A Spring Betrayal

Chapter 28

Like most Murder Squad detectives, I keep a stash of not strictly legal weapons, “just in case,” as I always tell myself, stuff I don’t want to risk keeping at home. Divide and conquer is a pretty good motto when it comes to illegal weapons. I rent a small storage space near the big bazaar on the other side of Bishkek, not in my name. That’s where I hide two passports, one Uzbek and one Russian, also not in my name, a couple of Makarovs and ammo to go with them, a switchblade, lock picks, several changes of clothing, including bulletproof vests, and other useful items. I think of it as an additional insurance policy, in case we have another revolution and someone decides I’m not cheering fervently enough.

Saltanat kept watch while I taped the two Makarovs and ammo to the underside of the car, having made sure they were loaded. If we found ourselves caught in crossfire, I wanted cover to hide behind and enough firepower to shoot our way out. We both stripped to the waist and strapped on the vests before putting our shirts back on.

“Comfortable?” I asked.

“If you enjoy mammograms,” she said, checking her own Makarov and slamming the clip home.

I slipped the fake passports into the glove compartment, padlocked the storage space, then we were off, back down Chui Prospekt, car headlights already on to combat the dusk, the greater darkness that lay ahead.

I could smell leaves, grass, and the hint of rain in the air. Spring was striding toward Bishkek, the rivers starting to swell with snowmelt. Shepherds would be thinking about moving their flocks back up to the grasslands of the high jailoo, and the city girls would be hunting out their summer dresses packed away months ago. I wondered if I would be alive to see them parade across Ala-Too Square, young, hopeful, an eternal future ahead of them.

“Take a right here, and then a left,” I said, peering out at the familiar streets.

“We’re going to the Kulturny?” Saltanat asked, following my instructions.

“This is my city,” I replied. “I know how it works here. So yes, the Kulturny.”

There was a confidence in my voice I didn’t really feel, but I knew we had to keep moving forward. Losing momentum means losing advantage. And unlike wolves, we didn’t have anywhere to shelter, anywhere to hide.

Right on time, the call came.

“Okay, where?”

“You know the Kulturny?” I said. “The most stylish bar in Bishkek? The French champagne, fine vintage wines, haute cuisine, sophisticated clientele?”

A grunt was the only response.

“When?”

“Forty-five minutes,” I replied. “But don’t be late or they’ll give our table away.”

“How will I know you?” the Voice asked.

“Don’t worry about that,” I said. “I’ll know you.”

I ended the call just as Saltanat pulled into an empty space, across from the bar.

The street was pretty much empty; this part of town doesn’t see much action, once the daylight starts to go. The yellow puddles from the few streetlights we have become stepping stones in a dark and dangerous lake. I could see Lubashov leaning by the steel door, his balls presumably recovered from meeting Saltanat.

I put on one of the midnight-blue wool ski masks I’d taken out of storage, and handed the other to Saltanat. With only eyes and mouth visible, it would be difficult for anyone to identify us, unless we were dead, in which case it was all academic, and Usupov would do the final honors.

You set up something like this by arranging the meet to give them the bare minimum time to get there, with not enough time for an ambush, making sure you’re already in place. You wait until they arrive with a shriek of tires, hurl themselves out of an armor-plated Hummer like a Spetsnaz team on high alert, cover the street with Kalashnikovs primed to fire.

But nothing happens, no gunshots from the dark, no grenades thrown from the rooftops. So everyone starts to relax and get sloppy, the adrenaline beginning to flush out of their systems.

They all tense again as the car door opens, always the front passenger door, and the big guy, the number one, the bratski krug, gets out and takes the few steps to the meet door and safety.

That’s when everyone is waiting for the hit. Which is why you don’t do it then. You wait. Wait some more. A bit more after that. And then you hit them.

We were invisible, thanks to the car’s tinted windows and our dark clothing. I reached up and switched off the interior light; no point in giving someone a clean shot.

I heard Saltanat’s breath, sharp and ragged, almost loud enough to drown the way my heart hammered in my chest, death’s knuckles beating on the door, demanding to be let in. I wiped my damp palms on my trousers, wishing I’d wound tape around the butt of my gun for a better grip. I needed a piss as well. Too late now.

