The Adversary (27 page)

“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.

“The parcel contained a stack of different things. Some petty trinkets that, for some reason, he'd decided to leave to Gansukh and then to me. A small amount of money—there were few other living relatives, apparently. And, with all of that, a stack of papers and documentation.”

“What sort of papers?”

“These were, as far as I could tell, things that Gansukh had deposited with his cousin, years ago, presumably for safe keeping. Do you remember that, not long after Gansukh's death, our apartment was burgled?”

This was news to him. “Burgled? I never knew that. You must have reported it?”

“Of course. But this was—what?—two or three months after Gansukh had died. I'd started to move on. I didn't associate the burglary with Gansukh's death—just put it down to another instance of the bad luck that seemed to be following me around. So I just reported it to my local station. They took down all the details, but told me it was probably just an opportunist
robbery. Not much chance of catching the perpetrators, they said.”

“No wonder the general public has such faith in us policemen,” Nergui said. Inwardly, though, he was cursing. The robbery had never been reported to him. Probably just oversight—no one had thought to link this incident with the arrest weeks before. And he was all too aware that, given any opportunity, the local forces were often only too keen to withhold information from the arrogant bunch in headquarters. Or maybe, once again, there was a more sinister explanation.

“I didn't take it too seriously,” she continued. “They ransacked the place but by then there was very little worth stealing. Bit of old jewelry, a few dollars in cash. Not much more.”

“But you think they were looking for something else?”

“I don't know,” she said. “But what I do know is that, before he died—before he was arrested—Gansukh had made a point of packaging up a stack of formal documents and sending them, in a sealed package, to a cousin he'd scarcely met.”

Nergui nodded. If you were looking to hide something, then an unknown cousin, across the other side of the country, might well be a better bet than any conventional safe deposit box. Particularly if you were looking to hide it from someone like Muunokhoi.

“I'm not sure why he did it,” she said. “I think it was some sort of insurance policy—but it's typical of Gansukh that he wouldn't really have thought it through.”

“What kind of papers are we talking about?” Nergui said.

“Well, it's not really a smoking gun,” she said. “At least not in the sense that it provides any definitive evidence of Gansukh's dealings with Muunokhoi. But, as far as I can understand it, there are copies of notes and paperwork that do at least show there were commercial dealings between Gansukh's businesses and Muunokhoi.”

“Legitimate dealings?” Nergui stretched out his legs and leaned back on the bench. Today, his characteristic dark suit was offset by pale blue socks.

“It's difficult to be sure,” Sarangarel said. “I mean, yes, in the sense that the paperwork includes—you know, invoice copies, payment details, that kind of thing, relating to what look like legitimate transactions. Import–export business, mainly, as far as I can see. But it's all relating to goods that Gansukh had no involvement in, as far as I know.”

Nergui straightened up in his seat and looked at her. “How do you mean?”

“Well, for example, there are invoices relating to the import of various foodstuffs. That was never a business that Gansukh got involved in—too difficult, all that perishable stuff. He was always very clear about that—liked to get things that had a decent shelf life. Not surprising, given how useless he was at selling it.” She smiled.

“So you think the paperwork was a cover for something else?”

She shrugged. “That sort of thing's more your line. But it doesn't make much sense as it stands. So, yes, I
think there's something of that sort. I think he needed some sort of cover to justify the money that was being paid over, and that was it.”

“It doesn't prove much in itself,” Nergui said.

“Not in the legal sense, no,” she said. “I don't think I'd be very impressed by it if it was presented as evidence in a case I was presiding over. But I went through it very carefully and did a little checking. There were various companies involved and all of them were either directly owned by or closely associated with Muunokhoi. There's little doubt in my mind that he commissioned many of Gansukh's shady operations.”

Nergui nodded. “It's probably more than we've been able to get on Muunokhoi before, even if it's not exactly definitive. I wonder why he was so lax in dealing with Gansukh.”

“I don't think he was, particularly. I imagine that he'd have had dealings of this kind with countless suppliers. All this material was well presented and would have just gotten lost in the records of most companies. You wouldn't notice anything odd about it. I think Muunokhoi made the same mistake that everyone did in dealing with Gansukh.”

“Which was?”

“He overestimated him. Gansukh was brilliant at the front, at the bluff. People were only too ready to believe that he was a world-class businessman, a big operator. But he wasn't at all.”

“Muunokhoi would have had him checked out.”

“Of course, and that's probably why he only got some limited, pretty risky business. Probably the stuff that no
one else was keen to touch. But even so, I'm willing to bet that Muunokhoi thought that Gansukh had more substance than he really did. I think Gansukh's dealings with Muunokhoi's companies would have been noticeable simply because there wouldn't have been a lot else. But I also think that, as always, Gansukh was just trying to be a bit too clever. He'd have known that Muunokhoi wasn't one for leaving any traces, so he gathered up all the relevant paperwork and hid it—sent it off to this cousin. Then he had some kind of insurance policy if things went wrong.”

