An Autumn Hunting Read online

  ‘It might have been a little difficult,’ I said, and took my left hand out of my jacket pocket, the first two fingers stretched out, the way children imitate guns when they’re playing cops and robbers.

  ‘Bang!’ I said.

  ‘What a very good idea,’ Saltanat said, and pushed me backwards onto the bed.

  *

  Afterwards, we lay in the delicious drifting half-sleep that follows making love. I knew I had to talk to Saltanat, knew she’d object, but I couldn’t see any way out of it. I made us tea, putting off the awkward conversation, joined her back in bed.

  ‘You think I should have killed Aliyev earlier?’ I asked.

  ‘You had a gun in your other pocket, didn’t you?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have had time to draw it and aim before one of his boys shot me,’ I said. It was the simple truth, unadorned by any pretence at being a tough guy.

  ‘So he gets to kill you instead?’

  I sat up in bed and turned to face her.

  ‘The day I joined the force, I knew I could be killed. But I’ve survived so far. Dying isn’t what worries me.’

  Saltanat sipped at her tea, her eyes never moving from my face. I paused, hunting for the words the way a crow scours the ground for food.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I’m worried about the collateral damage.’

  ‘You mean me, I suppose.’

  I nodded. ‘And not just you.’

  She took another sip of her tea, delicate and poised. She paused, as if unsure how to reply.

  ‘I haven’t decided whether to keep it or not, you know.’

  ‘For what it’s worth, and if my opinion matters, I think you should keep it.’

  ‘A state assassin for a mother, a late and much unmourned cop as a father? Talk about giving a child a great start in life.’

  ‘OK, I’m looking at the wrong end of a gun barrel,’ I said, ‘but don’t you think you’re pushing your luck as well?’

  ‘Retire and take up gardening, that’s what you have in mind for me?’

  Her tone was light, but I could tell she didn’t find the conversation amusing.

  ‘There are worse things than roses,’ I said, ‘and some of them have sharper thorns.’

  ‘So what are you suggesting?’

  ‘I think you should get on the train to Moscow tomorrow morning. Aliyev’s men are bound to be watching the airport, but there shouldn’t be a problem with the train.’

  ‘You want me to sit on a train for forty-eight hours, while you turn into Clint Eastwood?’

  ‘Travel first class, a sleeper to yourself. I’d like to do that myself, but I have to sort this stuff out first.’

  ‘With Aliyev?’ she asked.

  ‘And with Tynaliev. It was him who threw me into this shit in the first place. If I don’t deal with him, I might as well glue rear-view mirrors to my forehead. And then he’ll attack from the front.’

  I put my empty cup down, took hers, held her hand.

  ‘The fake assassination for a start.’

  She nodded.

  ‘It had to be fake. I knew you were a bad shot, but even you couldn’t have missed a fat bastard like that at point-blank range.’

  ‘So then I’m on the run, top of the Most Wanted charts, a smash hit. Shooting Tynaliev was the only way I could get into Aliyev’s team and win his trust. Since every one of his men has to take off their shoes to count past ten, that wasn’t too difficult.’

  ‘He didn’t suspect?’ Saltanat asked.

  ‘Of course, that’s why he sent me off to Bangkok. If I managed to draw Quang out of his regular activities, Aliyev could set him up, let the Russians know who was poisoning their children. Then all he had to do was stand back and let the Spetsnaz go to work. With Quang sidelined, Aliyev could own the spice routes into Russia. Big-time money.’

  ‘While Quang prepared to sideline Aliyev.’

  ‘You’ve been paying attention,’ I said, ‘I like that,’ and I kissed her to prove I meant it.

  ‘So Aliyev and Quang commit mutually assured destruction. And the resulting vacuum is filled by none other than the Minister of State Security,’ Saltanat said.

  ‘You have a very devious mind, even for a woman,’ I said, dodging the blow I knew would follow.

  ‘I’m still not going to Moscow,’ she said, jaw set in that ‘argument is futile’ mode.

