“So we think Tunjin might have made an escape on a motorbike?” Luvsan said, incredulously. He was clearly struggling to picture the image.
“Who knows? The motorbike might have just been a coincidence. But it certainly looks as if—well, either he escaped or he wasn’t here in the first place.”
“The gunshots at the far end of the blocks suggest that they were trying to stop someone,” Doripalam pointed out. “Has anyone had a look down there yet?”
Batzorig nodded. “Yes. There’s a patch of waste ground out there. And an encampment—one of the permanent ones. We found an old man—” He stopped to glance at his notebook. “Agypar, apparently. Lives in the end block and happened to be down in the utility room in the basement at the time. Said he heard some gunshots and peered out. Saw two men, one of them apparently injured. Looked as if he’d been shot in the knee.”
“Tunjin?”
Batzorig shook his head. “Definitely not. I think Tunjin’s build would have been unmistakable. This man was nothing like that. More likely to have been one of our two intruders. The old man thought he was wearing a leather jacket, but he was too far away to see anything for sure. When the old man realized it really was gunfire, he made himself scarce.”
“What about the motorbike?”
“Knew nothing about it,” he said. “Said he didn’t see or hear anything of that kind. There were a few bikes chained up there, but most of them looked as if they’d been standing there a long time. There were some tire tracks, but it was difficult to be sure how recent they were.”
“Any sign of blood?” Doripalam said.
“We found a few traces on the ground. We’ve sent a sample to be analyzed, see if it matches Tunjin’s records.”
“If the old man’s right, it sounds as if Tunjin might have been doing the injuring, rather than the other way round.” That wouldn’t have been particularly surprising, Doripalam thought. For all Tunjin’s failings, he knew how to look after himself.
He looked round the room. “I take it the scene of crime people have done their stuff?” he said.
“Pretty much so,” Batzorig said. “The only clear prints we can find match Tunjin’s, but there are smeared prints that would indicate the intruders were wearing gloves. Not much else. No evidence of any kind of struggle—not easy to be sure given the state of the place, but there’s nothing to contradict the assumption that Tunjin wasn’t here when they arrived.”
“I guess in that case,” Doripalam said, “we can do Tunjin a favor and get the place cleaned up. Don’t suppose he’ll object if we get someone to do his washing up for him.”
“I still wasn’t sure if it was an excuse,” she said. “I mean, as I said, it seemed a little late in the evening for a bail out call, but I suppose that depends on what it was you thought you might be bailing out of.”
He put down his espresso and looked at her. “I don’t think I’m even going to try to follow that,” he said. “I had a late night last night, and I’m not at my sharpest.”
Sarangarel laughed. “Well, so long as you really were working, I won’t be too offended. But thanks for the offer of lunch anyway.”
Nergui nodded, wondering what it was that had prompted him to make the call that morning. Partly just straightforward guilt. He had felt genuinely bad about terminating their date the previous evening, even if he hadn’t been entirely clear what it was he was terminating. Also, he thought—and this was another distant echo of the less admirable part of his character—there was still some curiosity, reignited by his midnight conversation with Tunjin. It was strange, almost a little too strange, that these ghosts from his past should have re-emerged now.
That icy midnight raid. Sarangarel terrified and confused. The small hours phone call that told him that Gansukh was dead. The sense, following that call, that a prize that had been almost within his grasp had suddenly vanished, like some cheap conjuring trick. And the realization that, if Gansukh’s death had really not been an accident, then Nergui’s team was more corrupt, had been infiltrated further, than he had ever imagined possible.
Gansukh’s death had marked the start of what Nergui now felt to be the longest sustained period of failure in his career. This was not to say that Nergui had carried out his role badly. The Serious Crimes Team had gone from strength to strength, and—certainly by comparison with other parts of the civilian police—developed an enviable reputation for both integrity and effectiveness. Nergui had been promoted to the Ministry simply because he was one of the few senior police officers who was respected and trusted by all parts of the political establishment.
But Nergui himself felt that this was all a sham. As the years went by, he increasingly felt as if he was operating with one hand tied behind his back. It was as if he had been given a license to operate so long as certain unspecified boundaries weren’t transgressed. Ordinary crime was fair game, organized crime was off-limits. And whenever he got close to the boundaries, whenever he might have the makings of a case against Muunokhoi or one of his wealthy cronies, somehow things fell apart. Evidence went missing. Confidential information suddenly appeared on the front pages of the newspapers. Witnesses disappeared or refused to speak. Every time, he somehow found himself standing on quicksand.
For Nergui, who had been accustomed to playing by his own rules even in the dark days of communism, this was a shock. But he was a pragmatist. All he could do was fight the battle, make whatever inroads he could, bide his time until an opportunity presented itself.
