The Outcast (32 page)

The voices belonged to two men facing one another across the low table. Tunjin could see the face of the more relaxed speaker. His expression was at one with the tone of his voice—faintly smiling, his eyes unblinking, occasionally shaking his head gently as though in polite acknowledgment and dismissal of what he was hearing.

Tunjin could see less of the other speaker. His head was turned slightly away from the door, and only a small part of his face and the back of his head were visible. His hair was dark and sleek—dyed, Tunjin guessed—and his movements matched the intense tone of his voice, his head jerking backwards and forward, his forefinger stabbing the air.

There was something familiar about him. This was a man he had seen before, quite recently.

It took him a moment to realise where and, when the answer came, it explained nothing. Because the man in the room was, indirectly but ultimately, his own boss. The man who, in his official role, was responsible for the safety and well-being of the entire nation. None other than the minister of security.

The singing was both familiar and yet unearthly, echoing amongst the empty stands and out into the wide parkland and the steppe beyond.

The afternoon heat hit Sarangeral after the cool of the car's air-conditioning. She stood for a moment, her hands on the hot metal of the car roof, captivated by the extraordinary resonances of the music. Beside her, Gundalai's face was blank, as if he had no more idea of why they were here than she did.

She turned towards the large expanse of the Naadam Stadium. It was still a few days before the start of this year's Naadam Festival, and preparations and rehearsals were underway. The remarkable undulating singing that had greeted their arrival had, for the moment, died away, replaced by a more familiar aural tapestry of banging and shouting—the usual noises associated with the logistics of a major public event.

As she locked the car, the singing rose again, momentarily dominating even the vast spaces surrounding the stadium. This was
khoomii,
throat singing, the remarkable vocalising that produces notes of different pitch simultaneously. The low notes resonated around the stadium, echoing and re-echoing, mingled with the higher pitched counterpoints to create an all-embracing sound.

For a second, Sarangarel felt lost, suspended in this sonic landscape. Like all Mongolians, she had grown up with the sound, but it still struck her as something ancient and alien. It was as if the
music pierced all this country's pretensions to modernity, laying bare something much older and far more strange.

She turned and looked at Gundalai. “This is where he said?” she asked, gesturing towards the stadium building.

It took him a moment to process her question, and then he nodded. “That's what he said.”

“There was nothing else?” she said. “Nothing that might tell us where to look?”

Gundalai shrugged. “He'll be here somewhere.”

She nodded, unbelieving, and turned to look back at the stadium. It was an impressive edifice, set against the backdrop of the city and the surrounding hills. Days from now, it would be hosting the annual festival, the major celebration of the three “manly sports” of archery, horse riding and wrestling. It was always a major event, a modern-day version of the traditional nomadic assemblies, gathering crowds from the surrounding regions. Other towns would be celebrating their own festivals over the same period, but this was the big one.

And this year's would be the largest of all, with additional celebrations for the anniversary of the Mongol empire. The coming days would see an unprecedented gathering of crowds, military displays, music, artistic performances and sporting contests. There would be an opening ceremony in Sukhbaatar Square, the symbolic transportation of the nine yaks' tails—representing the nine tribes of the Mongols—to the stadium, and then two extended days of sports and celebrations.

It was a celebration which Sarangarel had dutifully attended on numerous occasions, although neither the ceremonials nor the sports were particularly to her taste. The contemporary event was a mix of the traditional and the contrived, some of it no doubt designed more to appeal to modern tourists than to reflect historical precedent.

The current dates of the festival had been fixed under the old regime to commemorate the communist revolution, and the celebrations had been transformed into People's Revolution Day. There
was an ironic symbolism about the way in which the celebration had, over the years, been appropriated by both sides of the political divide. The politicians were only too keen to link their causes to what, in every other respect, was simply a celebration of life and physical pleasure. By the end of the second day, when the taking of alcohol was the primary interest, physical pleasure would be the exclusive objective of many participants.

Various trucks and vans were lined up alongside the stadium walls, and groups of hefty-looking men in shorts were unloading equipment. She could hear more music now, too—not
khoomii
this time, but a traditional instrumental with the horse-headed
morin khur
fiddle to the fore. The sound was less other-worldly than the throat singing, but the melodies rippled ethereally through the sunlit air.

Sarangarel turned back to Gundalai. “Why would he be here, though?” she said. “What's this all about?”

Gundalai shrugged again, in the manner that, for all her sympathies, she was beginning to find infuriating. “He'll have some plan.”

“I don't doubt it,” she said. “But what part are we expected to play?”

They walked through the entrance into the arena and looked around. The arena trapped the afternoon heat, and the interior was baking hot. She wondered what this place was going to be like in a few days' time, thronged with people. For the athletes, the horsemen and the wrestlers especially, it would be even worse.

She had no idea where to go or what to do next. There was an administrative area—cabins and two
ger
tents—at the far end, but both looked deserted. Various individuals were striding around the arena with an official-looking air, carrying files or talking earnestly into cell phones, but it was impossible to judge their respective status or to know whether any of them would be worth approaching. In any case, what would she say?

She walked slowly into the centre of the arena, trying to get the most complete view of the surrounding stands. She wanted Gundalai to know that she was at least taking his predicament seriously.

Off to her left, targets were being erected for the archery competitions. Beyond those, there were the tracks for the horse racing. On the opposite side of the arena, a stage was being constructed for musical or dramatic performances. Behind the stage, two large screens had been erected to enable the festival's events to be magnified for the whole arena. This was technology she had not seen here previously, but the anniversary celebrations were taking everything up to a higher level. She scrutinised each area in turn, searching for any sign of Odbayar.

