“We could have only so many inquiries,” Nergui said. “But, no, I don’t think we can avoid it this time. There will be too many questions.” He paused. “I have put my own name forward.”
Doripalam turned from the window. “You have?”
Nergui shrugged. “Why not? I understand the operations of this place better than anyone. Of course, if you are uncomfortable—”
Doripalam shook his head. “No, of course not. But wouldn’t they see a conflict of interest?”
“If I were to chair the inquiry? I don’t see why.”
Doripalam leaned back against the window, his thin figure silhouetted against the daylight. “Well, for a start, you appointed me.”
“But I am clear,” Nergui said. “This is not an inquiry into you or your performance. There is no suggestion that you were even aware of what was happening.”
“I know that,” Doripalam said, “and I hope you know it too. But I’m sure that others will be only too keen to think the worst.”
“There are always such people,” Nergui said, apparently with genuine regret. “But I think the situation here is straightforward. I know what you inherited here—not least, because I was the one who bequeathed it to you. And the Minister knows all this. He knows that the civil police force was a shambles from the start—the ones the military didn’t want, the detritus who couldn’t find a better government job. He knows how much we’ve done to develop some professionalism—”
“Or at least come competence,” Doripalam added softly.
“As you say. He also knows how much we have done to change things, you and I. And how unpopular we have made ourselves in the process.”
“Very gratifying,” Doripalam said, with only a mild edge of irony. “The Minister’s good opinion does of course mean a great deal to me. But I’m not sure I see the relevance.”
“The Minister is no fool. He knows the problems you are facing. An inquiry is necessary, but he does not wish to make your life any more difficult.”
“So he wants a whitewash?”
“On the contrary, he wants a thorough and rigorous inquiry into all the circumstances behind this case. He wants transparency and openness. He wants, I suppose, an appropriate apportionment of accountability and blame.” As Nergui mouthed the ministerial vocabulary, it was impossible to tell whether there was any undertone of satire. “He wants to ensure that you have the resources to resolve the situation.”
Doripalam nodded. “And the Minister wants all this? He is taking such a personal interest in the case?”
“He is aware of it. I speak on his behalf, you understand,” Nergui said. “Perhaps, from time to time, I paraphrase.”
Doripalam shook his head. “You cunning old bastard,” he said.
“So I’m fired?”
Doripalam shook his head. “It is not within my power to fire you, even if I wished to. You know that.”
He’s playing games, Doripalam thought. Why does he continue to play games, even now? “But of course you are suspended from duty,” he added. “On full pay. Pending the outcome of the inquiry.”
“So I will be fired? In due course. Pending the outcome of the inquiry.”
Doripalam sighed gently. An apology would have been nice, he thought. Some kind of recognition of the inconvenience, the embarrassment, that Tunjin had put them all through. Not to mention the implications of Muunokhoi potentially being out on the streets again, more untouchable than ever. Doripalam had intended to approach this interview in a spirit of equanimity and fairness, but he found himself losing his temper. “You do realize what you’ve done, of course? I mean, you do understand the implications of your actions?” He was talking to Tunjin as if he was some sort of imbecile, rather than an officer with thirty or so more years’ experience than his own. But he found it hard to regret either his tone or his words.
Tunjin leaned back in the seat facing Doripalam’s desk. He looked considerably more relaxed than Doripalam himself. “I’m sure I do. But you may care to remind me. Sir.” Tunjin presumably assumed that his long career was already over, and was behaving accordingly. Or, more likely, he well understood the impact of this kind of behavior on Doripalam, particularly when exhibited by junior but more experienced officers.
“Do you know how long we have been trying to get to this point?” Doripalam asked, almost instantly regretting the question.
“For many years,” Tunjin said. “Since well before your time. Sir.”
Doripalam nodded slowly, trying hard to control his anger. “I am sure you can tell me precisely how long, Tunjin. I am told it is at least fifteen years.”
“I think it’s longer. Sir.”
“Well, I am sure you are right. So—how long? Eighteen, twenty years. Perhaps longer—” Doripalam held up his hand, sensing that Tunjin was about to provide the relevant information. “And, now, when we get so close, this happens. No. I am sorry. I underestimate your contribution. You make this happen.” He paused. “And so, after whatever it is—nineteen, twenty years—we are back where we started. Which in my view is precisely nowhere.”
Tunjin, gratifyingly, seemed rather taken aback by Doripalam’s short speech. “With respect, sir—” Doripalam was pleased to note that, for the moment, neither of the latter words sounded entirely ironic. This, he supposed, was progress. He decided to press on. “No,” he added, as if after some thought. “I am wrong. We are somewhere. We are deeply in the shit. The criminal world sees us as a laughing stock. The Prosecution Service believes that we are considerably worse than useless. The Ministry believes that we are either corrupt or inept, or more likely both.” He paused, but not long enough to allow Tunjin to interrupt. “I find it difficult to see any positive aspects to this position. And there’s only one person responsible for our predicament.”
