An Autumn Hunting Read online

  ‘Like you, my colleague Aliyev is meticulous about privacy and security. I never speak to someone on the other end. I leave a text message, which is then bounced around various telecom companies worldwide until it reaches someone he trusts, who then relays the message face to face. It’s time-consuming, but impossible to trace. Even then, we use a code system, so an innocuous-sounding message tells Aliyev what he needs to know.’

  ‘For example?’ Quang asked.

  ‘If I write, “Grand Palace an amazing place, you’d love it here”, that tells Aliyev we’ve reached a deal. “Food far too spicy” means that the proposed deal isn’t going to happen. Even if someone read it, they wouldn’t know what it meant.’

  ‘And the phone?’

  ‘I buy a disposable mobile every time I send a message, get rid of the old one.’

  Quang looked at me, his eyes searching my face for lies, prevarications.

  ‘What message will you send today?’

  ‘That the deal is on,’ I replied.

  Quang nodded.

  ‘I’ll have my driver take you back to your hotel. Buy a mobile on the way: I want him to see you send the message. After that, he’ll destroy the phone and the card, you understand?’

  I tried to hide my concern at not being able to contact Saltanat, but disguised it as concern over reaching Aliyev. I only hoped Saltanat was watching out for me, efficient as always.

  ‘I have my own methods for contacting Mr Aliyev,’ Quang said. ‘Surely you didn’t really think I would rely solely on you? I’m afraid you have a lot to learn about doing business, especially one like ours.’

  ‘I spent twenty years trying to put this sort of business out of business,’ I said, and was surprised at the genuine bitterness in my voice. ‘But the money is too big, too many people bought. Maybe you haven’t seen the consequences of selling drugs, protected as you are, shielded and invulnerable. But for twenty years it was people like me who had to do the cleaning up.’

  ‘Then why get involved now?’ Quang asked. ‘You’ve already attempted to murder one of your major politicians, and that didn’t change anything. All you’ve done is make yourself an outcast. Now you’re selling drugs yourself. But don’t worry; after a while the money will ease your conscience.’

  Quang shrugged; my feelings were of no importance to him.

  ‘You can always give your money to charity, if you feel so strongly about it. But such a course of action would make me think one day you might betray me, and then Achura will come knocking at your door.’

  Quang paused, looking across at the trees by the courtyard wall and the shade they provided. He waved a hand towards them, as if to reinforce the idea that a life under his protection far outweighed the alternative.

  ‘It’s not expensive to dispose of a nuisance here in Bangkok. A pistol shot from the back of a motorbike. A green pit viper hidden in your bedding. Even a simple ordinary accident when crossing the road. The Buddha stresses the impermanence of life. When necessary, so do I.’

  I said nothing, head bowed, a neophyte humbly awaiting instruction.

  ‘Time for you to report to your master,’ Quang said, the scorn in his voice apparent. ‘I imagine your encounter with Achura may have dissuaded you from living in Thailand. That’s between you and Aliyev, and the duties he considers you’re fit for. Your flight will be organised for tomorrow; I don’t expect we shall meet again. In fact, I recommend we don’t.’

  Quang beckoned to the driver who was standing a respectful distance away. One of the servants appeared carrying a bag; my clothes, I assumed. The driver took me by my upper arm, not hard, but just enough to steer me towards the gate.

  As we reached there, Achura reappeared, calm and poised as ever, hands washed clean of the red chalk. Come to gloat over my defeat, no doubt. I patted the driver’s hand to release me, and walked towards Achura, arm outstretched to shake hands. Quang watched, amusement on his face, like someone watching ants scurrying at his feet.

  ‘No hard feelings?’ I asked, smiling as I took Achura’s hand. It felt surprisingly smooth, feminine, but with a core of steel along the fingers and the edge of the palm. Then I pulled her towards me even as I moved forward, smashed my forehead into the bridge of her nose, saw the surprise and shock blossom in her eyes, even as the blood blossomed across her cheekbones. My face was warm and wet, and I knew it wasn’t from my tears. Flecks of blood stung my eyes, spattered a scarlet pattern across my shirt; I knew it was time to go, and fast, before Achura recovered and decided to retaliate. I held up my hands, as if to apologise for an unfortunate stumble, an accident. I didn’t look across to see Quang’s reaction. From what I’d learnt of his persona, he probably didn’t move a muscle.

