The Outcast (3 page)

“I know,” Doripalam said, bluntly. “They made that very clear when they arrived on the scene.”

“I am very sorry. The ministry is not known for its courtesy, I'm afraid.”

“Look …”

Nergui nodded. “This does not fall into your remit. We are dealing with it. But they—we—should have kept you informed. Especially in the circumstances.”

“Circumstances?” Doripalam could see that Nergui was gazing straight past him, his blue eyes fixed on the prone figure on the bed.

“I am here formally to detain Tunjin in custody,” Nergui said, his voice toneless.

“Custody? The man's ill. After all he's been through.”

Nergui nodded. “I understand that. But he is a witness to what may have been a terrorist act. And there are aspects of the situation that we need to investigate.” He paused. “I am sure you understand.”

“I don't understand anything, Nergui,” Doripalam said, his temper rising. “You come muscling in here, throwing your weight around, just like your people did in the square. This man isn't just a colleague, he should be a friend of yours. He saved your life. What's all this stuff about custody?”

Nergui nodded again, his face grave, his expression suggesting
that Doripalam's words had simply confirmed his own thoughts. “I know. I have no wish to be difficult. But I'm afraid we're taking over now.”

“Look, Nergui, you can't just—”

“You know that I can, Doripalam,” Nergui said, gently. “And you know I wouldn't do it lightly.” He paused. “I've no problem with you staying around for a little while to keep an eye on Tunjin, if you wish. But he's our business now.”

“So how many am I making?”

Odbayar was sitting cross-legged on the floor, a tattered paperback book splayed on the carpet in front of him. “As many as you can. There won't be a shortage of support.”

He sounded confident enough, Gundalai thought, but then he always did. Regardless of the circumstances or the facts. It was a talent, there was no question about that. Quite an impressive talent, and so far Odbayar had come a long way on the back of it.

“You could help,” Gundalai pointed out, gesturing with his paint-brush. “We'd get twice as many done. If you think the numbers will justify it.”

Odbayar pushed the book aside. His expression suggested that Gundalai had made a proposal which was novel, perhaps intriguing, but fundamentally absurd. He nodded. “Oh, the numbers will justify it,” he said. “That's why your contribution is so critical. That's why everything needs to be done properly. That's why it needs our full commitment. Every one of us.” He nodded again, more slowly this time, as though reflecting on the profundity of these statements. Then he picked up the book and continued reading.

Another talent, Gundalai supposed. The ability to respond, at length and with impressive fluency, without actually answering the question. And implying that, even by asking it, you were somehow failing to live up to Odbayar's own irreproachably high standards. He was not a politician yet—not a conventional politician at any
rate—but it was clear that Odbayar was already perfectly fitted to the role.

“These all right, then?” Gundalai held up a sample of his craftsmanship.

Odbayar put his book down again, looking only momentarily irritated by the further interruption. He tipped his head on one side and squinted at the banner that Gundalai was holding. It was a primitive affair—stiff cardboard tacked to a piece of old wood—but Gundalai's draughtsman's skills were undeniable. Odbayar nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, looks okay,” he said, as close to enthusiasm as he was ever likely to get. “Good slogans, too.” The wording of the slogans had, needless to say, been Odbayar's own.

In truth, Odbayar's slogans had a tendency to be wordy. It was a pity, he thought, but there was no point in underselling the sophistication of their core messages. Odbayar saw himself as representing the popular will, but he was no populist. There were too many people peddling false hope, easy solutions. It was time to tell the truth, Odbayar declared, even if the truth might take a little longer to explain.

The slogans were all variations on a common theme: selling out the people's birthright, betraying their heritage, giving away their inheritance. Theft. But not just the theft of money or possessions—though there was certainly that as well—but something more profound. The theft of their history. Everything that made this country what it was. Everything they were supposedly celebrating this year.

And it was worse even than that. It was also the theft of their future. Everything that this land might one day become.

Odbayar wasn't the only one to see it. He could feel that things were moving in his direction. It was evident in the opinion columns, the editorials, in the privately owned newspapers. He could hear it in the grumblings of the old men gathered in the square, smoking their cigarettes, playing their endless games of chess. People were finally beginning to realise how serious this was.

“You think people will still come?” Gundalai said, with his uncanny
knack for timely intrusions into Odbayar's train of thought. He had his head down, painstakingly working on the lettering of the next placard.

“Why wouldn't they?” Odbayar said. “We have all the student bodies behind us. And some of the opposition parties are beginning to come on board, unofficially at least.”

“But after yesterday people are jittery.”

“That was nothing to do with this. No one knows what that was about.”

“So how do you know it was nothing to do with this?” Gundalai said, with unarguable logic.

“Why would it be? This is just a peaceful protest. We've informed the authorities.”

Gundalai shrugged. “Maybe that was a peaceful protest as well. Maybe he'd informed the authorities.”

“That was—” Odbayar stopped, realising just too late that Gundalai was winding him up again. “Yes, all right. Very funny.”

Gundalai looked up, his face as deadpan as ever. “But there was a man shot,” he said. “Killed. Whatever the story, it's bound to have an effect. Things like that don't happen here. And they're hushing it up. There was nothing on the TV news.”

“If anything, I think it's going to increase the turnout,” Odbayar said, with his familiar self-confidence. “It's just another example of how we can't trust this government. And of how they won't trust us with the truth.”

Gundalai had moved on to his next placard, and was carefully drawing a pencil mark to align the lettering. “Me,” he said, “I'm just worried about who they might want to shoot next.”

“This is ridiculous.”

Nergui's expression, as always, revealed nothing. He glanced across the room at the huge bulk of Tunjin on the bed. “I have a job to do.”

“What is your job these days, Nergui? Do you even know?”

