A taxi was heading up Tureshbekov with its light on, a real worthless heap with every panel clearly from a different vehicle, maybe even a different decade. But it was bitterly cold, and I’d no intention of walking. I flagged him down, badged him, made him wait while I told the hotel desk clerk to go home and keep his rot firmly shut. When I came out, the taxi was still there, to my amazement, all three of the working windows wound up, the driver creating a cancer cloud that spilt out into the night air.
As we drove down Chui Prospekt, just before we got to the White House – where some of my country’s biggest criminals work out new ways of prising money out of the people – I told the driver to stop and wait.
The avenue was empty as I walked towards the monument commemorating the people massacred here during our last revolution, shot down as they demonstrated against the president. At the time, they were described as anti-social forces of lawlessness. Now, they’re martyrs in the name of democracy. It’s a see-saw; who knows who will get to write the final word?
I stood out of the wind, looked past the marble slabs attached to the White House railings, bearing the names of the dead, and up at the monument. A giant block of a wall, split into two halves, one white, one black, with three men in between them, pushing the black slab away and over on to its side. It’s a little old-fashioned – three heroic Stakhanovite sons of toil overthrowing dark repression – but it never fails to move me. Maybe it’s the simple division of the world into a good half and a dark half, the belief that people have the power, and can unite to overcome greed and tyranny, terror and confusion. It’s a belief I wish I could share, that things can be made better, people whole again, not just slithering around in endless shit and blood and death, the way I do.
The snow was an ermine ushanka on the heads of the bronze figures, while the street lights turned the white block a half-glimpsed ghostly grey, floating against the night. And that was a more accurate reflection of the world I inhabit, neither black nor white. I pictured Chinara’s grave, under a blanket of ice and snow until the spring thaw, and wondered how soundly I’d sleep when my time came.
I lit a cigarette, smoked that down to the last half-inch, extinguished it in the snow and put the butt in my pocket. It seemed disrespectful to litter this place, where dreams fell and the gutters had carried away the blood.
I sifted through all the evidence again, for patterns, trying to attach motives to actions. Maybe I should have brought a couple of hundred grams away from the Dragon’s Den.
Patterns, shapes, epitaphs and reasons.
One by one, they dropped into place, like five-som coins into a beggar’s grimy hand.
Finally I called Usupov, watching the soft and faithless snow flurry and shimmer in the moonlight, before it buried everything and everyone.
Chapter 48
The driver sounded his horn, impatient for bed, and I got back in the taxi. We headed towards Sverdlovsky, the traffic thin, our bald tyres sliding and slipping on the packed snow. The driver parked outside the station gates, knowing driving out could be a lot harder than driving in. I thrust some notes at him and hauled myself out. The guard on duty at the door nodded as I passed, watched as I signed in, scribbled a short note, then headed to the Chief’s office. I’d planned to slide the note under his door, but as I approached, I saw that his light was on.
I swore softly; now I’d signed in, I couldn’t just tiptoe away and out of the door. Resigning myself to a whirlwind of abuse, I bruised my knuckles on the door. The Chief looked very pleased with himself; the two brimming glasses on his desk suggested he’d been celebrating.
‘Inspector!’ he announced, ‘at last, an end to this heap of shit.’
He waved at the glass nearest to me, and picked his own up as encouragement.
‘The mastermind behind bars, and the Minister off our back, this deserves a drink or two, da?’
I waited until the Chief was halfway through his glass before I picked up mine and made a show of raising it to my lips.
‘So what’s the story? You’ve lost me,’ I said, holding up my cigarettes for permission.
For answer, he pushed an already overflowing ashtray towards me. Stubbed-out papiroshi, I noticed, not the Chief’s brand.
‘It’s a triumph of community spirit,’ he said, topping up his glass again. ‘A public-minded citizen gave us the location of our prime suspect, I personally sent a team down there to facilitate the arrest, and I expect a full confession by morning.’
