The Outcast

by Michael Walters

  The minister watched the young man, now only a short distance away. He looked familiar. They had met somewhere, sometime. Maybe a friend of Odbayar’s.

  The thought of his son stopped the minister in his tracks. He had long ago ceased to think of himself as a family man—his wife long dead, his son a grown-up political embarrassment, both in any case little more than public-relations appendages. The neat nuclear family that had been expected of the senior Party official, and that had been expected no less of the elected politician he had subsequently become.

  But his son was a real person. A good person, probably, if the minister had had any idea of what that might really mean. An idealist. Someone far removed from his own opportunistic pragmatism.

  It was as if the young man had been sent to him—another innocent who might provide his passage home.

  The minister paused by the stadium entrance, and then called and waved. The young man turned, clearly baffled as to who was calling him. He saw Bakei standing, still breathless, in the shadow of the arena.

  It was clear that the young man had recognised him, and for a second Bakei thought he might have misjudged the situation. Perhaps this was just another plain-clothes police officer. Perhaps he had inadvertently handed himself in.

  But the young man’s expression was not that of someone about to effect an arrest. He looked angry, anxious.

  “Where is he?” he shouted, across the expanse of concrete.

  The minister had no idea what the young man was talking about, but he could already see distant movement across the parking lot. Police cars moving into position. The helicopter’s blades had slowed now, too, and at any moment the young man’s attention might revert to his original objective.

  “Come here,” the minister called, “and I’ll show you.”

  Odbayar, staring blankly from the window of the helicopter, spotted him first.

  “There,” he said. “That’s Gundalai.”

  Nergui stared past him, out across the sunlit concrete, towards the shade of the stadium. “Your friend?” he asked.

  Odbayar looked back, momentarily baffled as to how Nergui should have known Gundalai.

  “We met him,” Nergui explained. “He was very concerned about your whereabouts.”

  “I—” Odbayar stopped, clearly at a loss for words. “But what’s he doing here?”

  “He’s here looking for you,” Nergui said. “The more immediate question is what he’s doing over there?” He glanced back at Doripalam. “I told Sarangeral to keep well back.”

  “Let’s hope she has,” Doripalam said, his own thoughts still fixed on his wife, anxiety gnawing at him.

  “In any case,” Nergui said, “I think we have a situation here. Look.”

  There had been some kind of scuffle outside, Doripalam could see now. The young man—presumably Gundalai, though it was impossible to see—had moved towards the stadium, and had been grabbed by another figure. It took Doripalam a moment or two to adjust his eyes to the relative gloom of the stadium precincts. Then, his throat suddenly dry, he muttered “Bakei?” His mind was reeling, wondering what had happened to Solongo.

  Nergui nodded. “I fear so. I think duty calls.” He gestured to the pilot, who opened the side doors. In a moment, Nergui was out on the concrete, Doripalam behind him.

  “You should stay here,” Nergui said to Odbayar, who was also climbing out.

  Odbayar shook his head, firmly. “Not if it really is Gundalai. I’ve let him down too often.”

  Nergui gazed at him for a moment, then nodded. “Okay.” He glanced at Doripalam. “Let’s go.”

  He looked familiar, Gundalai thought. He had definitely seen the elderly man before somewhere. He associated him with something important—some sort of celebrity, someone on television.

  It was only as he drew close that Gundalai suddenly knew the answer, and by then it was too late. The elderly man was pointing a pistol steadily towards him. “I think you had better stop there,” the man said calmly.

  Gundalai stopped, his heart pounding both from the exertion and his growing fear. The minister of security. Odbayar’s father. They had met face to face only once, at some semi-official party. Odbayar had introduced them, with an unprecedented expression of embarrassment. The minister had shaken his hand—the contact could scarcely have been briefer—and then turned away. The look on his face had not even been disdain, just disinterest.

  He seemed more interested now, though, and there was a suggestion in his eyes that he recalled Gundalai after all. That would be a politician’s gift. Perfect recall of anyone who might vote for him.