  ‘Next time,’ I whispered, the smile never leaving my face as I stared at Achura, ‘next time, I’ll fucking kill you.’

  Chapter 43

  As we drove back to the city, the driver looked at me in the mirror and shook his head. Obviously, nutting Achura was a bad idea. A better idea would have been to head to the airport straight away, but I needed to see Saltanat, even if it meant encountering Achura once more. As Quang had said, there are dozens of ways to die in Bangkok.

  The bombshell of Saltanat’s pregnancy still sent echoes through my mind, tremors of fear, elation, terror. Did she want our child or would she simply head for an abortion clinic, a scrape, a day in bed, then back to work?

  Did I want a child, and how could I look after it, on the run and most likely dead before it was even born?

  I shut my eyes, tried to find some peace, but my life nagged at me like a broken tooth, persistent, insistent. I hadn’t lied to Quang; I used the phone to send coded messages. But they were to Saltanat, not Aliyev. And the message I intended to send said ‘Visiting the floating market’. Which meant ‘Run’. Even if I couldn’t escape the shit I was in, there was no reason why she should die. Or, now I thought of it, our unborn child. If Saltanat decided to terminate her pregnancy, there was still Otabek back in Uzbekistan to consider. He’d been traumatised enough by his ordeal at the hands of Morton Graves. Saltanat had helped him come out of his self-imposed silence, but without her presence, he would surely sink back into a fear and despair from which there would be no escape.

  I barely noticed the buildings on either side, until I realised we weren’t taking the normal route back to the hotel. I tapped on the glass partition, caught the driver’s attention.

  ‘Where are you taking me?’ I said, but he ignored me and carried on driving. I began to get seriously worried: I remembered the gun under his jacket, wondered if this was a trip to somewhere quiet followed by a sudden execution. If so, I’d walked into it like a halfwit. Out of my depth, out of my skills, and if I was right, soon to be out of breath.

  We turned off the motorway onto a slip road leading into an area full of decaying warehouses. Rusting signs in Thai hung lopsided from shutters and roofs, doors and walls had graffiti sprayed upon them like neon-bright worms squashed by a giant fist. If I’d had a god to believe in, this would have been the time to start praying.

  I was surprised at how calm, perhaps even resigned to dying I was. After all, between Tynaliev, Aliyev and Quang, no one in their right minds would bet on me reaching old age.

  Finally, the car pulled up surrounded by derelict buildings, the kind of place where businesses die a lingering death. Mine would be a lot quicker. The ground was littered with twisted pieces of steel rebar, broken bricks and bottles and rotting cardboard boxes. Weeds struggled through cracks in the concrete, puddles of water lay in hollows, staring up at the sky like black eyes. The air was foul with the smell of smoke, rotting timber, decay.

  The driver clambered out of his seat, beckoned for me to do the same. He held up the phone and the SIM card, placed them on the roof of the car, then stepped back, motioning for me to install the card. I held the mobile up, stabbed at it with one finger. He nodded, watched as I sent Saltanat the code to get out of Bangkok as quickly as possible.
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br />   The driver nodded approval, reached under his jacket for his gun. It was then we heard the motorcycle, powerful, aggressive, approaching at speed. Both of us remained frozen as a Royal Thai Police motorcycle raced into view, the wheels bucking and twisting on the uneven surface.

  Killing me would be an everyday occurrence; the mysterious death of a farang wouldn’t make the TV news. But murdering a police officer would bring down nine levels of hell and trouble. So the driver paused, fingers millimetres away from his gun, waiting for the motorcycle to stop.

  The policeman stopped the bike, straddling it with his feet on the ground. His face was unreadable behind mirror sunglasses and a full face helmet with the visor raised. I didn’t know if he’d followed us, whether he had spotted something wrong or was just following a cop hunch. But it was my only opportunity.

