The Outcast (7 page)

Doripalam shrugged. “I don't know. It sounds pretty far-fetched to me. But I suppose that it would explain the carpet. And it would begin to explain why the body was brought here. If you're going to re-stage an episode from the glory days of the Mongol empire, you'd want to do it where someone will pick up on the reference.”

“And where it would have most resonance.”

“Exactly.” Doripalam shook his head. “But it's all speculation. We don't know who the victim is. We don't know where he was killed. We don't even know for certain how he died, until the pathologist's finished.” He paused. “Even so …”

“Sir?”

Doripalam looked up at the young man. “If Solongo's right—I mean, if there's anything at all in what she's suggesting.” He stopped again, as if unsure how to articulate the ideas running through his mind. “If she
is
right,” he said, finally, “it suggests that we might be facing something very nasty indeed.”

 

At first, he was sure he was being followed.

He shivered, pulling his padded coat more thickly around him, making a point of not looking back. Bloody cold. It was sometimes cold at home, but nothing like this bone-freezing chill. This close to the central square, the streetlights cast an eerie glow across the ice-lined road. Just a few blocks back, the lights ended, throwing the far end of the road into blackness.

He set off walking again. There were few people about, even though it was not late. Most people, he assumed, had more sense than to expose themselves to these cold temperatures for longer than necessary.

He felt more comfortable once he emerged from the narrow street that led from the apartment block into the main thoroughfare. Here the lights were brighter and more frequent, a pale pink chain stretching down towards the central square. There were more passers-by now, mainly young people, huddled in their thickly quilted clothing, rushing past in their eagerness to find warmth. Occasionally a vehicle passed, its driver cautiously navigating the potentially lethal road surface.

In some respects, the fierce cold was a blessing. Although he felt isolated and exposed, there were few around to observe his passing. Even if he was being watched, the brutality of these midwinter temperatures might dissuade any observer from pursuing the task too assiduously.

Had he been right to come here, right to pursue this? It was a major risk, even though it had been officially sanctioned. The authorities would always grant approval if they thought there was anything to be gained. But he had no illusions about how much
that would be worth if anything went wrong. Then he would be on his own.

Finally, he steeled himself to look back. The street was empty. The only footsteps he could hear were his own. It was all under control. He was ready for his next meeting with the contact. Soon they would be able to talk properly.

It was all under control.

“So you
are
here,” Tunjin said. “I thought I was still dreaming.”

“You must have very disturbed dreams.” Nergui was sitting with his legs stretched out, looking as relaxed as the straight-backed hospital chair would allow.

“You couldn't begin to imagine,” Tunjin agreed. He tried to raise his hefty body, but the effort was too much. He was beginning to hope for some change of view, something other than the cracked whitewash of the ceiling, the partial glimpse of Nergui's face if he craned his head sufficiently. “How long am I supposed to stay here?” he asked.

“They said twenty-four hours. I asked for less.”

“You wouldn't have had any complaints from me.” Tunjin paused. “I'm under arrest, then?”

Nergui expression revealed nothing. “I wasn't sure if you'd understood. I was waiting till you woke properly. But, no, not arrest.”

“I'm helping you with your enquiries?”

Nergui nodded. “Something like that.”

“In my experience, that's usually just a euphemism.” Tunjin's eyes moved towards the door. “You're not alone, I notice.”

Nergui smiled. “Observant as ever. I'm just taking precautions, that's all.”

Tunjin dropped his head back on the pillow, letting out his breath suddenly. “Should I ask against what?” He twisted his head
and stared at Nergui. “What's this all about? Not just you turning up here and throwing Doripalam out, I assume you have your reasons for that, though forgive me if I don't quite follow them at the moment. But all of it. What happened yesterday?” He frowned, as if the question had only just occurred to him. “What did happen yesterday, anyway?”

“Several questions,” Nergui said. “All of them good ones.”