It was a reasonable enough question, given everything that had
happened in recent months, but Doripalam could feel that he was stepping onto dangerous ground. He had no idea what Nergui was thinking or feeling these days.

Nergui looked back at him with the faintest of smiles on his lips. “My job's the same as it ever was,” he said. “I just have to keep on finding new ways to carry it out.”

“And that's what you're doing, is it?”

“That's exactly what I'm doing.” He shrugged, the smile growing more definite now, with, at least for a moment, the first signs of some warmth. “I don't expect you to like it. But it's what I do. Nothing's changed.”

“And what you do is take into custody someone who saved your life? Who probably saved dozens of lives yesterday? I don't begin to understand this, Nergui.”

Nergui shrugged. “It's not your job to understand it. Not this time.”

Doripalam opened his mouth to respond, then bit back his words. “It's my job to protect Tunjin's interests,” he said. “No one else is going to do it. And he's part of my team now.”

“And we will keep you fully informed.” It was the tone, Doripalam thought, that Nergui might use with a particularly inquisitive member of the press or some junior representative of one of the opposition parties. It felt like a calculated taunt, the dismissal most likely to sting Doripalam.

“So what are you planning to do, then?” he said. “He's in no state to be moved.”

“So I understand,” Nergui said. “Though perhaps his illness is not quite so severe as you first feared?” He looked over at the doctor, who had been following their exchange with his usual mild curiosity. “Would you say so, Doctor?”

The doctor shrugged, clearly no more intimidated by Nergui than he had been by Doripalam. “He's certainly made what appears to be a remarkable recovery. But we'll need to do tests. We won't be able to release him for some time.”

“How long?” Nergui said. “Twenty-four hours?”

“That should be enough. Depending on what the tests tell us.”

“Of course,” Nergui said, smiling now. He looked back at Doripalam. “Everything must be done properly. That is why I brought my two colleagues. To ensure that Tunjin is looked after while he's in here.” He gestured to the two figures in suits, who had moved silently into the room.

Doripalam did not recognise them, though he knew most police officers and ministry agents, at least by sight. Both men were heavily built, self-consciously muscular, their close-cropped hair and rigid stance more indicative of the military than any of the civilian services. What, Doripalam wondered, was actually going on here?

“If you're planning to detain Tunjin formally,” Doripalam said, “you'll have gone through the proper procedures. Nothing's changed since you moved on.”

“Do you think so?” Nergui asked, as if sincerely seeking a response. “I hope you're right. But my fear is that everything has changed.”

Doripalam walked back across the square from the hospital to police headquarters, still seething, his repressed anger only just competing with his profound bafflement. What the hell was Nergui up to?

He was accustomed to this: the game-playing, the inscrutability. And he knew Nergui well enough to recognise that it would not be arbitrary, that there would be some underlying plan. But that didn't excuse it. Not this time. Not in these circumstances. And certainly not involving Tunjin.

In the past, he had at least known where he stood with Nergui. Nergui balanced his loyalties with a politician's skill, but in the end he and Doripalam were on the same side. But, for all the time he had known Nergui—and what was it? five, six years?—everything had been much more straightforward than it was now. For much of that time, Nergui had held the role that Doripalam now occupied, head of the Serious Crimes Team. The political world had rarely intruded into their lives, and Nergui had always been
skilful at protecting his underlings from its noxious effects. Doripalam knew now how challenging that could be.

But Nergui had been promoted to bigger, and supposedly better, things. Much of his life these days seemed to be glorified pen-pushing, preparing endless reports to the ministry or to the committees of the Great Hural on organised crime, drug trafficking, international terrorism. All interesting and important stuff, but not activity likely to keep him engaged for very long.

The two men had met occasionally over the past year, as Doripalam struggled with the corruption uncovered by the Muunokhoi case. His investigations had identified an increasing number of officers, in the Serious Crimes Team and other parts of the service, who had been tainted by Muunokhoi's operations. In a few cases, there was definitive proof of corruption, but more commonly, there was only uncertainty. With Muunokhoi dead, his entourage had largely melted back into the underworld from which it had briefly emerged.

In the end, only five officers were prosecuted, and one prosecution was subsequently dropped due to insufficient evidence. Doripalam believed that at least another ten officers had been on Muunokhoi's payroll. But there was no way of proving it, even to his own satisfaction. The best that Doripalam had been able to do was arrange for them to be transferred back into operational roles where the impact of any future corruption would be limited. In his darker moments, he wondered whether he had unjustly ruined some poor innocent's career, but he could see little alternative.

It had been an unpleasant period, and Nergui's support had been invaluable in accessing the required resources and political clout. Doripalam had restructured the Serious Crimes Team, working with the small number of senior officers that he could still trust. They had brought in a raft of new recruits—most from outside the service, with thorough vetting of their background and circumstances—and ensured that they were properly trained and resourced. The basic stuff that should have been done years ago.

In the meantime, Nergui had forged a wary, but mutually
respectful, relationship with Bakei, the security minister. Bakei had been a senior officer in the security services under the old regime—a born survivor who had moved into political office, and progressed, often against the odds, through a succession of political and operational crises. Over the past six months, as the prime minister had struggled to hold the ruling coalition together, Bakei had played a key role in negotiating between the competing factions, keeping the show on the road. And much of that, Doripalam guessed, would have been down to Nergui's astuteness. The minister's stock was on the rise, and Nergui's influence was rising with it. But what he was planning to do with that influence was anyone's guess.

By the time he reached the Khanbrau Bar, Doripalam's anger was mellowing, replaced by a growing curiosity about Nergui's actions. There would be no personal animosity behind any of this, that wasn't the way Nergui worked. If he thought he was doing the right thing, nothing else would matter.