The Adversary (20 page)

Tunjin had come to the storeroom simply because it represented the point furthest removed from the front of the shop and the outside world. He had come to the shop in the first place because—well, because he could think of nowhere else to go. His journey out of the city on the motorbike had been utterly terrifying, because he did not know how closely he was being pursued. The shots had faded behind him, but he did not know whether Muunokhoi's people would have other observers or pursuers stationed around the area. He half expected that, at any moment, another shot might bring him or the bike down, or that some car or truck would appear to block his route or sideswipe him.

But it didn't happen. He kept on, making his way through the ruined factories and warehouses, and then between the camps of semi-permanent
gers
that surrounded the city, until finally he was away from the buildings and heading out on to the open steppe.

Finally, at that point, he felt able to stop and look back. Even if he were not being pursued, he was acutely aware of his potentially lethal ineptitude on the bike. In his younger days, he'd been a pretty skilled motorcyclist, having bought and maintained an old Russian bike when he was a teenager. He'd ridden that for years, around the city, out into the country, taking girls for dates on the back of it. It all seemed a very long time ago.

He'd even had a police bike for a while, and had received full professional training on how to ride it. So he should have known what he was doing. They said it was one of the things you never forgot. And that
was probably the case, or he wouldn't have made it this far.

But the young man who had ridden that old Soviet bike as if it was a part of his own body was long gone, replaced by this overweight old slob. When he'd first set off on Agypar's bike, Tunjin's sheer bulk had been a problem—he could feel his weight wobbling around the bike's center of gravity as he struggled to maintain his balance. But he'd eventually come to grips with that and felt much more comfortable. Even then, though, he was aware that his reactions were not what they once had been, and that the nerve and lack of fear that characterized his younger biking were long gone. Left to his own devices, he would have ridden as slowly as possible until his confidence returned. But there had been no question of that—he simply had to get out of there as quickly as possible.

And somehow he'd made it. He was out in the grassland, looking back at the city's jumble on the skyline. There was no evident sign of pursuit. It was a bright clear day, with only a few dark clouds clustering on the horizon. Everything looked beautiful and peaceful.

But out here, Tunjin felt exposed. Rationally he was safe. If anyone was pursuing him, he would see them from miles away. But, equally, they would see him. And perhaps someone was already watching him. Perhaps they had watched him the whole way, knew exactly where he was, but had not bothered to give chase. Perhaps they did not need to.

He looked up at the empty sky. Muunokhoi was a
wealthy man. He would have access to aircraft, helicopters. He or his people could be out here in a matter of minutes if they so chose. Suddenly, the vast wasteland of the steppe seemed much less like a sanctuary.

It was that thinking that had led him back into the city, and back here. He had twisted the bike round and, taking a convoluted route back around the city, entered it again from the west side and made his way down here. He had used all his police skills and training to try to lose any possible pursuit, twisting and turning up and down alleyways, between and through abandoned buildings, jumping red lights, taking narrow passages so that pursuit by car was impossible. And finally he'd arrived here.

For the moment, then, he was safe. But he knew that this state could not last long. He would soon have to emerge to find some food and drink—he had managed a single stop on his way here to get some bread, fruit and bottles of water from one of the small new supermarkets, but hadn't dared to linger. And he was conscious that he already presented a conspicuous figure, with his heavy weight and disheveled appearance. People would notice him, and he was sure that, sooner or later, the message would get back to Muunokhoi.

He wondered whether he'd made a mistake in coming back. Maybe he should have just carried on, maybe gotten a flight down into the Gobi or up into the north. Taken himself as far away as possible from the capital and from Muunokhoi, tried to make himself a new life somewhere else.

But he knew that this was impossible. Muunokhoi would track him down no matter how far he fled.

So what options did he have? Precious few, it seemed. Hide out here like a terrified rabbit for as long as possible, then emerge and take the consequences? It didn't seem much of a prospect.