“Thank you. Not much chance of a satisfactory answer, then, I take it.” Tunjin stared up at the ceiling. The place looked less pristine up there. A spider had taken up residence in one corner, ignored by the assiduous cleaners who took care of the lower parts of the room. “About as much chance as there is of me getting a drink in this place.”

“Abstinence will do you good,” Nergui pointed out. “You've been ill, after all.”

Tunjin twisted his head again. “That's another thing,” he said. “I thought I was dying. At one point, I thought I was probably dead already. Now I feel, well, not healthy exactly, but a long way from dead. I'm sure this place is good, but I didn't know they were miracle workers.”

“You'd be surprised what they can do,” Nergui said.

Tunjin opened his mouth to speak, then decided there was little point in asking more. He stared up at the dense tapestry of the web in the high corner of the room, trying to make out the spider presumably lurking somewhere in the middle of it. “I've known you for too long,” he said finally. “You'll tell me when you're ready.”

“I'll tell you when I'm ready,” Nergui agreed. “Some of it I can tell you now. So long as you tell me some things in return.”

“Fair enough. I'll tell you everything I know. That shouldn't detain you long.”

Nergui nodded, as if taking the proposition seriously. “Okay, so tell me what you remember about yesterday.”

Tunjin frowned. “Yesterday? Easy. I remember it as if it was—” He stopped. It was, after all, a good question. What did he remember about yesterday?

Nergui leaned back, rocking on the two rear legs of his chair like a restless child at school. “Start at the beginning,” he said. “If you can. First thing in the morning.”

Tunjin thought hard. Had yesterday been any different from most of the days that preceded it? There was no reason to think so—except that somehow he had ended up here. But all he had were images, pale half-memories that had flooded his head on waking but were now dissolving like last night's dream. Those drifting memories of gunshots and crowds and screams.

He closed his eyes and saw again, as though imprinted on his retina, the searing brilliance of the muzzle flash. Somewhere behind that, crowding in, a string of other thoughts, ideas, memories. Yesterday.

“I remember waking up,” he said at last. “It was just another day. I was on the afternoon shift. So I woke up late. A bit hung over, but better than a lot of days. Just a few vodkas. I'd been on late shift the previous day, too, so didn't go mad.” He looked at Nergui. “Is this what you want? Is this any good?”

“Keep going,” Nergui said.

“I got up, got dressed. The apartment was a mess, so I thought I'd grab a coffee on the way in.” He paused, trying to concentrate. “It was another hot day. I had plenty of time. I decided to walk into work.”

“You hadn't any other plans?”

“No, just walk in, grab a coffee, maybe a shot of vodka. Just one. Set me up for the day.”

“Hair of the dog,” Nergui agreed.

“I left the apartment—I'm still in the same place, you know. Thought I might want to move after all that happened. But I feel at home there, despite everything. Anyway, I left there, walked up the street towards the centre.”

“What time would this have been?” Nergui asked.

“Not sure. Twelve? Twelve thirty, maybe? I had to be at HQ for two, so something like that. Wanted time for the coffee.”

“Go on.”

“I got near the square, and I heard a lot of noise. Shouting. Crowds of people, it sounded like. I didn't know what was happening.”

“What did you see?”

“I was still a few blocks away. I could just hear the noise. Not the kind of noise you expect to hear at twelve thirty on a …” He stopped. “What day was it?”

“Wednesday,” Nergui said. “Today's Thursday.”

“That's right,” Tunjin said, as though confirming Nergui's lucky guess. “Not the kind of noise you expect to hear at that time on a Wednesday.”

“But then you saw the crowd?”

“Eventually, yes. It was a smaller crowd than it sounded, actually, the shouting was echoing around the buildings so it sounded as if there were more of them. But still a lot for that time on a Wednesday.”

“What happened then?”