  Gundalai glanced over his shoulder towards the helicopter. The rotors had stopped, but there was no sign of anyone emerging.

  “That way,” Bakei said, gesturing towards the main entrance to the stadium. “We’ll see if we can buy a little time. You might be my ticket out of here after all.” He was smiling now, but the smile was anything but reassuring.

  Gundalai began to walk forward, wondering whether he should make a move against the minister. After all, he must have forty years on the old man. But he didn’t have the gun. Youth and fitness were unlikely to count for much compared with one squeeze of that trigger.

  The arena was deserted following the earlier evacuation. Gundalai could feel the presence of the minister behind him, the gun barrel inches from his back.

  He risked one more glance over his shoulder. There was activity around the helicopter, the doors opening, though Gundalai could not see who was emerging.

  “Keep going,” Bakei said quietly from behind. “Over there by the stage.”

  Gundalai shuffled forward into the sunlit arena, waves of heat rising from the sand. Suddenly, absurdly, he felt like a performer, the focus of attention for a nonexistent crowd. About to put on the show of his life.

  “What’s he up to in there?” Odbayar said from behind them, a faint note of hysteria in his voice.

  “I don’t think he wants to discuss politics,” Doripalam said grimly. He looked back at the young man. “Look, I know how you’re feeling.” He paused, feeling suddenly breathless. They had so far received no news of Solongo, though the unexpected appearance of the minister was a sign that there had been some development. Some development, he thought. The usual neutral police language. “But please keep back. It won’t help anyone if we don’t approach this calmly.” His words sounded hollow even to himself.

  At the entrance to the stadium, Nergui and Doripalam paused, peering into the vast empty space. The minister and Gundalai were some twenty yards away, close to the raised wooden stage. The minister was standing close behind the young man, holding the gun barrel to his head.

  “Minister,” Nergui called, his voice echoing around the empty stands. Then, in a different tone, “Bakei.”

  The minister looked up and a momentary look of surprise crossed his face. “Nergui,” he called back. “It would be you. You’ve known all along.”

  Nergui walked forward into the brilliant sunlight. “I suspected,” he said. Then he seemed to think for a moment. “No, you’re right. I suppose I knew.”

  “Then you’re as guilty as I am, Nergui. You’re a traitor, too. You’ve done my dirty work for years.”

  Nergui’s face was blank as ever. “I’ve done many people’s dirty work. It’s my job. And it’s my job to prevent it from becoming too dirty.” He paused, as though a thought had struck him. “I respected your good intentions,” he said. “At the time.”

  The minister laughed. “We all had good intentions,” he said. “At the time.”

  “It doesn’t need to be like this, Bakei.”

  “You’re not a fool, Nergui, and neither am I. Don’t treat me like one. It’s too late. My only option is to persuade you to let me make a discreet exit as I’d planned.”

  “And you think your friends in Beijing will welcome you with open arms?” Nergui said. “It’s one thing to slip away unnoticed but you’re an embarrassment now. They’ll already be mak
ing new friends here.”

  “Friends like you, perhaps, Nergui?” Bakei said, a touch of bitterness in his voice.

  “I hardly think so.” Nergui smiled. “I’m far too insignificant for their purposes.”

  “I’ve no illusions,” the minister said. “There might have been a time when I could have expected to be treated with some honour down there. That won’t happen now. They’ll just want to shuffle me silently into the wings.”

  “There is more than one way of doing that,” Nergui pointed out. “At least here your treatment will be open and honest.”

  “An open and honest public humiliation? I think I’d rather take my chances with the clandestine.” He pressed the gun harder against Gundalai’s neck. “I’d appeal to your better nature, Nergui, but I’m not sure you have one in matters like this. Just your warped sense of duty. I can’t complain. It’s served me well. If you can’t get me out of here, no one can.”

  “One last professional duty?” Nergui said. “And if I don’t?”