Others, he suspected, had been less stoic. He could never be sure, but he suspected that Tunjin’s personal and professional decline had started with his unintentional mistake over Gansukh. Though he had never said so, Nergui believed that Tunjin had blamed himself for Gansukh’s death. Though he had always been a very capable officer, he had never seemed the same, never displayed the same commitment and focus as in those days. For years, Nergui had never been sure whether Tunjin’s guilt was that of the perpetrator or the victim—that is, whether Tunjin himself had already been corrupted. Over the years, he had investigated Tunjin repeatedly but—although his increasing drinking and dissolute behavior might have made him a natural blackmail victim—there had never been any evidence, substantive or even circumstantial, that he was bent. But it was only with the recent debacle over Muunokhoi’s trial that Nergui had finally been convinced that Tunjin had been waging his own quiet vendetta over the years. And maybe now when Nergui finally trusted Tunjin fully, it was all too late.
And that brought him back here, full circle, with the woman who had been here at the start of all this and who had been there, incredibly, as the trial judge when it all came to a head. Who said that ghosts didn’t exist?
And now they were sipping coffee and eating American-style club sandwiches in the Casablanca café, only yards from where he had met Tunjin the previous night.
She finished her caffè latte and smiled at him over the table. “You keep doing this,” she said. “You take me out and then you sit staring moodily into space. It’s company of a kind but it’s not particularly flattering.”
He shook his head. “Sorry. I’ve a lot on my mind. I should stay indoors until I provide better company.”
“Is this about your call last night? It must have been a late night for you.”
He shrugged. “I’ve had a lot worse. And, yes, it’s partly about that. But it’s about a whole stack of things actually.” He paused, wondering whether to go on. “But mainly about Muunokhoi.”
She put down her glass slowly and stared at him. “Muunokhoi? What about him?”
“I’m not entirely sure about the ethics of this,” he said, “given your professional role.”
“I don’t see an issue,” she said, “unless you’re going to draw my attention to some misadministration of the trial, in which case this isn’t the appropriate forum, I don’t think. But, otherwise, the trial is over. If there’s any subsequent trial, I won’t be involved. So I don’t think there’s a pr
oblem.”
He nodded, as if thinking this over. “It’s nothing to do with the trial,” he said. “Well, not directly. It’s broader than that. It’s—well, in part, it’s about Muunokhoi and Gansukh.”
“Gansukh?” But she spoke the name without surprise, almost as if she had been waiting for the subject to arise. Perhaps waiting for a long time.
Nergui swallowed the last of his espresso. “Maybe we should go for a walk,” he said.
CHAPTER 15
After the previous day’s rain, the new day dawned bright and chilly. Tunjin pulled his coat more tightly around him and hunched himself into the corner of the desolate room.
The cold of the night and the unyielding hardness of the floor had kept him from sleep. Instead, he had propped himself against the wall, his eyes fixed on the empty doorway, his ears straining for any sound of movement.
Someone had been watching Nergui and himself in the park, he was convinced of it. He was not really surprised. Nergui’s apartment would be under surveillance by these people—they would be trying to keep tabs on his inquiry as best they could, though Tunjin knew that Nergui would make this very difficult. Nergui would have done his very effective best to ensure that he was not being followed to the park, but it would not have been very difficult to keep track of a solitary car traveling through the city at that time of night. Tunjin was unsure what kinds of resources Muunokhoi would have access to, but he knew they would be plentiful.
It was fortunate, therefore, that no action had been taken against them in the park. They would not have known, initially, that Nergui’s rendezvous was with Tunjin, and their priority was probably simply to keep Nergui under observation rather than confirm his suspicions that he was being followed. So if—or, more likely, when—they had recognized Tunjin, they would not have wanted to take action until the two men had parted.
And that was where Tunjin had been too sharp for them. He had banked on the fact that the observers would not be particularly close at hand, since they would not have wanted to risk being spotted. On leaving Nergui, Tunjin had moved with surprising agility and light-footedness to hide himself in the thick bushes surrounding the play area. He had watched Nergui as he sat waiting—clearly wondering whether he himself should follow Tunjin, which thankfully he had not chosen to do—and then as he had slowly left across the park. Nergui’s hesitation had been helpful, buying Tunjin some time before the pursuers were able to step into the open.
They had appeared a few minutes later. Two men, dressed in leather jackets, one carrying a cell phone, the other carrying what Tunjin assumed to be a gun. The two men had stopped and looked around, obviously concluding that Tunjin had departed and unsure which direction he had taken. Tunjin had wondered, nervously, whether the two men might be armed with night sights or infra-red gear but it appeared not. People always tended to underestimate Tunjin’s abilities, and not for the first time he was profoundly grateful for this.
One of his great qualities was his patience, and this once again proved his savior. He remained concealed in the bushes, scarcely breathing, for long minutes, as the two men looked around, spoke on the cell and then departed, taking what they thought to have been Tunjin’s path.
He was tempted to emerge then, but he knew that could prove suicidal. When the men failed to find him further out across the park, they might well return. So, instead, he remained concealed in the bushes, watching carefully, remaining as motionless as he could. As expected, after ten or fifteen minutes, the men reappeared, talking to each other in a whisper, seeming mildly agitated. They paused, looked around, then set off in the opposite direction. Tunjin waited another thirty minutes or so, having lowered himself to the earth, and then, when he was sure that they were not returning, he eventually emerged. He made his exit from the park and walking silently though the city streets, his senses alert for any sign of pursuit, he had made his way back here.