‘Skilled questioning under the gentle hands of Urmat Sariev, I suppose?’
The Chief looked slightly affronted by my tone of voice.
‘The officer is one of our most skilled interrogators,’ he said.
‘Then I’d like to sit in on the gentle interrogation, if I may,’ I replied.
The Chief smiled, and waved the half-empty bottle in my direction.
‘Inspector, let me be frank. You haven’t exactly covered yourself in glory with this case. I can’t write to the Minister and commend your efforts.’
He held a hand up, to forestall a protest from me that wasn’t in fact forthcoming.
‘I wouldn’t want to dilute Officer Sariev’s efforts in the pursuit of justice. He’s quite capable of explaining the benefits of confession on his own. And besides, when the Umarova trial begins, your involvement might be seen as a conflict of interest, what with you having slept with her.’
Umarova.
So now I didn’t just know who was about to be asked the hard questions, I also knew Saltanat’s family name.
‘It might be best for all concerned, and certainly for your career, if you take a back seat on this one, Inspector. Not that your work hasn’t been noted and recognised, but why put unnecessary confusion and doubt before the public?’
‘Chief, I know that Saltanat Umarova is Uzbek Security. What does she have to do with the killings? Plenty of Uzbek women have died as well. And you’re not suggesting that she killed them?’
‘Of course not,’ the Chief agreed, ‘but something as complex as this, it needs a ringleader, a mastermind, someone who can pull the right strings.’
‘But her motive?’ I persisted. ‘Why would she do all this?’
‘Land. Territory.’
I looked at him, saying nothing.
‘Let me explain. Umarova is a loyal Uzbek citizen, as well as a senior investigator in Uzbek Security. Diplomatic status, comes and goes as she pleases.’
I nodded.
‘The Uzbeks have always considered Osh to be their city; the fact it’s in the Kyrgyz Republic is neither here nor there. They want it. Have done ever since Uncle Joe said it was Kyrgyz back in the thirties. So this is how they set out to do it, through terror and confusion. Cause enough trouble, the Kyrgyz in Osh riot against the Uzbeks, the Uzbeks fight back, and the Uzbek army comes in over the border “to protect fellow Uzbeks”. And once they’re in the city, they won’t be leaving any time soon. The Russians advise both sides “to keep calm”, and you’ve got a stalemate, with us Kyrgyz getting fucked in the arse.’
‘It’s an interesting theory,’ I said, and took out another cigarette.
‘One you’d have spotted straight away if you hadn’t been looking at the world with your little eye,’ he said, pointing at my groin, ‘and fallen for that whore.’
He saw I wasn’t amused, tried another approach.
‘Look, it’s only been a few months since your wife died. No one could expect you to be your usual self, not with sorrow blurring your eyes. A pretty girl comes along, life starts to stir again, spring following on from winter. Natural. But not a good idea if you’re Murder Squad.’
‘So she’s Ms Big, the power behind the throne, right?’
The Chief winked and shook his head.
‘Of course not, there are bigger people behind this. People we couldn’t touch even if we found them with a severed head in one hand and a machete in the other. People you read about in the newspapers, watch on TV. But we bite off wh
at we can chew, and we only chew what we can swallow. And in this case, that’s your Ms Umarova.’
He opened his mouth and bared his teeth, snapping his jaw shut.
‘Case closed,’ he smiled and emptied his glass.
Then the smile left his face, and I saw the power that lay behind; it was a face used to having orders obeyed.
‘Closed just like your mouth, Inspector. I hope we’re clear on that? And while I remember, your case notes, let me have them, all of them.’ The smile returned, ‘Just for the record.’
‘I still have a few questions.’
‘I’ll let you have a look at the transcript of the confession.’
‘Edited highlights, I suppose?’
The smile widened.
‘You know us too well.’
I sat back in the chair, tapped the end of my unlit cigarette against the desk to tamp down any loose tobacco.
‘The two shitheads at Fatboys, Tyulev and Lubashov, the hit that went wrong. What was that all about?’
