A Spring Betrayal

Chapter 31

The three of us left the basement, went back outside, stopping only to snatch up a pile of papers on the kitchen table. I stuffed the papers into my jacket pocket, wondered about exploring the rest of the house, but we’d spent too much time in there as it was. And I had no stomach for whatever might be tucked away in the other rooms.

Saltanat locked the outer door as efficiently as she’d opened it, and we made our way back to the door in the wall. We were only just in time; as we reached the cover of the trees, the steel gates slowly swung open, powerful headlights illuminating the house and throwing long shadows across the wall.

“Don’t move,” I whispered, but Saltanat had already dropped to the ground, her face turned away, pushing Otabek to the ground. The people carrier trundled through the gates, which closed behind it. Two no-necks got out and looked around. Basic security, but we were still trapped. I knew our best chance of remaining undetected was to stay still. It’s movement that catches the eye of someone looking around, and it was dark enough under the trees for me to think we had a pretty good chance of getting away.

The Voice was still in the people carrier, and I saw a flash of light, as if someone was making a call on their mobile. Then the iPhone in my pocket started to ring.

The response of the bodyguards to the sound of the mobile going off was immediate. Unable to locate the exact source of the ringing, they dropped to the ground, unslinging their guns from their shoulders. I knew we had maybe two or three seconds before the Uzis opened up, and emptied their magazines in our direction.

“Run for the door,” I told Saltanat, “and leave it half open.”

She nodded and ran in a half-crouch, clutching Otabek’s hand, hardly visible but enough to turn the bodyguards in our direction. I scuttled to the cover of the nearest tree, not very dignified, but a lot better than being perforated. I looked down the barrel of my gun toward the people carrier, and started firing. I didn’t aim for any particular target, but with any luck the heavy caliber bullets slamming into the car would buy us a few seconds.

Almost at once, the Uzis began their horrible staccato cough, like watch dogs with bronchitis, and fragments of brick from the wall behind me spattered the back of my jacket and neck. But in their surprise they were aiming high, and the only casualty was the tree in front of me. That couldn’t last though, and I had to move.

I rolled over, cursing as the stitches in my shoulder tore. There was a pause and relative silence as the Uzis ran out of bullets, and I took advantage by scrambling through the door and away from my new role as target practice.

Saltanat was driving toward me, headlights rising and falling as she rode up onto the pavement. I dived toward the passenger door and hauled myself in as the Uzis started up again. I was out of bullets, and Saltanat thrust her Makarov into my hand. I emptied the clip through the open doorway and then we were halfway down the road.

I looked back to see if the people carrier was following us, but a quick left then a ferocious right hid the house from view. Saltanat swerved into a narrow alleyway and a half-skid, sending me slamming into the windshield. Two more sharp corners and then we were running parallel to Chui Prospekt.

I sat back and fastened my seat belt. In the side mirror, I could see the dark smudge of a bruise already beginning to form on my forehead. Together with the blood ruining my jacket, I looked like shit. Saltanat was as cool and collected as ever, though her hand gave the slightest of tremors as she changed gears.

Finally we parked by the side of the Metro Bar.

“I want a drink,” Saltanat said, “and you’re coming with me.”

We reloaded our guns, walked into the bar arm in arm, an innocent couple out for an evening stroll with their son.

The Metro used to be a puppet theater a long time ago, the high ceiling and elaborate glass-paneled bar a testimony to more affluent days. The foreigners who came here when it was known as the American Bar have mainly gone home to count their tax-free earnings, leaving only a few eccentrics who are on the run from either their country’s police or embittered ex-wives.

Saltanat disappeared to the toilets downstairs with Otabek, and I waited until they emerged, his face now clean but still scared and distrustful. A pretty Kyrgyz waitress with bleach-blond hair and a crop top showing her navel ring came over to serve us.

“What would you like to drink, Otabek?” Saltanat prompted. “Moloko? You like pizza?”

The boy said nothing, but nodded, never letting go of Saltanat’s hand. Saltanat ordered milk, a Baltika Nine, the strong stuff, for herself, and pizza. I asked for coffee. When it came, it was lukewarm. We’re really much better at making chai.

Otabek sipped at his milk, eyes wary, saying nothing.

“Close call,” I said, stirring my coffee, the spoon rattling against the cup as my hands shook. Saltanat said nothing, rummaging through her bag for a pack of cigarettes. She lit up, snorted smoke through her nose, watching as it dissolved into nothing. Her eyes looked across the bar, but I sensed she saw nothing but muzzle flashes, heard nothing but gunfire that clattered like pebbles on a tin roof. And beyond that, a vision of the Voice, sprawled on the gravel, executed with a bullet in the back of his head.

“You’ll need to stitch me up again,” I said. “Sorry.”

Saltanat nodded, showing as little surprise as if I’d asked her directions to the bus station. I reached into my jacket to find my own cigarettes, but instead found myself holding the papers I’d liberated from the house.

They were crumpled and spotted in places with blood I sincerely hoped was mine, but still legible. I spread them out and started to read. I pushed the top page toward Saltanat, but she ignored it, continuing to stare out at her recent brush with mortality.

It looked like a bank statement, but in English, so all I could understand were the figures. Pretty impressive numbers, almost four million in some unstated currency. Great if it’s in dollars, even better in pounds, not to be sniffed at even in som.

“You wouldn’t know what this means, would you?” I asked Saltanat. She broke away from her reverie just long enough to scan the top page.

“It’s a bank statement, Akyl, even you must have seen one before,” she said.

“Never with so many zeroes in it,” I replied. “Do you know what currency it’s in?”

“Euros, most likely, since it’s from a Spanish bank,” she said. “What does it matter? It’s not like you have the ATM card to go with it.”

“No,” I said, annoyed by the sarcasm, “but there’s a clue right there, at the top of the page.”

Saltanat looked at it, then over at me, and smiled.

“You must be a detective.”

“It’s a name. It’s just a shame I can’t read it, with it not being in Cyrillic. English was never my strong point at school, so I never learned the letters.”

“Did your mother never tell you to study hard?”

I gave a bitter smile, and lit another cigarette, stirred the lumps in my coffee into submission.

“Not when she was away working in Siberia. And no one at the orphanage gave me much encouragement either.”

Saltanat gave me an appraising look, sensing the pain, the resentment I carry with me like a hunchback with his bent spine. I’d like to think I’m not bitter about some of the cards I’ve been handed out. But that doesn’t mean I don’t have the scars. Only one person ever gave me the support I’d wanted, needed, and she was dead and buried in a grave I’d helped dig. There’s no statute of limitations when it comes to mourning and missing someone you loved, and still love. And if there’s one thing I’ve discovered, it’s that sorrow never leaves you.

“I was a good girl, top of the class, I know my letters,” she said.

“And?”

“The name of the account holder?”

“Yes.”

Saltanat studied the letter again, taking her time, keen to make the most of my impatience.

“The very rich gentleman is called Graves. Mr. Morton Graves.”

I shrugged.

“Never heard of him,” I said.

Saltanat tapped the bank statement.

“I have,” she said, spacing her words for extra effect. “And he’s very rich. Very powerful. And very dangerous.”

I had no answer to that, and no idea what to do next.