A Spring Betrayal

Chapter 30

“Ever thought of turning professional?” I whispered, as we stood in the shadow of the trees.

I put my arm around her shoulders, kissed her again, this time for real. I could feel her breasts against me, fear intensifying my desire. Saltanat abruptly pushed me away.

“Focus. Concentrate. This was your idea, remember?”

I looked around, across the perfectly manicured lawn toward the house. No lights, no sign of life. I’d banked on the Voice needing to keep the lowest of profiles, since even the Circle of Brothers wouldn’t approve of his trade. No ostentatious guards carrying Kalashnikovs, no watchtowers, just the home of a wealthy recluse. The security he would have was probably traveling with him in the people carrier, waiting outside the Dordoi Plaza, impatient for my call. It seemed a shame to disappoint him.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” I said. “You could always grab a burger, you know. Good American cooking.”

“I want—” the Voice snarled.

“It’s what I want,” I corrected. “And what I want is for you to drive to the Russian Orthodox Church on Jibek Jolu and wait for me there. With the rest of the money, naturally.”

I ended the call and took a deep breath. The air tasted of grilled shashlik and fresh leaves, the scent of Bishkek in the spring. I pulled the ski mask back over my face, watching as Saltanat followed suit.

“He’ll have left someone back at both the pickup points, to cover all the possibilities, and to recover his money,” I explained. “So he’s traveling light, on the back foot, his troops spread out.”

Saltanat nodded.

“Doesn’t mean he won’t have left anyone behind to guard the house,” she said.

“So we go quiet, in and out,” I answered.

We ran across the lawn and around the side of the house, guns ready. I’d once raided a drug den that turned out to be guarded by Dobermans, mute because of their vocal cords being severed. That time, my gun had been holstered, which is how I got one of the more interesting scars on my left arm.

A side door led into a kitchen area. I tried the handle.

“Locked.”

“That’s why you need me,” Saltanat said, using the pick. With the faintest click, the lock gave and we were inside. She produced a small flashlight from her pocket.

“What sort of detective are you?”

“The cautious, breathing kind,” I said, watching as she cast the light around the kitchen. The room smelled of damp and neglect, of faded spices and ancient meals. The house was silent, but I had the feeling it was simply lying in wait, that terrible things had happened here.

“What do you think?” she asked. I pointed to a wooden butcher’s block as answer. Perhaps two dozen knives of differing sizes rested together on top, next to a large meat cleaver. The shallow curve in the surface of the block showed where hundreds, perhaps thousands of blows had whittled away at the wood. I picked up the largest knife, the sort butchers use, took a practice swing.

“An awful lot of knives for one house,” I said, and felt the hairs on my arms rise. Saltanat didn’t answer, headed for the inner door. We walked along a narrow hallway, stairs rising at the left-hand side. A recess under the stairs held a small wooden door. I tried the handle. Unlocked.

“A cellar?” I said.

Saltanat looked at me. I knew we were both thinking the same awful thing.

“Only one way to find out,” I said, and opened the door.

I’ve always disliked basements, like the interrogation room at Sverdlovsky station, or the Kulturny. Too many opportunities for pain or punishment, too many chances to wound or maim in the darkness and the silence. I suspected this was going to be just such a place.

Saltanat used her flashlight to show the wooden treads of the stairs, leading away into darkness. I gripped the handrail and made my way down. Suddenly the room was filled with blazing light. I stumbled and almost fell. A bare lightbulb dangled from the ceiling. I looked at Saltanat, saw her finger on a switch.

“You want to give me a heart attack?” I snarled.

Saltanat shrugged, smiled.

“No windows, so why not use the light?” she asked, as the smile on her lips faltered and died. I looked around, saw why.

A large table stood in the middle of the room, thick leather straps attached to each leg. Two narrow runnels ran lengthways toward two rusting buckets. They were stained black, the same black that spattered the whitewashed brick walls. In one corner, a couple of professional lights stood next to a video camera and tripod. A shelf along one wall held various lenses and photographic equipment. This wasn’t a basement, it was an inner chamber from hell.

The room stank of blood and sweat, semen and terror. I could imagine being dragged down the stairs, knowing this would be the end, struggling against remorseless hands that buckled straps to wrists and ankles. And then the sounds of the knives being sharpened.

“We need to get out of here,” Saltanat said, her face white with shock and nausea.

“Give me your phone,” I said, heard the tremor in my voice. “We need pictures, otherwise they can clean this place up and we’ve got nothing.”

I spent ten minutes making a comprehensive record of the blood spatter on the walls, the straps stained from scraped and torn skin, wood darkened from tears and spit and vomit. I forced my mind to ignore the horror of what we had found. I needed evidence. And after that, I wanted revenge.

I looked at the lenses on the shelf. Nikon, expensive stuff, nothing but the best for child pornographers. Next to the chisels and scrapers and pliers, some of them bloodstained, there was a screw-top glass jar. I held it up to the light, gave a gasp of disgust, almost dropped it. Instead, I put it back on the shelf, wiped my fingers on my trousers. But I couldn’t wipe away the sense of having touched something vile, corrupt and corrupting.

“Fingernails,” I said, my throat sour with bile, “and fingers.”

I gave a final look around the room, saw a waist-high cupboard in the far corner. A heavy chain and padlock secured the two doors. I rapped a knuckle on the top, heard something move inside.

“Saltanat,” I whispered, my heart performing a manic tango. “There’s something inside. Something alive.”

I aimed my gun, as Saltanat used the picks on the padlock. After what seemed several days, she pulled the chain away and opened the cupboard.

A small boy, about eight years old, cowered away from us as far as he could, eyes wide with terror. His face was bruised, or dirty, and his clothes looked ragged. As he stared out at us, he started to cry, doing his best to stifle the sobs. Something about the rough haircut was familiar, then I realized. Otabek, from the orphanage.

Saltanat reached out a hand, and he flinched. She smiled, spoke softly, words of comfort, what a brave boy he was, we were the police, he was safe now. I put my gun away, smiled as best I could.

“We need to get out of here,” I said. “We haven’t bought ourselves that much time.”

She paid no notice, continued to reassure the boy, calming him, asking if he was hungry, if he was tired, would he like a nice bed of his own to sleep in.

Slowly, a kind of trust replaced the fear in his eyes, and he took Saltanat’s hand. She helped him out of the cupboard, never taking her eyes off his face. As he stood up, I could see dark bruises on his arms and legs, and pity and anger made my head spin.

I stood at the bottom of the stairs, listening for a car engine, hoping we would be able to leave before then, hoping they’d return so I could kill them.

Saltanat crouched down, her face at a level with the boy’s, speaking softly. He whispered something in her ear, and she turned to me, her face feral with anger.

“He says his name is Otabek,” she told me, with a voice of sharpened steel.

“Privyat, Otabek,” I said. “Do you remember meeting me at the orphanage? Director Shokhumorov’s friend?”

He stared at me, nodded briefly, a single jerk of the head, whispered something to Saltanat, never letting go of her hand as they walked toward the stairs. Her face was that of a goddess, vengeful and merciless, carved from stone. Only God could help whoever had done this.

“He wants to know,” Saltanat said, and at that moment, she was terrifying, “are you going to kill the bad men?”

I nodded, never taking my eyes off the orphanage identity band on his left wrist.