker.

  The picture was grainy, amateur, shot on a handheld phone. But it showed Graves’s villa, l
ate at night, the walls lit by floodlights, making blurred puddles on the road. The side door opened, and a man emerged, walking toward the car parked outside. The camera zoomed in, and it was Zhenbekov, checking the coast was clear. He was followed by Graves, his height and shaven head unmistakable. Zhenbekov unlocked the car, climbed behind the wheel, while Graves took the passenger seat. The headlights flicked on and the car started to move.

  Then the image turned pure white, dazzling, before slowly coming back into focus. The car was a heap of fragments, twisted metal, splinters. The passenger door hung open, crooked on one hinge. A figure staggered out of the wreckage, twisting and whirling around. Graves, but most changed. His clothes were on fire, and burns scarred his head like patches of red and black paint. He had lost a hand, or rather was holding it with the one still attached. The film was silent, but it was easy to imagine the scream coming out of his mouth, shocked by the impossibility of what was happening to him.

  He fell to the ground, rolling in an ecstasy of pain, blood splashing from his severed wrist onto the pavement, the way blood flows from a sacrificial sheep at a forty-day toi. Perhaps he remembered the screams and cries in his cellar, relived the pleasures of the knife and whip. Possibly he thought of the wealth and power he was leaving behind. Or maybe he just died, in pain and alone.

  I attached the file to another e-mail, a one-off address in another country, and pressed send.

  I remembered Saltanat walking away, never hesitating, never looking back.

  We create rules to live by, to tell us how to act, to help us sleep at night. And when life shreds them into fragments thrown to the wind, all we can do is carry on.

  But there’s always a price, because betrayal comes in many disguises.

  First we betray our friends. Then we betray those who love us.

  And finally, inevitably, we betray ourselves.

  Maybe it’s love that redeems us. Or when we do what we know is right, whatever the consequences.

  After a few moments, a reply to my e-mail arrived in my inbox. I opened it, my palms sweaty with anticipation, hope, fear. It was from the foreign address where I’d sent the film.