Or he could try to take the initiative. He could at least try to use what few resources lay at his disposal. He could go down fighting.

It was his own fault, his own responsibility that he was in this mess. But there was one other factor that had contributed, one other person who was, at least peripherally, involved. One other person who had the same drive, the same motivation in this, as he did.

He looked at his watch. It was nearly nine. Outside, the sun had set and the deserted streets and alleyways were in darkness.

Tunjin reached into his pocket, pulled out the cell phone he had not yet dared to use, and very carefully began to dial.

Doripalam was out of the truck and had pulled out his pistol almost in one movement, rolling across the wet grass until he was standing upright, facing down into the camp. He moved himself quickly back behind the truck's bulk, and stared out ahead of him.

There were four of them, standing in a row, all apparently holding rifles. They had all fired in sequence, round after round, the echoes still reverberating around the distant hillsides. It seemed, though, that only one bullet had found a target, shattering the windscreen of the truck.

Doripalam saw that Luvsan had followed his example, and was now moving back to join him.

“How's Yadamsuren?”

“Okay, I think,” Luvsan said. “Bullet just grazed his shoulder. Fair bit of blood, and we need to get it bandaged, but it's not serious. Lucky, though. Could have gotten any one of us.”

“Unlucky, I think,” Doripalam countered. “I don't think they actually meant to hit us at all. That was just a stray shot.”

“Oh, that's okay, then,” Luvsan said. “When I get hold of those bastards, I'll make sure one of my boots strays into their teeth.”

Doripalam carefully pulled open the back door of the truck, and lifted out a loud-hailer which he raised to his lips.

“Armed police. I repeat, armed police. Put down your weapons. Otherwise, we will open fire.”

There was a long pause. The four figures below them, little more than black shadows in the truck's headlights, remained motionless. And then, like a soldier breaking ranks, the figure on the far left stepped forward and threw down his rifle. There was a further pause, and then, one by one, the others did the same.

Doripalam glanced at Luvsan. “I'll go down there,” he said. “Cover me. If there's any sign at all of trouble, start firing.”

Luvsan nodded. He had pulled a medium range rifle out of the truck, and now set it down carefully across the roof, the sights trained on the figures below. “Good luck,” he said.

Doripalam stepped out from behind the truck, holding his pistol out in front of him in both hands. The rain was still falling heavily, and the cold water ran down his arms, dripping off the steel of the gun.

The four men still stood motionless. Doripalam stopped and called out: “Put your hands on your heads. No other movements.”

The men obeyed silently, watching his descent. He moved slowly, watching them carefully, alert for any movement.

He moved closer, reaching the point where the discarded rifles lay in the sodden grass. Moving carefully, his eyes still fixed on the four men, he kicked the rifles back to ensure they were out of the men's reach.

“Okay, you,” he said to the man on the far left—the first to discard his weapon. “Take off your jacket—very slowly—and throw it on the ground. Then turn out your pockets. Slowly.” The four men were all dressed in Western clothes, anoraks and jeans.

The man hesitated for a moment and then obeyed, throwing his anorak down on to the grass. He pulled out the pockets of his jeans—a wallet, a few coins, nothing else.

Doripalam repeated the process with the other three men, then beckoned Luvsan down to join him. Luvsan held his rifle trained on the men while Doripalam talked.

“I've an injured officer in the truck,” he said. “Injured by one of you. I'm planning to arrest you all and charge you with assault, maybe even attempted murder. I'll go through all the formal procedure in a
moment. In the meantime, any of you want to tell me what this is all about?”

Luvsan glanced across at him in mild surprise. But it was as clear as it could be that these men posed no serious threat. All four of them looked scared out of their wits, trembling not just with the rain and the cold, but also from the unwavering sight of Luvsan's firearm.

The men looked at each other in some confusion. Then, finally, the man on the left spoke. “I'm sorry,” he said. “We have been very foolish. We did not realize you were police. We were terrified. We thought you were—” He stopped.