  “I shoot this boy. And then I shoot myself.”

  There was a noise from behind Nergui as Odbayar tried to push himself forward. Doripalam had been holding him back, but it was too late. He elbowed Nergui aside and threw himself into his father’s line of sight.

  “You can’t do this,” he said. “It’s insane. You’re insane.” His voice was thin and high pitched, but it carried across the empty arena with authority. Nergui watched him calmly, making no move to stop him.

  The minister stared, startled, his gun wavering momentarily in his hand. “Odbayar?” he said. He peered, squinting, as though unsure of his son’s identity.

  “That’s …” Odbayar struggled for the right words. “That’s my friend.” The noun sounded less like a euphemism, Doripalam thought, than a word chosen with careful precision. It was the only possible word. “Let him go.”

  “You don’t—”

  “No, you’re right,” Obayar walked further forward. “I don’t understand any of this. I’ve respected you. Not agreed with you, most of the time. But respected your abilities. What I took to be your integrity. Acting for the right reason, even when you were doing the wrong thing.” He showed no trace of anxiety now. “That’s why I don’t understand this.”

  His father opened his mouth, but for a moment no words emerged. Then he said, “It’s not what you think.” The tone was that of an errant husband caught in flagrante.

  “I don’t know what I think any more,” Odbayar said. “Except that the future of this country is too important to be left in the hands of those who were responsible for its past.” He was now only yards from his father. “Hand over the gun. Let him go.”

  Bakei gazed back, shaking his head. “No,” he said. “I can’t. Not like this.”

  He lowered the gun and held it in front of him, staring down at its dull metal shape. Then he slowly raised it, clutched firmly in his hand.

  It was impossible to tell what he intended to do, and there was no time to find out. Some instinct or intuition gripped Nergui and he grabbed Doripalam firmly by the shoulder. “Get down!” he hissed, pulling the younger man alongside his own body, as his chest and stomach struck the hard sandy ground.

  A moment later, the explosion ripped the wooden stage apart.

  CHAPTER THIRTY - TWO

  “How much longer?” Doripalam said.

  “Hours, I think,” Nergui said. “Why? Do you mind?”

  “Not really. It’s pretty relaxing, after everything.”

  “If you say so.” Nergui leaned back on the wooden bench and gazed impassively at the makeshift wooden stage. “Yes, I suppose I see what you mean.”

  “Continuity,” Doripalam pronounced. “Everything as it’s always been.”

  “Hardly,” Nergui said. “It’s all a confection, filtered through every different regime we’ve had over the last century.”

  “Like everything else, then. But relaxing, all the same.”

  They were both on duty. At least, Doripalam was on duty. He supposed the same must be true of Nergui, but it was difficult to be sure. With Nergui, it was always difficult to be sure. But, to judge from the scowl on Nergui’s face, it was safe to assume that his presence here was not entirely voluntary.

  It had been a long morning already, Doripalam acknowledged. The transfer of the banners from Sukh Bataar Square, the endless processions, acres of people in traditional robes carrying their own ornate flags and decorations. A glittering ocean of reds and greens and golds, shining in the noonday sun. And the endless speeches—the president, the prime minister, invited guests from Russia, from Korea, from Europe and from the US. And, of course, from China.

  The stadium was thronged with policemen, uniformed and plain-clothed. Soldiers lined the roads, their rifles prominent. There was no reason to expect any more incidents, but that was hardly the point. The point was a visible show of security. Reassurance for a crowd united only in its cynicism at any attempt to reassure them.

  That was why Doripalam was on duty. It was why, presumably, Nergui was here in some official capacity.

  Nergui’s career seemed to have survived so far. But that was hardly surprising. Politicians came and went, just as Bakei and Battulga had done. It was people like Nergui who held things together.

  The thought made Doripalam shudder inwardly. “How do you think Odbayar is?”

  Nergui turned to look at him. “Physically? As well as can be expected, I think. They think he’s likely to walk again, eventually. But they’re not prepared to commit themselves as to when that might be.”