Tunjin paused. The memories had been coming back clearly, but suddenly they were fading again, like a film unexpectedly going out of focus. “I'm not sure,” he said. “Let me think. I had to go through the square to get to work, so I carried on walking forward.”

“Is this what you're remembering, or what you think should have happened?”

“I don't know.” Tunjin closed his eyes again, willing the images to return, seeking confidence that he was recalling reality rather than assumptions. “Yes, I can remember. I walked forward down there. I remember stepping into the sunlight as I made my way down the street. The crowd was clustered at this end of the square, near to the government buildings.” He stopped once more, now visualising the white faces of their banners and placards. “It was a protest,” he said. “Against the government. About corruption. Selling off our heritage. The usual stuff.” He was trying to retrace the pattern of his thoughts during those moments. “It wasn't something we'd been warned about. The protest, I mean. No one had told the police. Or, if they had, no one had bothered to tell me.
Or I hadn't bothered to listen.” He shrugged, “That happens sometimes.”

“So I recall,” Nergui said. “What happened next?”

“I was standing at the edge of the square, wondering how many people there were. How long they were going to be there. Whether there was any chance of me being able to squeeze my way through to the bar.” He was staring up at the blank white of the ceiling, trying to envisage the scene. There was still no sign of the spider. “I stood there for a while. Then I saw someone I recognised.”

“One of the crowd?”

“No. One of the police officers patrolling the edge of the square. There were a few uniforms—not many. I don't think the police knew quite how to handle it.”

“We're not used to this freedom of expression,” Nergui said.

“That's the trouble,” Tunjin went on, “nobody knows quite how to behave at these things. Nobody. The protesters. The police. We're making it up as we go along. Anyway, yes, it was one of the uniforms. We'd worked together a couple of times. So I went up to him and we chatted. I was just asking him what it was all about.”

“Who was he? The uniform?”

Tunjin frowned, momentarily halted by an unexpectedly difficult question. He concentrated hard, wondering why his memory had stuttered at what should have been the easiest question. “There were two of them,” he said, suddenly. “Two uniforms. I knew one of them. I don't know his name, but you can track him down easily enough. He works out of the city-central station.”

“And the other one?”

Tunjin tried to shake his head, moving it as far he could on the hard pillow. “No, I didn't know him.” He paused, a thought suddenly striking him. “He didn't either.”

“Who didn't what?”

“The uniform. The one I knew. He didn't know the other guy either. They'd never met before.”

Nergui looked up, with the air of someone who had finally heard something of interest. “Why do you say that?”

“You always know what to ask, don't you?” Tunjin said. “I don't know. It was obvious, somehow. They were both being professional, both doing their job. But the first guy—the one I knew—he didn't know who the other uniform was, what he was doing there. He was treading warily around it, but you could tell he was curious.”

“So there was more than one team operating?”

“Well, that's it,” Tunjin said. “Now you mention it. I don't think this was any kind of official operation. It wasn't a big deal. It was just being handled by whoever was on duty from the city-centre crew.”

“So who was this other uniform?”

“That's the question. If he'd been from the city-centre team, my guy would have known him. If he wasn't—”

“Then why was he there?” Nergui nodded. There were times when he resembled a patient teacher calmly waiting for his students to catch up with his thought processes. “So what happened then?”

“I'm not sure,” Tunjin said. “The protesters were shouting, chanting something. There was a bunch of tourists at the far side of the square. It looked pretty calm, no sense that it would get out of control. We were just chatting, watching it all. It was baking hot, and I was feeling a bit dehydrated. The uniform—the one I didn't know—offered me a bottle of water—” Tunjin paused, considering the implications of what he had just said.

“And then you saw something?”

Tunjin blinked. “You can be scary, you know that? But, no, I'm not sure that I saw something.” He paused. “I think my attention was drawn to something. Subtly.”

“The uniform? The other one, I mean.”

“The other one. Yes. I didn't register it at the time. But, thinking back, yes, I think he somehow made me aware of it.”