A Spring Betrayal

Chapter 29

“It’s like this,” I explained, as Saltanat drove us back toward Frunze. “While he’s chasing us all over Bishkek, we can do a spot of breaking and entering, try and get ourselves some evidence.”

“We’ve got the videos on the iPhone,” Saltanat said.

“Circumstantial. All we can prove is that someone who had the phone called him. And living where he does, the kind of money he must make, he’s going to have enough clout to close down any questions. If he even gets asked any.”

I reached under my seat, found a bottle of water, swirled some around my mouth to clean out the fear, spat out of the window. On either side of the street, tree branches clutched at the moon. It wasn’t the ideal night for burglary, but then it wasn’t the ideal night for anything except being several hundred kilometers away.

“I think the film clips were used to find potential customers for the DVDs. A sales promotion kit, if you like. And you can bet the salesman isn’t going to be found any time soon. Not with the back of his head intact. Dead men don’t betray bosses. So no use looking for him.”

“What do you think we’ll find at the house?” Saltanat asked.

“They’ve got to make these films somewhere. Somewhere private, secluded, soundproofed. You don’t film this kind of stuff in your bedroom. And there’s one other thing you need access to.”

“What’s that?” Saltanat asked.

I drank some more of the water, feeling it hit my stomach, wondering if I was going to vomit.

“Raw material,” I said. “Children.”

We parked a couple of blocks away from the American’s house and walked toward it, on the far side of the street, holding hands, just another couple taking a romantic midnight stroll. If you consider two people dressed entirely in black and clutching high-powered weapons romantic. All the trees had been painted white at their bases, as if the wind had managed to partially uproot them, so we weren’t as invisible as I would have liked. We’d stuffed our ski masks into our pockets; no point in advertising. I kept an eye out for guards, for cameras, but saw nothing. Saltanat had linked her arm in mine, and I was very aware of the pressure of her breast against me. It didn’t help my concentration.

Just before we reached the house, I turned to Saltanat, stroked her cheek, and then kissed her, her lips soft against mine. That way, she could stare over my shoulder and check out any possible trouble. Her hair smelled of cigarettes and shampoo, her mouth tasted of coffee. I just smelled of sweat and fear.

“All clear,” she whispered, her breath hot in my ear. “But how do you plan we get through the gates? Levitate?”

I tried to ignore the effect of her body pressed against mine.

“If you look past the gates, there’s some kind of access doorway. You don’t want to fuss with opening the gates every time you want to go out for a liter of moloko, do you? There’s always a weak spot, a way in—the trick is finding it.”

I put my hand in my jacket pocket, felt the cold metal of my lock picks.

“The Great Borubaev. With his magic, no lock is impregnable.”

“I’d prefer it if you had a key,” Saltanat murmured as we crossed the road, her head on my shoulder, looking up adoringly at me.

I turned to her and smiled, stroked her hair as we reached the narrow wooden door.

“I’ll need you to keep watch; it shouldn’t take me more than a minute.”

Five minutes later, I was still twisting the slender pick in the lock, sweat trickling into my eyes, as I failed to open the door. The longer I took, the greater the odds of being spotted, by the bad guys or some concerned citizen with the police on speed dial. Either way, we’d be in deep shit.

“Are you doing this deliberately?” Saltanat hissed, fury in her voice. I looked over at her, back to the wall, gun down by her side, head turning through a hundred-and-eighty-degree sweep.

“Of course,” I said. “More exciting this way. Like a movie.”

“Shut up,” she suggested, taking the pick out of my fingers and pushing it into the lock.

Thirty seconds later, we were inside.