  Picking up the brick at my feet was easy; throwing it so it hit the driver’s head took a little skill, a lot of luck. The brick bounced off his skull with a dry thud and splintered, like dropping a sack of rice on the floor. I watched as he staggered, half-fell, then pulled himself up, shaking his head the way a dog shakes off water. He felt for his gun, pulled it out of the shoulder holster, finger already dancing towards the trigger.

  The cop’s gun was aimed halfway between us, and I had no doubt he’d shoot at the slightest sign of trouble. So we both stood absolutely still, statues captured in mid-motion.

  Then the driver made a decision. He pulled out his gun and fell backwards as the cop’s bullets took him in the throat and jaw, arterial blood a jetting fountain that splashed through the air and onto the ground. As his body fell, I saw the man’s tongue, newly exposed in the gap where most of his teeth had been, splayed out like a slice of raw liver. His gun clattered to the ground but I knew it would be suicide to reach for it. At that moment, death by cop seemed as sensible an option as any.

  ‘Pick up the gun, hurry.’

  Saltanat’s voice, as usual calm and assured.

  I stared as she took off the cycle helmet, shook her hair free, gave me one of those smiles that speared my heart.

  ‘We need to get out of here,’ she said, dismounting from the bike and heading towards the car. She paused only to wipe the side of my face nearest the driver’s body and give me a peck on the cheek. I checked the driver’s gun; fully loaded, though I’d expected nothing less.

  ‘A little blood on your face, don’t worry, it’s not yours,’ she said.

  ‘Where did you steal the bike?’ I asked.

  ‘There’s an unlucky cop who thought he was going to get a blow job down an alleyway; he should be waking up about now with a bruised neck and a very sore head,’ Saltanat said, giving a ravishing smile.

  No question who was going to drive. Saltanat slid behind the wheel, began to reverse and turn around. The rear of the car rose and I heard a horrible crunch and squelch.

  ‘Relax, he didn’t feel a thing. Or if he did, he doesn’t now.’

  As we headed back towards the motorway, I wondered how it was possible to love a woman who could take a life without a second thought. The times I’ve had to kill, the moment returns to me, mainly in dreams, but also when I see a face, a walk, a look, that reminds me of the dead. The difference between being an amateur and a professional, I suppose; I hope I never go from being one to the other.

  ‘Once we get a little further away, we’ll have to ditch the car,’ I said. ‘No way Quang wouldn’t have installed a tracking device and we don’t have time to find it.’

  Saltanat nodded. ‘We dump this at Nana Plaza, leaving the keys in the ignition. Some low life is bound to think it’s his lucky day and go for a joyride. I wouldn’t like to be the one who has to explain to Quang he’d only “borrowed” his car.’

  ‘And then? I’ve seen enough of hookers, ladyboys and farang drunks for one trip.’

  ‘Taxi to the airport.’

  ‘I don’t have my passport with me,’ I said.

  She reached into her jacket, passed me an envelope.

  ‘You do now.’

  The green Uzbek passport looked genuine; with Saltanat’s connections, it probably was. I flicked through the pages. Whoever forged the paperwork had been thorough – a dozen visas from as many countries filled as many pages.

  ‘So now I’m called Alisher Nabiyev. And I’m thirty-six years old.’

  She looked sideways at me, narrowly missing a tuk-tuk, smiled.

  ‘You must have had a very hard life,’ she said.

  ‘The way you drive, I’ll be ten years older when we arrive,’ I replied.

  ‘Shut up, keep your head down, don’t stare out of the window like you’ve never seen cars before,’ Saltanat ordered, forced her way though an impossible gap between an elderly bus and a truck overloaded with vegetables.

  I winced in anticipation, shut my eyes, decided that was the only way to travel until we got to the airport.

  Chapter 44

  Suvarnabhumi International Airport is one of the biggest in the world; however, Saltanat knew her way, led me through several levels towards passport control.

  ‘We’ve got diplomatic passports,’ she explained, ‘so we get priority and entrance to a special lounge until our flight takes off.’

  ‘Where are we going?’ I asked. ‘Not that I have any say in it, obviously, but I’d prefer to go somewhere where no one will look for me. The South Pole, maybe.’