  “That’s good, I suppose,” Doripalam said. “But I wasn’t really thinking of physically.”

  “I didn’t really imagine you were. Mentally, psychologically, who knows? It’s difficult to get close enough to him to find out. Difficult for me, anyway.” He paused, as though disentangling his own thoughts. “He seems to be coping, but it’s early days.”

  Doripalam gazed impassively at the stage. More music now, throat-singing, the eerie vibrato hanging in the sun-drenched air. “How’s Sarangarel taking it?”

  “Gundalai? It’s hard. I mean, at one level she barely knew him—she’d only met him a few times. But she’d grown fond of him in that short time after he turned up at her apartment. And she blames herself.”

  “It wasn’t her fault,” Doripalam said.

  “Of course not. There was nothing she could have done. But she thinks she should have stopped him chasing after Odbayar.”

  “He was an adult. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time. That’s all.”

  “That’s not how she sees it. Not at the moment.” Nergui stared out at the arena. Not for the first time, Doripalam wondered about Nergui’s feelings for Sarangarel, whether—for all its tragedy—this incident might bring them together again. But, as ever, Nergui’s blank dark-skinned face gave nothing away.

  “It’s awful, though,” Doripalam went on, aware that his words were vacuous even as he struggled to move the conversation on. “So young.”

  “Perhaps he died content, seeing Odbayar try to save him.”

  “And maybe I’ve misjudged your cynicism all these years.”

  “I always tell you—I’m a realist. There aren’t many pleasures or consolations we can look forward to. Perhaps that was one of them. And perhaps a better option than Odbayar faces, living on alone, unsure whether he’ll walk again. Knowing that, except for the explosion, his respected father would have been exposed as a crook and a traitor.”

  “Okay, I concede,” Doripalam said. “Your cynicism is undiminished. The explosion, though? Wu Sam’s last joke?”

  “Perhaps. He’d concealed the device well. We might not have found it down there in the earth under the stage. The other explosions had all been relatively small, and we’d written off Sam as a half-crazed incompetent. He claimed that he wanted to avoid civilian casualties. But if that device had gone off in the middle of this …” He gestured around at the heaving festival crowd. The fest
ival itself had, unprecedentedly, been postponed for several days to allow the stadium to be repaired, as well as to ensure a further thorough checking for other devices. “But if it was his last joke, the joke was still on him.”

  “How do you mean?” Doripalam had one eye on the crowd, watching for any sign of trouble, any indication of problems. The music had ended and been replaced by an individual in a heavy-looking golden del reading an apparently interminable poem about Genghis Khan. The familiar, oddly benevolent-looking image was projected on to the large screens behind the stage.

  “The spirit of the nation,” read the poet, “the one thread that binds us together through history, the one touchstone for our identity and our future.”

  “Without the explosion, the minister would have shot Gundalai or Odbayar or himself, and quite possibly all three. It would have been difficult for us to keep that quiet. And perhaps Sam was right. In many ways, this society is a powder keg. Maybe that spark—Bakei’s betrayal of his country and his own son—would have been enough to set it alight. As it was, Bakei apparently died as the tragic victim of an explosion caused by a poorly maintained gas pipe.”

  “You think anyone believes that?”

  “I doubt it,” Nergui said. “Not the gas-pipe part, anyway. Two gas-related explosions in the stadium in the space of an hour is stretching credibility a little, even given the standards of maintenance in this city.”

  “Not to mention the other explosions.”

  Nergui shrugged. “Nobody would have known about the one we witnessed. As for the hotel—well, they might have bought the gas explanation for that one. But it doesn’t really matter.”

  “Doesn’t it?”

  “Who believes the authorities anyway? Everybody assumes they’re being lied to, and often they are. And most of these people”—he gestured vaguely at the crowd around them—“most of these people will already have come up with a story that’s more interesting even than the truth. Sam was right about that, at least. We’re a nation of storytellers.”