The experience had confirmed his view that he couldn’t stay here for much longer. Apart from the sheer physical discomfort, he did not know for how long this place would be secure. Sooner or later, someone would stumble across him—maybe a police patrolman making a routine examination of this rundown area. And at that point he would no longer be confident of remaining undetected.
No, as he had told Nergui the night before, the only way forward was to take some positive action, to take the initiative. He still had no idea what he meant by this, but he needed to do something. Even if he failed at least he would feel in control, at least he would feel that he was making the running.
He dragged himself slowly to his feet, looking down at his stained and grubby clothing. How long was it since he had had a drink? It seemed like an eternity. It was difficult to tell whether he felt better as a result. His life was in so much of a mess that any kind of oblivion seemed attractive as an alternative.
But he had to be positive. He opened the canvas bag that Nergui had given him, and took a large gulp of the water. He began to chew slowly on the end of slightly stale bread. Access to food—even food as primitive as this—began to make him feel slightly more human. Outside, the day was brightening, sunlight beginning to stream in through the doors and windows. There was no sound other than an occasional rustling, presumably of mice or rats.
Okay, he thought. Another day. Maybe his last day on earth. But surely, surely there was something he could do, some positive action he could take.
All he had to do was think of it.
By day, the park looked more welcoming. It had seen better days, certainly, and even in the bright spring sunlight its facilities were clearly worn and run-down. But at least it looked like a place that had been designed for pleasure, rather than the vast black wasteland it had seemed the previous night.
They had entered the park by the entrance opposite the Bayangol Hotel, and had walked slowly across to the play area. Neither had spoken for some minutes, Nergui unsure where to begin and Sarangarel sufficiently patient to wait until he had found the words.
Nergui led them across to the row of benches by the play area, and they both sat down. It was not, he thought, the bench where he had sat with Tunjin the night before, but maybe two or three along.
“I’m not sure I know where to begin,” Nergui said.
“I think I’d guessed that,” she said, “from the fact that you hadn’t done so.”
“I suppose I need to begin with Gansukh.”
She nodded. “I thought you might. I’ve put all that behind me. It’s a different life. A different person.”
“I know it is, and the last thing I want to do is drag you back there—”
“But you’re going to.”
“I suppose I am,” he said. “I don’t know if you remember, but—well, when we were questioning Gansukh, I asked you some questions about any relations he might have with Muunokhoi.”
“I remember,” she said. “I thought you were insane.”
He nodded, looking up at the slowly turning Ferris wheel. He had been up there only once, a long time ago, enduring the agonizingly slow elevation, seeing the breadth of the city slowly opening out before him, the texture of the streets and buildings, the untidy sprawl of the ger camps, the vast expanse of the steppes and mountains beyond. “I know you did,” he said. “Do you still think that?”
There was a long pause. So long, in fact, that Nergui became convinced that she was not going to respond. Above them, the Ferris wheel continued its silent motion.
“No,” she said at last. “No, I don’t.”
He looked at her. “You think he was working for Muunokhoi?”
“I know he was.”
It was Nergui’s turn to be silent. There were some young children, scarcely more than toddlers, playing on the swings and roundabout off to their left. The sound of their high pitched voices carried faintly across the grass. Behind them, there was the deep blue of the lake, glittering in the midday sun. “How do you know?” he said at last.
“I know,” she said. “I don
’t mean just—oh, you know, women’s intuition, that sort of thing. I mean evidence. Of a sort, anyway.”
“You should have told us, if you knew. You might have helped save his life.” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them.
She laughed. “Do you think that would have been an incentive? At the time, that was the last thing I wanted. But, no, in any case, I didn’t know then. But I do know now.”
“How do you know?”
“As far as I’m concerned,” she said, as though embarking on a different narrative, “I’m not that person anymore. I’m not the person who married Gansukh. I don’t think I would be anyway, even if—all that hadn’t happened. Our marriage wouldn’t have survived. When you arrested him, I realized that I wasn’t surprised and that—other than worrying about what might become of me—I wasn’t that sorry.”
Nergui nodded, wondering where all this was leading.
“But, of course,” she went on, “that’s not quite how the world out there sees it. I’m still Gansukh’s widow. I haven’t remarried. We’re still—in some people’s eyes—a couple.” She paused. The breeze ruffled her dark hair, toying with the folds of the long silk dress she was wearing. “He had a cousin who died recently, down in the Gobi. Someone I’d met—well, only once or twice, as far as I can remember, years ago. But he’d left some possessions—originally intended for Gansukh. But when Gansukh died, he apparently changed his will and left them to me. So, a couple of months ago, I received an unexpected parcel through the post.”
Nergui was watching her closely now, struck by the intensity with which she was recounting the story.
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