‘Umarova wanted you dead; she knew you were our best Murder Squad. A high-level killing like the Minister’s daughter, no way we couldn’t put our top man on it. And you used to be smart enough to be a real risk to her plans. Tyulev was sent to distract you so Lubashov could comb your hair from the inside.’
I nodded.
‘And Gasparian? The Armenian high-dive-on-to-concrete champion?’
‘A coincidence. He’s not the only man to have fucked a whore in this town.’
‘So why the jump?’
The Chief poured yet more vodka for himself, raised an eyebrow at my still-full glass.
‘You taken a vow of abstinence or something? You should celebrate, not worry about why some low-life loser dies trying to escape.’
I nodded in agreement, raised the glass to my mouth, didn’t drink.
‘You’re right, Chief, it all ties together. Destabilise Osh, capture it in the name of international law and order, own the most fertile part of our country.’
I smelt the harsh metal scent of the vodka. He was drinking Rasputin, the 70° proof stuff, like gasoline, with lit-match chasers.
‘What about the dead Russian woman, Chief? Where does she fit into the Uzbek master plan?’
His face flushed from the vodka, the slightest slurring and hesitation in his words, the Chief frowned with the effort of marshalling his thoughts.
‘I think her boyfriend did her, made it look copycat, so we wouldn’t look too closely at him. Not that we could, even if we wanted. Russian military, law unto themselves. You know he’s got a wife and two kids back in Ufa? A sweet little half-brother or -sister to Boris and Anastasia isn’t going to go down well at the dacha back home.’
‘Sounds like you’ve got all the pieces in place. All you need now is that confession.’
The Chief raised a hand, in modest objection to my praise.
‘Of course, we’ll stick to our existing story as far as the public are concerned. No need to inflame public opinion. But we’ll let the Uzbeks know we know. And we can always produce your girlfriend as evidence if there’s a problem.’
I stood up, and stretched. I was tired, and the temptation of the vodka was nagging at me like a sore tooth.
‘Giving you my notes can wait until morning?’
The Chief was magnanimous in victory.
‘Sure, get your head down, take a couple of days off.’
I tapped the desk with the knuckles of my good hand, the sound like distant shots from a silenced weapon.
‘That public-minded citizen, the one who gave you the tip-off?’
‘Yes?’
I jerked my thumb at the door to the Chief’s private bathroom.
‘Why don’t you ask my old friend Kursan Alymbayev to join us, then I’ll explain why everything you’ve just told me is complete bullshit.’
Chapter 49
The bathroom door opened, and a grim-faced Kursan emerged.
I pointed to the ashtray.
‘He doesn’t pay you enough to give up the papiroshi? Betrayal must come cheap these days,’ I said. ‘I could smell them from halfway down the corridor. Might as well have painted a sign.’
Kursan shrugged and sat down, no sign now of the carefree bold smuggler. I stared at him without speaking for a moment. My dead wife’s uncle, the man who’d danced at our wedding, who’d emptied vodka bottles with us until dawn, who could always be relied on to help out with food and tea when things were scarce.
Knowing I was right didn’t make my sense of his complete betrayal any easier. Everything I’d ever considered sacred, family as something honest and intact outside the fogs and mists of deceit in which I lived, all of that had fallen apart when Kursan had walked through the door.
‘I always said my niece had married a smart man, Akyl. Maybe too smart,’ Kursan said, lighting up the inevitable papirosh.
‘You found the hotel; no one knew we were staying at the Grand, so it had to be you who organised the snatch. What I didn’t know was whose side you were on, who you were betraying us for. Then the ment told me about the police car leaving the scene, and I figured it was bringing Saltanat here –’
‘As I told you, Inspector, a concerned citizen doing his civic duty,’ the Chief interrupted.
‘On the side of the angels?’ I asked. ‘So, of course, you handed the million-som holdall of drugs over to the proper authorities?’
Kursan looked hesitant for a second, then the Chief intervened.