But of course there was nothing. She turned back towards Gundalai, preparing to tell him that this was a waste of their time. But Gundalai was not looking at her. His head was down, and he was staring at the screen of his cell phone.

“What is it?”

He held out the phone. “It's him.”

“Another message?” she said, drily. “Perfectly timed.”

“He knows we're here. He must be around here somewhere.” Gundalai gazed eagerly around the stadium, as though expecting to see his friend waving back at him.

“What do you mean?” she said, her patience wearing thin now. “How does he know we're here? What does he say?”

Gundalai again waved the phone in her direction. “Not much. The text just says, ‘You're here. Now we can begin.'”

Behind them, someone had switched on the recorded music again, and the unearthly sounds of the
khoomii
began to echo through the stands, the sound eerily distorted by the emptiness of the building.

“Now we can begin what?”

It was a beautiful place. The forests thickened ahead, rising up towards the mountain peaks. Behind, the land fell away, dappled shadow and sunlight down to the vast steppe below. Far to the left, disappearing into the afternoon haze, he could see the distant scattering of buildings that made up the town of Ondorkhaan, the dots of
gers
in the surrounding grassland. To the right, there was
the curve of the river, the pale strip of water broadening out into the expanse of the plain.

The cradle of the empire, he thought.

He looked down towards the river. Fifty metres or so from where he stood, there was a shallow point, where the edge of the water was lined with flat rocks.

He could not have found a better spot. Not immediately visible, and partly concealed even from the air by the overhang of the bank. But once you reached this point, as any visitor up here eventually would, everything was exposed.

He had parked the truck up in the forest, its dull green paint-work invisible in the deep gloom. Odbayar was still in there. It was unlikely that he would wake from the sedative just yet.

Quite soon, he would need to fetch Odbayar and set things in motion. He had received the texted signals from the city. Everything was in place. Things could start to move.

He looked up again at the empty sky. He could hear nothing yet, despite the silence of the windless day. But he fancied that he could see it now, far off in the pale distance.

They had proved slightly more resourceful than he had imagined. But, if you were a professional, you made your own luck. Everything played into your hands. Because here they were, on their way to join his party. To be the participants he needed.

Even better than he had planned, this would not all be filtered through the constraining lens of technology.

It would be witnessed. Live.

As they banked, the land dropped away, green and gold in the afternoon sunshine. The buildings and tents of the town disappeared behind them as they headed up towards the forests and mountains. Doripalam could make out the line of a river, twisting down from the hills to the undulating plain.

Batzorig twisted in his seat and called back to Doripalam and Nergui, “That's where we're heading. That curve of the river. He'll get us as close as he can.”

Doripalam looked at Nergui, wondering whether he would take the opportunity to complete his story. But Nergui was staring out of the window, his eyes on the empty landscape.

The pilot leaned over from his seat and gestured forwards. Batzorig nodded. “He's planning to touch down over there,” he said. “By that upper bend in the river. Does that look okay to you?”

Nergui nodded to Batzorig. “That's fine,” he called. “That's the supposed birthplace. Get as close as you can, we can walk the rest.”

The helicopter began to descend rapidly, the grassland gathering detail as they dropped towards it—a rough tapestry of peaks and troughs, scattered with rocks and hollows. It was easier now to see why the pilot was selecting his landing place with caution.

They landed more smoothly than Doripalam had expected, settling gently on to the firm grassland. The pilot turned off the engine and they sat as the rotors slowed.

Outside, in the baking afternoon, the silence was stunning after the incessant noise of the helicopter. As they disembarked, Doripalam stretched his arms, his body stiff from the cramped cockpit. The land rose above them for perhaps fifty metres, before dropping again into the broad river valley. The ground was thick with verdant grass, dotted with a tapestry of wild flowers. Perfect grazing land, Doripalam thought. No doubt, somewhere out in that landscape would be nomads, drawn up here for the quality of the pastures.

Nergui had already begun to stride up the hillside, his characteristic energy undaunted by the steep gradient. Batzorig glanced at Doripalam, then shrugged and began to follow. Doripalam turned to the pilot. “I don't know how long we'll be.”

The pilot shook his head. “No concern of mine.” He gestured towards the helicopter. “I'd like to get this back by the end of the day, though. It's needed again tomorrow.”

Doripalam looked up at the hillside, the tall figure of Nergui striding away from them. “I don't think we'll want to be here all night.”

He turned and began to follow his colleagues. Nergui was already nearing the edge of the valley, Batzorig trotting willingly behind him. Nergui had the air of knowing where he was going. As he took the first steps down the far side into the river valley, Doripalam saw his impenetrable face silhouetted for a moment against the deep blue of the sky.

Doripalam hurried up the last few metres to the summit, conscious of the sweat dripping inside his shirt. Nergui and Batzorig were already some way below. The surface of the river glittered brilliantly in the sunshine. Doripalam scrambled down the incline, stumbling as stones tumbled beneath his feet. A moment later, he reached Nergui and Batzorig, and his eyes followed Nergui's pointing finger towards the dazzling water.

Squinting against the reflected glare, it took Doripalam a few moments to identify the object of their gaze. There was a cluster of rocks, dotted with reeds and other vegetation, at the point where the river curved closest to them. On the furthest rock, positioned to be clearly visible from the surrounding hillside, there was a body.

Tunjin peered through the narrow gap between the door and the frame, transfixed by what he was seeing.

Even from this limited vantage point, he had no doubt that this was the minister. He had seen that misleadingly benign face often enough; the minister was not shy of publicity.

“Satisfied your curiosity now?” a voice said from behind him.

He started to turn, but felt something hard pressed against the small of his back.

“I think you'd better get a proper look, don't you?” the voice said. Tunjin felt himself pushed forward into the office.