  ‘I’ve got tickets for both of us,’ I said, and reached into my jacket inside pocket to show her. ‘You go tomorrow, I follow two days later, meet you outside Lenin’s mausoleum, then we go into the GUM luxury store for the world’s most expensive cup of coffee.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Then we decide where we’re going to live, when we’re going to get married, what names we’re going to give our children.’

  I patted her stomach. Too early to feel life, but I knew it was there, preparing to emerge on an unsuspecting world.

  ‘What makes you think I want to marry you? Or marry anyone?’

  ‘After everything we did an hour ago? How can you resist?’ I said, with my most winning smile.

  Saltanat looked suspicious, perhaps even a little sad; I couldn’t say I blamed her.

  ‘Why do you want to marry me?’ she said. ‘It can’t be because of this,’ as she pointed to her stomach.

  I felt scared, no, terrified. Terrified of exposing my inner self, or being rejected, of being left alone again, with no one and nothing to live for. I looked at her, and she could sense my fear, watched me struggle to overcome it.

  ‘Because I love you,’ I said, my voice hoarse, my throat choked, my words stumbling over each other as if drunk.

  Saltanat simply stared at me. I had no clue as to what she was thinking. Finally, she spoke.

  ‘I know.’

  And the way she said it splintered my heart.

  Chapter 54

  ‘You swear you’ll meet me in Red Square?’

  ‘You saw my ticket. I’ll even take you in to see Lenin embalmed in his glass box.’

  ‘That’s not the most romantic offer I’ve ever had.’

  ‘I’m out of practice,’ I said, and kissed her again. Somehow, her tea managed to get spilt all over the Hyatt’s pristine white sheets, but at the rates they charged, I figured they could afford a little laundry bill.

  *

  In the morning, showered but unshaved, I watched Saltanat get dressed. She looked at me as she fastened her bra at her waist, turned it round and up, sliding the straps over her arms. At that moment, she had the grace and poise of a ballerina, each movement instinctive and perfectly judged. I smiled as a wave of tenderness, not desire, swept over me.

  ‘Let me show you something,’ she said, and pulled at the side of her bra, exposing the end of a thin metal wire which she then pushed back out of sight.

  ‘Ground to a point at both ends. Push this into someone’s ear, you can watch it come out the other side. Always prepared, that’s me.’

  The smile slid from my face, remembering Saltanat’s existence as a perfect killing machine. It didn’t stop me loving her, but it reminded me ours was never going to be a picturebook romance.

  ‘Clever,’ I said.

  ‘Good for picking locks too,’ she said, and a smile danced across her face.

  I looked at my watch. Eight o’clock: time to head down to the lobby. I’d called Usupov the night before, asked him to meet us, take us for a drive. I didn’t say where. Saltanat paid the bill with a credit card I was certain didn’t have her real name on it. The clerk gave an uninterested smile, wished us a pleasant journey, hoped to see us again. Not if I’m paying, I thought as we stepped out into the crisp morning air.

  Usupov was waiting, the car exhaust coughing smoke. We climbed into the back seat, and Usupov pulled away.

  ‘I told Tynaliev you were back in the city,’ he said, his voice thick with apology. ‘If I hadn’t, and he found out I knew . . .’

  ‘I understand, Kenesh, I’m sure he has the airport
watched full time,’ I reassured him. I hoped the use of his first name would tell him I was on his side. And I knew the risk he was taking in being with us, a reminder there are still decent people in the world, pressured, intimidated, afraid, but prepared to do the right thing.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘The station,’ I said.

  ‘No luggage?’

  ‘Travel light, move fast,’ I said. ‘It’s kept me alive all these years.’

  Then I sat back, slumped down in my seat to minimise the risk of being spotted, watched Bishkek stretching and yawning as it woke up . . .

  *

  I’ve known men who’ve told me it’s possible to love more than one woman at the same time. I’ve even put a couple of them behind bars when their romances turned sour, and one of the women had to go. The truth is you can love two women, but in different ways, for different reasons.

  Sometimes it’s just hoping you can still attract women, that they’re willing to overlook the sagging jawline or beer belly because of your wonderful personality. Or the size of your bank balance. Other times, it’s having so much money you can buy what passes for love and desire. Or maybe it’s just a need for company and comfort as the years scurry by and the long night approaches.