‘Inspector, everything’s under control, accounted for. I suggest you go home.’
‘It’s just that when I checked in the custody book, there was no mention of Saltanat or the drugs,’ I lied. ‘As far as the record’s concerned, a fender-bender out in Tyngush was the evening’s only incident.’
The Chief spread his hands in a conciliatory gesture.
‘These things take time. Surely it’s more important to interview the prisoner than to spend time scribbling down details?’
‘And much more convenient if the interview starts at the top of some stairs and gets signed off at the bottom.’
The Chief scowled, and topped up his glass.
‘I understand you’re stressed, but don’t push me too far.’
I didn’t look too terrified, and that didn’t please him either. I finally lit my cigarette, letting the smoke cascade towards the ceiling and join the blue cloud already there. I didn’t offer the pack around.
‘The problem with this case has always been motive. Lots of connected events, but seemingly too separate to be connected. Unless someone big is pulling the strings.’
The Chief stared at me, unblinking. Kursan was looking at his hands, careful not to catch anyone’s eye.
‘The pakhan told me the motive. “Terror and confusion,” he said.’
‘Go on,’ the Chief growled.
He started to top up my glass, but I shook my head and he put the bottle down.
‘To do something this big, all the murders, here and in Uzbekistan, takes real money. The sort of money a government has. Or the people behind a government.’
The Chief sipped from his glass.
‘Like I told you, Inspector, it’s the Uzbeks.’
I gave him the unblinking eye right back.
‘No, it isn’t.’
The silence in the room stank of anticipation, of men working up the courage to reach for their guns and turn the quiet into mayhem.
When the Chief spoke, it was in a very calm, measured voice.
‘So who is it, then?’
‘Which family controlled everything in this country until the last revolution? Which family pillaged the state treasury, the foreign aid reserves, every last som they could lay their hands on, then jumped on a private jet with the loot? Leaving their stooges in the army to gun down civilians outside the White House while they celebrated with champagne at forty thousand feet?’
I realised that my voice had risen, and there was anger in it. The Chief shook his
head, unable to believe my stupidity.
‘And who’d follow their cause now? They’re hated from here to Karakol. Believe me, Inspector, that’s a crazy theory.’
I nodded agreement, then turned over my cards.
‘It’s crazy if you think they’re expecting the support of the people, the way things stand now. But out of all the millions they took away with them, they found enough to make a deal with the Circle of Brothers. Here’s a few million dollars, cause terror and confusion, make the people see they need a tough leader, and we’ll cut more deals when I’m back in the White House.’
The Chief looked at me, and there was a sort of grudging admiration there.
‘It’s a very interesting theory, Inspector. One you could follow that leads all the way to the cemetery next to your wife.’
I nodded.
‘Of course, terror isn’t enough, not on its own. You need to manipulate it, take each twist and coil and turn them to your advantage. Stir up trouble, quell it, show you’re the tough guy the country needs.’
I didn’t hear any disagreement, so I pressed on.
‘Tyulev and Lubashov, the shoot-out at Fatboys? At first, I did think Saltanat had set me up for it. Then I thought that they’d been involved with the murders, and this was to stop me going any further. But the truth? Tyulev was a zhopoliz; he’d kiss anyone’s arse if there was money in it. He was too deep into something too big for him, and he wanted to sell me information. So Lubashov was sent to silence him. It wasn’t a hit on me, but on Tyulev. He got the long sleep, and I tucked Lubashov away.’
I ticked both names off on my fingers, and moved on.
‘Gasparian? Well, that’s an easy one. Planning a coup like this isn’t cheap. You need someone who can move money around. Word of mouth is all very well for moving money from one country to another, even tens of thousands of dollars. But we’re talking millions, and Gasparian knew how to shift them. The UAE kicked him out for doing just that. I imagine he did a little creative accountancy on his own behalf. The Circle of Brothers found out and ordered you to organise his dive, once he was no longer useful.’
A Killing Winter Page 23