  ‘Kuala Lumpur,’ Saltanat said. ‘Our tickets say we’re coming back tomorrow; that explains why we don’t have any luggage. But, of course, we won’t be returning.’

  ‘Surely Quang’s men will be on their way here,’ I said, ‘and I don’t think they’ll want us to leave.’

  ‘Our flight goes in ninety minutes. They won’t expect you to be travelling with a woman, and you’ve got a diplomatic passport under a false name. Unless you think you’ve got time to shave your head as a disguise, there’s not much more I can do.’

  As we joined the queue to go through passport control, Saltanat turned to me.

  ‘You got rid of the gun, right?’

  I looked around, spotting the universal symbol for a men’s bathroom.

  ‘Back in a minute.’

  I disassembled the gun in the relative privacy of a cubicle, dropped the pieces into a large cleaning sack, rejoined Saltanat.

  Once we were through all the formalities, Saltanat led me to one of the business class lounges. Any other time, I would have been delighted to look around, eat and drink, relax away from the crowds. But all I could think of was getting on the plane, wondering if Quang had the influence to get us dragged off the plane and out of the airport. I looked over at Saltanat, sipping her second glass of champagne.

  ‘Drinking?’ I said.

  She raised an eyebrow, put her glass down and gave me a look that pretended to be serious.

  ‘Worried about the baby?’ she asked, the mockery in her voice all too evident.

  ‘I was thinking more that we ought to get out of Thailand before you set a course for getting drunk,’ I replied.

  ‘So you don’t want me to have an abortion, then?’ she asked, all mockery in her voice gone.

  ‘Can we talk about this later?’ I asked. ‘I’m tired, stressed beyond all belief, I’ve just headbutted a ladyboy, I’ve watched you kill a man, and then sat through some of the worst driving since the car was invented. Right now, I’m not capable of a serious conversation about anything.’

  ‘Kairat’s a nice name for a boy, don’t you think?’ she asked. ‘And Aizat if it’s a girl.’

  I decided not to answer, treating myself to a freshly squeezed orange juice. For a split second, I could almost taste the vodka I would once have decanted into the glass, half juice half Stolichnaya, cubes of ice chiming against the glass, chill on my lips, the burn at the back of my throat. I used to drink vodka most evenings to calm my nerves after a murderous day. Chinara didn’t approve, but she understood my need to escape the day’s blood, brains, stupidity and hate. I hadn�
�t had an alcoholic drink since her death, but right then, I couldn’t remember why I thought that was a good idea.

  ‘You’re worried about Quang finding us here,’ Saltanat stated, sipping once more from her champagne flute.

  ‘You’re not?’

  ‘Why should I be? I’ve only just met you, don’t know you, just striking up a conversation to pass the time if anyone asks. If they drag you away, I’ll just say, how strange, he seemed like such a nice man.’

  ‘And they say romance is dead.’

  Saltanat finished her champagne, held up a hand to beckon the waitress to top up her glass.

  ‘Right now, Quang’s got more important things to worry about than some Kyrgyz nobody killing one of his staff and disappearing into the night.’

  I looked at her, saw the slight smile on her face.

  ‘You’ve fucked him over somehow, haven’t you?’ I accused.

  ‘Put a temporary spoke in his wheels, put it like that,’ she said, and this time couldn’t resist grinning. The shock of just how beautiful she was hit me afresh, the way it did every time when she let drop the mask of professional indifference.

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘You’ve heard of Photoshop, I suppose?’

  ‘I may be an old-fashioned ex-cop but I do sometimes live in this century,’ I said. ‘I’m not living in a yurt up on the high jailoo in the mountains. I’ve even got a mobile phone.’

  ‘Since you’re so up to date on computers and world affairs, you can tell me: what do the Thais respect more than anything else?’

  ‘Money?’ I ventured. Saltanat shook her head.

  ‘Majesty. The Royal family. The King,’ she said. ‘It’s one of the bonds that holds their society together, perhaps the biggest, and the punishments for criticising, mocking or suggesting the Royal family be abolished are truly punitive. It’s a crime called lese-majeste. Up to fifteen years in prison for each offence, and believe me, a Thai prison makes a Kyrgyz penal colony look like a holiday camp.’