Tunjin was, he noted, finally beginning to lose his temper. Doripalam was unsure whether this was desirable, but, given his own current state of mind, it was at least moderately satisfying. “With respect, sir,” Tunjin repeated, with the ironic note now reinstated, “given that we had, in effect, made no progress in the last two decades, I thought my actions were justified. The evidence we had wouldn’t have stood up on its own. I thought it was worth the risk.”
For the first time, Doripalam’s anger and irritation were overtaken by something close to astonishment. He sat back in his chair and stared at the figure sitting opposite him. Tunjin was a mess—physically and, it was beginning to seem, perhaps mentally as well. He was a short, fat, shapeless figure of a man, completely bald, who stared back at Doripalam over a stack of badly shaven chins. He was wearing a cheap black suit, worn shiny at the elbows and knees. The jacket and pants were dotted, at disturbingly frequent intervals, with what were presumably stains of spilled food.
“Worth the risk?” Doripalam repeated finally. He was finding it difficult to come up with any coherent response. Tunjin sat watching him, playing with a badly-chewed ballpoint pen, apparently unconcerned.
Doripalam shook his head, trying to find an appropriate form of words. “This is what I find so extraordinary,” he said. “This will no doubt sound patronizing, but you’re one of the best—the most experienced—policemen we have in this team. We have problems—you know the problems we have. I have little respect for some of your colleagues, and doubtless they have little respect for me. But in your case—”
Tunjin had placed the end of the pen in his mouth, and was proceeding to mutilate it still further. After a moment he withdrew it, gazed thoughtfully at the dog-eared tip, and then inserted it carefully in his ear. Doripalam watched the process as though hypnotized.
After a pause, he tried again. “We have not always seen eye to eye,” he said. “I have often found your approach cavalier, lacking in discipline.” Tunjin had proceeded to prod his inner ear methodically with the pen, and Doripalam was finding it increasingly difficult to sustain his train of thought. “But I saw that you achieved results. I recognized—I thought I recognized—your integri
ty, your honesty, compared with some of your colleagues.” He hesitated, increasingly convinced that he was wasting his time. Tunjin’s maneuvers with the pen were an almost literal demonstration of his deafness to Doripalam’s words.
“It had not occurred to me,” he said, finally, “that you might be guilty of this kind of act. Of falsifying evidence.”
Tunjin withdrew the pen from his ear and peered at whatever he had managed to extract. Finally, he looked up at Doripalam and shrugged. “I am a police officer,” he said. “I just do what I can.”
Doripalam stared at him in bewilderment. “But can’t you see,” he said, “that, even if you had succeeded, this kind of behavior, this kind of manipulation of justice, is just not acceptable for a police officer? Especially for a police officer.”
Tunjin shrugged again and inserted the chewed end of the pen back in his mouth. “So,” he said, “it is clear. In due course, and no doubt after due procedure, I am fired.”
“So—we are now in session.” Judge Radnaa looked closely at Tsengel, who was sitting hunched behind the pale wooden desk. “Are you now able to clarify the situation, Mr. Tsengel?”
Tsengel shifted awkwardly and then climbed slowly to his feet. “Yes, madam. At least, in so far—” He paused, as though words had deserted him.
“Mr. Tsengel?” Judge Radnaa looked around the almost empty courtroom. Trials were normally open to the public, and even the most mundane case usually attracted at least a few idle visitors with time on their hands. A trial of this nature would normally have attracted queues of sightseers, not to mention the full representation of the press. But it had been clear right from the start that this was in no sense a normal trial, and the Ministry had insisted on a closed courtroom on the grounds of protecting its intelligence sources. The defense team, perhaps recognizing that their case would, if anything, be strengthened by this anonymity, had raised no objections.
Tsengel seemed to gather his wits. “In so far as I can,” he concluded. “I have consulted with my superiors,” he said. “Our position remains the same. We have run into some difficulties with our evidence. We would ideally like to seek an adjournment to see if these can be resolved.”
“And are you now able to specify the proposed length of this adjournment?”
Tsengel hesitated, and then glanced across at Nyamsuren, who was sitting, apparently relaxed, next to the accused. “Well, we do not believe that we are able to resolve our difficulties unless we obtain a substantial adjournment. A matter of weeks, at least.”
Judge Radnaa nodded slowly and then glanced over at Nyamsuren. “I take it that your client’s position has not changed in respect of such an adjournment?” she said.
Nyamsuren nodded and rose languidly to his feet. “I am sure you appreciate our position, madam.” He glanced back at his client, who was still staring fixedly at the table, his shaven head bowed forward.
“Indeed.” She looked back at Tsengel. “And on this occasion I can only agree that the defense counsel’s position is entirely reasonable. I can see that you have some difficulties, Mr. Tsengel, though I confess I am at a loss to understand precisely what they might be. But I think that the defense also has the right to assume that, particularly in a trial of this nature, the State Prosecutor’s Office will be fully prepared before the case reaches court.”
Tsengel looked as if a literal burden had been dropped on to his shoulders. He nodded, miserably. “I understand,” he said. “My instructions are that, if it should not prove possible to obtain the kind of adjournment we are seeking, the State Prosecutor’s Office wishes to confirm that it has no further evidence to offer. In short, there is no case to answer.”