Doripalam waited a moment, but when it was clear that the man did not intend to continue, he said: “Who did you think we were?”

The man looked around at his companions, as if looking for support. “It's a long story,” he said at last. “You said your companion was injured. Can we do anything for him?”

Doripalam hesitated, not wanting to lose control of the situation, but recognizing that Yadamsuren did need attention. He looked at Luvsan. “He's right. There's a first aid kit in the truck. Go and get Yadamsuren bandaged up as best you can. I'll look after this bunch.”

One of the men leaned forward. “I have some medical skills,” he said. “I trained as a nurse. I can help.”

The situation was, Doripalam thought, drifting toward the surreal. But he found it hard to believe that these cowering men constituted any kind of a threat. “Okay,” he said to Luvsan. “Take him with you.”

He turned to the man on the left of the group. “We're investigating a murder,” he said. “In a nomadic camp close to the capital. Does that mean anything to you?”

“My sister,” the man said. “We saw it in the newspapers a few days ago. It was not a surprise but it was—a shock. I did not really believe it.”

“You didn't know she was dead?”

“Not for sure. Not until we saw the report. We thought she might have escaped somehow. But we did not really believe that she would.”

“Escaped what? What's this all about?”

“It is a long story,” the man repeated. “We do not even know the whole story.”

Doripalam was becoming irritated with the cryptic responses. “You'll have plenty of time in custody to go through it all,” he said. He began to intone the formal charges of attempted murder, following the prescribed procedure and wording, while the three men stared at him aghast.

“But we are not criminals,” one of them said, as he finished.

“I would advise you not to say more until you're in custody,” Doripalam said. “We can organize legal representation for you.”

“We are not criminals,” the man repeated.

“You have fired repeatedly on officers of the law, with no warning or provocation. You have injured a police officer. You have—and I mention this in passing—damaged a police vehicle. Whatever your motivations, these are serious crimes.”

“But we did not intend—”

“That will be for the courts to decide. I can only work on the outcomes.”

Doripalam sighed and pulled out his cell phone. He was going to have to call backup from the local police to take these characters into custody in Bulgan. All this would take time, and the rain was continuing to fall.

“If you're prepared to co-operate, we can perhaps short-circuit some of the formalities. And I may be prepared to reconsider the charges, so long as my young companion does not wish to press charges.” This, he thought, was all very unorthodox. Still, pouring rain in the middle of the steppe was not conducive to orthodoxy.

“Let's get inside and talk,” he said, gesturing with his pistol toward the nearest
ger
.

The three men filed slowly into the tent. Doripalam followed them, still holding his gun at chest height, keeping them all carefully in view. It might be worth being unorthodox, but it certainly wasn't worth being reckless.

Inside, the
ger
was comfortable enough but very sparsely furnished, as if the men were traveling with the minimum of equipment. The first man gestured Doripalam to sit on one of the two wooden seats, while he and his companions crouched on the floor. The
ger
was lit dimly by two oil lanterns, but the tent was well enough illuminated for Doripalam to discern the anxiety on the men's faces. Doripalam held his gun casually, but kept it trained on the three men.

“Okay,” he said at last, “so what's the story?”

“It's my sister,” the first man said.

“Mrs. Tuya?”

The man nodded. “I'm Tseren.” He gestured. “Damdin is also my brother. Kadyr is our cousin. Another cousin, Ravhjik, is assisting your colleagues.”

Doripalam nodded. “Tell me about your sister,” he said.

Tseren hesitated, as if unsure where to begin. “I suppose it starts with her husband,” he said.

“The soldier?”

Tseren nodded. “Khenbish. The great war hero,” he snorted, ironically. “Yes, with him.”

“You did not have a high opinion of him?” Doripalam watched Tseren quizzically, wondering quite where this was going.

“He was a bad man,” Tseren said, simply. “In every way. I have been amused reading the press coverage. The great war hero.” He laughed, bitterly. He glanced at the other two men who looked back at him, stony-faced.