  I knew I’d loved Chinara for all she had been, loved her still. And I hoped she would have approved of me finding someone after she left me. A professional assassin wouldn’t have been her ideal choice, but then we can’t dictate the future, no matter how much we might try.

  *

  Bishkek railway station is a big place, considering how few trains actually run there. From the outside, it could pass for the town hall of a rural oblast, built with civic pride for some district far from a capital city. Built in High Soviet style, with a tall three-storey central building flanked by two extended wings, it proclaims the power and invincibility of the USSR. The Union has long gone, but the station remains.

  Inside, massive windows light up the floor, while overhead, intricate paintings weave an elaborate design around a single silver six-pointed star. The walls are splendid with painted bas-relief plasterwork, as if modelled upon Tsarskoe Selo, the Catherine Palace outside St Petersburg. In another life, the room could have been a grand ballroom, a string quartet high above in the gallery, aristocratic ladies and gentlemen dancing a minuet. Now, in place of violins and violas, the gallery houses a neon timetable board showing the times of the few trains that visit here.

  The grandeur of the interior is rather let down by rows of those uncomfortable metal seats you find in airports everywhere if you can’t afford to visit the business lounge. Under the high interior, the benches are grouped together in one corner, huddled together as if for warmth. Like so many of the buildings of that era, it looks impressive at first sight, before you notice the peeling paint, the half-hearted repair jobs, the corners where decades of dirt and dust lurk.

  It wasn’t the starting point of a great journey. But I knew it was Saltanat’s best hope of getting out of Kyrgyzstan, with Aliyev’s men watching the airport and the border crossings into Uzbekistan and Kazakhstan.

  I gave her the last of the roubles from my lock-up so she had enough to bribe any border guards that showed too great an interest, held her hand as Usupov pulled up by the little park opposite the station entrance.

  I kissed her on the cheek, felt her breast against my arm.

  ‘I booked you a four-berth compartment,’ I said, ‘so you’ll have all the privacy you want.’

  I knew people would try to push their way into her compartment, pitied anyone foolish enough to try it. I wanted to catch Saltanat’s eye, but she looked away, unwilling to show her feelings.

  ‘Here’s to meeting in Moscow. I’ll text you when I’m on my way. Pay my respects to Vladimir.’

  Saltanat got out of the car without saying anything, walked across the road to the ornate entrance. She didn’t look back. Right then, I wondered if I was making a catastrophic mistake, whether I should have been on the train with her, travelling towards a new future.

  I watched her disappear into the entrance, tapped Usupov on the shoulder. He turned around to stare at me, puzzlement and pity plain in his face.

  ‘You’re letting her leave? Just like that?’

  ‘Just like that,’ I said. ‘Safer for her.’

  Usupov shook his head, disbelieving. ‘You need your head examining.’

  ‘You’ll have to wait until I’m dead before you get the chance,’ I said as he drove back towards the city centre. But being on Usupov’s slab in the near future seemed a distinct possibility.

  He dropped me at the top end of Ibraimova, near the Blonder pub. I could walk back to my apartment from there, check if anyone was watching the building, maybe even manage a couple of hours’ sleep before contacting Aliyev. I had a very vague plan sketched out in my head, but plans have a habit of falling apart when bullets start slicing the air.

  I crossed the footbridge near where I’d found the butchered body of Tynaliev’s daughter, his beloved Yekaterina. That felt like decades ago. No sign anything had ever happened there, the trees as indifferent to human suffering and death as always. Only a few faded scraps of police crime tape fluttered from the branches. As a rule, the murdered dead aren’t commemorated with a plaque; perhaps to do so would be to show the world how vile we are to each other. But I remember them, if that’s worth anything.

  I passed a battered trash can, the sort that swivel over and turn upside down so they can be easily emptied. Someone had emptied it all right; the ground was patterned with crushed beer cans and an empty vodka bottle like a drunk’s carpet on a Sunday morning. Someone’s idea of an al fresco party, or a wake. I reached into my jacket and dropped the train ticket with my name on it into the trash can. I knew I wasn’t going to be travelling to Moscow.