Judge Radnaa stared at him for a moment. “In formal terms,” she said, “the trial has commenced. I do not believe, therefore, that we are in a position simply to dismiss the case.”
Nyamsuren rose. “If you will permit me, madam?” he said. “My client has been charged with an extremely serious offense, as well as being the victim of a continuous stream of unsubstantiated innuendo. In the interests of my client’s reputation, I think it is essential that the verdict is reached on the basis of the evidence that has been presented—”
“Or, to be precise, not presented,” Judge Radnaa said.
“As you say, madam. But I believe that, given the seriousness of the charge, a clear verdict is needed in order to remove any doubts about Mr. Muunokhoi’s position.”
“I can only agree with you, Mr. Nyamsuren.” The judge looked across at her colleagues and the citizen’s representatives. “We will withdraw and consider our verdict, though I imagine it will not take us long.” She paused. “In the circumstances, I presume that the defense has no further evidence to offer?”
Nyamsuren glanced over at Tsengel, who was now sitting staring blankly at the floor. “We had of course prepared a thorough defense. However, in the absence of a prosecution case, I think this is now superfluous.”
“As you say, Mr. Nyamsuren. Very well. We will consider our verdict and then reconvene in—” She glanced at the clock on the far wall of the courtroom. Its convex glass face, she noticed, perfectly enclosed the reflected image of the Mongolian flag that dominated the wall behind the bench. “Well, I do not think we will require more than thirty minutes.”
She rose and strode purposefully out of the room, followed by the team of junior judges and citizens’ representatives. The door closed behind them, and the courtroom was silent. Tsengel still stared at the floor, avoiding Nyamsuren’s eyes.
Nyamsuren was smiling. He nodded at the two silent policeman who had been stationed each side of the courtroom door throughout the trial. “I think your escort duties are almost finished, boys,” he said.
The two policemen made no response, but looked pointedly back past Nyamsuren. Nyamsuren looked over his shoulder. For the first time, his client had ceased staring down at the desk and had raised his head. Beneath his bald head, his eyes were dark and staring, now fixed on the two officers who stiffened, fingers resting on their rifles. There was no evident humor or warmth in his blank eyes but, like Nyamsuren, he was now smiling.
CHAPTER 2
She should have gone with the others, taken the chance when there was still time.
But she had been afraid to leave, worried that her departure would reveal too much. After all, a mother would never leave her child, would not willingly return to the steppe with her son’s fate still unknown. She had made that clear to the policeman. She had said: “I won’t leave. I won’t move on. Not till I know where he is. What’s happened to him.”
The policeman had nodded, jotted down some words in his notebook. She suspected that he was not really interested, that he would never look again at the sentences he was scribbling down. He was going through the motions, trying to make her believe that they were taking this seriously.
“We don’t know that anything has happened to him,” he had pointed out, in a tone that was presumably intended to be reassuring, but which sounded merely dismissive.
She didn’t blame him. He thought she was just another anxious old woman. Probably his own mother was the same. No doubt she fussed about the life he was living, about the risks he was facing as a police officer, about what his future might hold.
“I know,” she said. “I know that something’s happened to him.”
The policeman looked up at her, apparently surprised by the quiet certainty of her tone. “But you’ve told us everything you know?” he said. “You have no other information?” There was a mocking edge to his voice. He didn’t care about any of this. He didn’t care what she felt.
She stared back at him for a moment, as if she were about to say something. Then she shook her head. “No. I’ve told you everything I can.”
It was true, she thought. She had told him everything she could. Not everything she knew. But everything she was able to say.
She had no idea who to trust. She certainly had no reason to trust this smiling, insincere young man.
Outside her immediate family, she had no reason to trust anyone. All she could do was try to bring it all out into the open, make it public, arouse as much noise as she could.
And hope that this would be enough to stop him.
After the policeman had gone, she had sat hunched on the small stool at the entrance to her ger, staring out across the empty grassland. Behind her she could hear the soft movements of the horses, the clattering of equipment, the desolate cry of a baby.
Her family were preparing to move on. She would not be traveling with them. Not yet. Some of them had offered to stay with her, but she had said no, fully aware that they were also afraid. Afraid for her, afraid for her son. But, mostly, afraid for themselves.
They knew he would come.
The rest of the family struck camp a week later, packing up their tents and equipment with the characteristic efficiency of the nomad. When the horses and trucks were loaded, her brother had come back to speak with her.
“How long?”
“As long as it takes,” she said.
“We will come back for you. When we’re settled. As soon as we’ve found somewhere suitable. It will only be a few days.”
“As long as it takes,” she repeated.
She had watched them go, feeling as if her heart was being torn from her body. A mother does not willingly leave her child.
She had not even been able to say what she felt. Had not trusted her emotions. But, also, had not trusted that somehow, in this vast empty plain, they might not be observed.
It had been a long time before the last black specks of the convoy had vanished into the pale haze of the horizon. Afterward, she had returned to her ger, boiled water for tea, and sat down on her stool, nothing now to do but wait.
The Adversary Page 2