Twenty minutes before the rendezvous, so I knew they’d be here in the next five.

Saltanat reached over and squeezed my hand.

“This is the bit I hate,” she whispered. “Waiting. Always have.”

I squeezed back, then stroked the back of her hand. The bones felt thin, fragile, unable to pull a trigger and blow a man’s life into a memory. Appearances deceive.

As I sat there in the darkness, preparing for chaos and death, I remembered Chinara quoting one of her favorite lines of poetry, by some foreign poet, how love was what would survive of us. I wasn’t sure it was true. Because love isn’t the only emotion to linger after we die. Let’s not forget despair and his best friend, hate. And since the cancer devoured Chinara, they’d both visited me several times to offer their sincere condolences.

It was Saltanat who spotted the headlights, growing larger, throwing the trees into light and shadows that spun away, parting before the black people carrier as it prowled the street.

The car pulled up outside the Kulturny, Lubashov snapping to attention. Regular customers obviously, or big tippers. The expected no-necks bailed out of the car, clutching those nasty little Micro Uzis, looking around for potential targets. After a moment, the front passenger door swung open and a giant emerged. He must have been two meters from army boots to watch cap, so he would stand out in most places.

The Voice was a Western man, in his mid-forties, burly but not fat, shoulders threatening to split his jacket apart. His shaven head glowed almost white under the Kulturny’s single light. Simply standing there, he exuded power, strength, ruthlessness. His mouth was wide, determined, like a shark hunting down its prey. His eyes were black coins in his face. We couldn’t have chosen a worse foe.

The Voice looked around, head up as if he’d scented our presence, reached for his phone. I covered the iPhone with my hand, not wanting its glow to betray our position, sliding down in my seat, out of view.

“You’re at the Kulturny?” I asked.

“Yes, where are you?”

“Never mind that, do you have the money? All thirty thousand dollars?”

“Yes,” the Voice answered, emotionless, deadly.

“Take ten thousand and go into the Kulturny. Alone. Walk down the stairs, go into the toilet, stuff the money behind the tank. Don’t look around, don’t talk to anyone. Come back outside.”

“What the fuck?”

I broke the connection.

“What the hell are you doing?” Saltanat asked.

“Don’t worry,” I said, worried. “I have a plan.”

“A plan you’re planning to share with me?” she asked. “Or do I get killed so you can show how superior you are?”

“Saltanat,” I said, hissing the words into a whisper, “trust me, I know what I’m doing.”

The indignant snort from the driver’s seat didn’t say a lot for my powers of persuasion. So instead I watched until the Voice emerged from the Kulturny. Lubashov walked toward him, maybe to ask if there was a problem, if he needed some help. Without breaking step, the Voice backhanded Lubashov across the face, once, twice, not looking to see if the young man fell or not. Lubashov stumbled back, then held up his hands in submission, a clear indication death by gangster wasn’t on his agenda. The nearest no-neck nodded approvingly as the Voice clambered back into the car.

I switched the iPhone back on, and pressed redial.

“Drive to the junction of Ibraimova and Toktogul. There’s a shashlik stand there, with a trash bin in front of it. Place ten thousand dollars in the bin, then drive one block down and wait outside Dordoi Plaza, the big supermarket. You’ll be contacted there.”

“If you’re fucking with me, I’ll have your carcass dripping from a meat hook by tomorrow night,” the Voice said, menace sharp as a switchblade.

“We’re both sensible men, businessmen, we take precautions to secure our interests. I just want your money, you want your secrets back. It’s business, that’s all.”

The people carrier drove off east toward Ibraimova, and as the headlights faded from view, Saltanat rounded on me.

“What the fuck are you doing, Akyl? You want to go and retrieve that ten thousand dollars? You’re crazy.” Spitting out her words.

“I don’t give a damn about the money,” I said. “The first alkashi to stumble in there for a piss can have it, for all I care.”

“Then what are you doing?” she asked.

“The bleating of the sheep attracts the wolf,” I said.

“Very poetic. So?”

“Well, I’m just changing where the sheep’s tethered,” I replied. “And now we’d better get going.”

“Where?” Saltanat asked. “Dordoi Plaza? They’ll be waiting for us there.”

“I hope so,” I replied. “That’s why we’re going to his house.”