  And I was pretty sure I’d never see Saltanat again.

  Chapter 55

  The one good thing about Bishkek apartments are the front doors. Solid steel, impregnable unless you can squeeze a battle tank up the narrow stairs. They’re fitted to keep burglars and other undesirables out; your apartment might be bare of everything but a bed and a kettle, but no one else can get inside unless you invite them.

  Somehow I doubted Aliyev, with all his resources, could get hold of a T-90, so I could sleep for a while, drink tea and smoke while deciding what to do next.

  The afternoon drifted towards dusk, grey skies holding back all but a little light that slithered in through the kitchen window. Elbows on the Formica table, I watched my cigarette smoke bloom in the air, surprised by the meaning and intensity my familiar surroundings took on with the approach of death.

  I stubbed out my cigarette, shook the empty pack. It was time to make the call. The voice that answered showed no emotion at my request, merely ordered a time to meet. I put my phone down, remembered what Leonid Yurtaev, the Kyrgyz chess grand master had counselled: ‘When you reach the endgame, remember your opponent is looking to kill you. If your defence is poor, or your attack is weak, he will do so.’ I knew I was a mere pawn, but even a pawn can topple a king if the moment is right.

  *

  Tynaliev’s house was as imposing as ever, the security just as strict, the guards surly as always. I wondered if they were that way when the president made an unexpected visit, decided they probably were.

  My Makarov locked away, I was led to the front of the house, where a guard tapped in the lock code and I was admitted into Tynaliev’s lair. The house was ferociously overheated, and I could feel sweat begin to form at my hairline. I told myself it was the heat, not fear.

  After ten minutes of perspiration, the door to Tynaliev’s study opened and the minister appeared. He put out a hand, massive and calloused. I knew Tynaliev had killed people with his bare hands, but I took it just the same. It felt like trapping my hand under a steam hammer.

  ‘What?’

  Tynaliev had never been a man to stand on ceremony, but this was terse, even for him.


  ‘I’m sorry to intrude, Minister, but there are just a couple of things to clear up with you. Then I’ll leave you in peace, I swear.’

  Tynaliev took two steps forward, so we were face to face. I could smell the vodka and pickled cucumbers on his breath. His face was borscht-red and I wondered how long it would be before a stroke or a heart attack made his government post vacant. I couldn’t say the prospect depressed me, but perhaps better the corrupt, hard-liner psycho you know . . .

  ‘Get on with it,’ Tynaliev half-snarled, sitting down at his desk. I noticed the conveniently placed pistol, wondered how sharp the letter opener was if it came down to it.

  ‘I’d like to clarify my return to the police force,’ I said. ‘I’ve gone through a lot of shit, risked being shot by anyone and everyone, including my own side. Now it’s time for my rehabilitation, don’t you think?’

  Tynaliev sat back in his chair.

  ‘If you think I’m going into a dark alley one night wondering whether I’m going to get shot in the front by a criminal or in the back by a cop who thinks I’m dirty, you don’t know me very well, Minister,’ I said.

  ‘So what do you want?’

  ‘A statement that says I was acting on your orders to help break a major crime syndicate, and I’ve been restored to my former post of Inspector, Murder Squad. Further details to follow in due course.’

  ‘Which, of course, they never will,’ Tynaliev said.

  ‘Which they never will,’ I agreed.

  ‘I’ll sign the release tonight, have it issued to the press. It should be in tomorrow’s papers, but I can’t guarantee you’ll be front page news.’

  ‘As long as the right people see it and know who it’s from.’

  ‘Which leaves us where?’

  I looked over at a side table, empty except for a photo of Yekaterina Tynalieva, the way she was in life, smiling, happy, not the disembowelled carcass I’d encountered. I made sure Tynaliev saw me looking as well. We both knew the pain of losing someone you loved, and in that moment I felt a degree of sympathy for him. I’d brought the man responsible for her murder to a summary and brutal justice at Tynaliev’s hands. I was too cautious to mention it, but Tynaliev owed me and he knew it.