“As they did. So why didn't he use it?”

She shrugged. “Maybe he was just about to. I suspect it was intended as a last resort, for when he was really in trouble. This was his way of trying to shift the responsibility—he was always very good at that—of having at least some evidence that he wasn't the big noise behind all this.”

“So that would have been part of the deal he would have offered us?”

“I think so. But he didn't get the chance.”

“No.” Nergui looked out across the sunlit park. There were children on the playground. A group of old men in traditional robes—looking far too hot for the warm spring day—were sitting smoking on one of the benches, apparently content simply to enjoy each other's company in silence. It all seemed a world away from these machinations.

“Do you think Muunokhoi knows that this paperwork exists?”

“He knows that something exists.” She spoke with a calm certainty that startled him.

“What do you mean?”

She didn't answer immediately. Instead, she climbed slowly to her feet, the bright silk dress shaking softly in the breeze. “Let's walk down to the lake,” she said.

Nergui rose and followed her without speaking, assuming that she would begin to talk in her own time. She said nothing until they reached the edge of the gray water. “It needs cleaning,” she said.

Nergui came to stand beside her in silence. The water rippled gently in the sunshine, scattering glittering reflections of the midday sun.

“You're as sharp as ever, aren't you? You knew there was something.”

It was only as she spoke that Nergui realized that she was right. He had known that there was something. That was part of the reason—though only part—why he had been keen to spend time with her again. That was, he thought, why all these ghosts kept rising unbidden into his mind.

“I suppose you're right,” he said. “I did know that there was something. But I don't know what it is.”

“I was lying, earlier,” she said. “When I claimed that I was a different person, that I'd put all of that behind me. Of course, it's true in some ways. But in other ways—probably more important ways—it's not true at all. I'm still the same person I was that night when you came barging into our apartment.”

Nergui said nothing. There was very little he could say about that, after all this time, all these years.

“And I suppose,” she went on, “the other thing that I haven't wanted to admit to myself is that—despite everything—I loved Gansukh. I mean, I know he was
a crook—a small time petty crook, at that. And what he did—well, at the time it felt as if it had destroyed my life. Though in the end the opposite was probably true. But because of that I spent a long time trying to persuade myself—and probably everyone else—that I really didn't care for Gansukh at all.”

Nergui looked across at her, standing at the edge of the lake. She suddenly looked, he thought, much more like the woman he had met ten years before—vulnerable, confused, lost.

“But I did. There was a lot about him to like—he was good company, lively. And I think he genuinely cared for me. Part of what drove him to do the things he did was to try to make a better life for the two of us. So I did care about him. And I did care that he died.” She paused. “And most of all I did care that he was killed.”

“He killed himself,” Nergui said. “That was the verdict.”

She turned and looked at him. “You didn't believe that, even then,” she said. “You certainly don't believe it now.”

Nergui shrugged. “I've no evidence,” he said. “But, no, his death was always too convenient.” He wondered, in the light of what she had just said, whether his words sounded unduly callous.

“Muunokhoi had him killed,” she said, simply. “And it was one of your men killed him.”

Nergui nodded. The logic was inescapable, as it always had been. If it was true that Muunokhoi was responsible for the death, then it had indeed been one of Nergui's men who had betrayed and killed him.

“It's been eating away at me,” she said. “For years. That knowledge. I thought I'd managed to put it behind me, but then when I came face to face with Muunokhoi in court, it all rose up again—it all rose up again, as potent as ever.”

“Surely it wasn't appropriate for you to be the presiding judge in Muunokhoi's case?” Nergui said.

“Of course it wasn't. But nobody but me—not even Muunokhoi himself—had made the connection. Why would they? It was a long time ago. I don't look like the same person. My name is different.”

“You should have declared an interest.” It was, he realized, a fatuous thing to say. But if you're a policeman, you try to uphold the law.

“Of course I should. But I didn't want to. I wanted—not revenge, but justice. I wanted to make sure that justice was done.”

“But it wasn't.”

“No. That was the worst point of all. To be so close, and then to have it all snatched away by what—incompetence? There I was, having to play the impartial judge, acknowledging Muunokhoi's case, badgering the poor man from the Prosecutor's Office who was clearly trying to defend the indefensible—and, well, in the end there was no choice. The trial had to be abandoned. You can't imagine how I felt.”

Nergui nodded. “I think, in a way at least, that I can. I've been trying to bring this man to justice for nearly two decades.”

“I told myself that it was probably just as well,” she said. “I'd put myself in an impossible position. It was insane. I mean, there was nothing wrong in principle
with my presiding over the trial, given that there's no proven link between Muunokhoi and Gansukh. But in any case I don't think I'm entirely rational about all this.”