A Spring Betrayal

Chapter 33

I held up the phone, then passed it to Saltanat.

“Can we leave this with your friend, Rustam?” I asked. “There isn’t anyone I can trust, not even Usupov.”

Saltanat thought about it, then nodded.

“Rustam doesn’t say much, but if he likes you, he’ll always be there for you. If he thought Graves had anything to do with the heroin that killed Anastasia, he’d go up there with one of his boning knives and gut the American himself.”

I wondered what it would be like to lose a daughter. All the hopes and ambitions you’d cherished for her, memories of those first staggering steps, the school prizes, the graduation ceremony. And the events you’d never see, the wedding, your first grandchild, the eternal circle starting again. Worse than losing your wife to cancer? Loss is loss, and it comes to live with us all.

Saltanat touched me on my arm and I came back from my reverie.

“Let’s get back to the hotel, and I can stitch your shoulder up again,” she said, and I was touched by a tenderness I heard in her voice.

I placed my hand on hers, the slender fingers warm and alive against mine. I wanted to tell her I cared for her. But the words wouldn’t come. So instead we each took one of Otabek’s hands, and with him secure between us, walked out into the night.

As before, we parked inside the hotel grounds, the high steel gates hiding us from view. Carrying our bags, Rustam led us through the kitchen and up a flight of narrow stairs to the first floor. Without saying a word, he nodded as Saltanat explained about Otabek. Rustam pocketed the iPhone, crouched down so as not to frighten the boy, said there was a special bedroom with lots of toys for brave boys. Otabek looked at Saltanat for reassurance, worry clear in his eyes. She nodded and took his hand. Rustam handed me a key to one of the rooms, and then the three of them climbed up the next flight of stairs.

The room was fairly basic, twin beds set against one wall, a small bathroom, a wardrobe big enough for one person’s clothes. I waited until Saltanat returned, closing the curtains, pushing the night away, a circle of light from the bedside lamp soft in the darkness.

“Poor child,” she said. “He was asleep in seconds. He must have been terrified.”

“Maybe when all this is over,” I said, the words thick in my mouth, “we can get him some help. See he doesn’t have to go back to the orphanage.”

I wondered if Saltanat guessed the thought in my mind; a ready-made family created out of terror and love. Regaining what I had once lost and never thought to get again.

“You should shower,” she said, “and clean your shoulder before it gets infected.”

I started to peel off my clothes, wincing as the dried blood on my shirt tore at my skin, and the wound started to bleed once more. I looked in the mirror, saw a face as worn and creased as my clothes. Stains like black eyes on my face matched the bruise on my forehead, weariness deep in the lines around my mouth. Maybe I was coming to my end, but right then I was too tired to care.

The hot water in the shower did a little to wake me up; it’s never easy to feel good in clothes you’ve been wearing for three days. I was letting the water wash over my shoulder when I sensed movement behind me.

Saltanat was naked, dark nipples erect, her hair pinned up to avoid getting wet. She took the soap from my hand and started to wash my back. I began to turn but she put her hand on my good shoulder, to stop me. She rinsed the soap off my back, sliding her hands across, down, and then around my waist. I could feel the weight of her breasts against my back, small and firm, her thighs against mine, and I felt my heart surge.

“This is going to hurt, Akyl,” she said, washing my shoulder, fingers probing the wound. “You really need to get this stitched properly, but I suppose going to a hospital isn’t really very practical. How about your friend Usupov?”

“Have you seen the stitches he puts in corpses?” I said, wincing as she cleaned my shoulder. “You’d swear he does it with his eyes shut. Mind you, they don’t ever complain.”

I shut my eyes and gave myself up to the simple sensation of hot water, smooth skin, hands stroking my waist. Saltanat’s fingers barely grazed my hips, light as cobwebs, circling, moving down toward my thighs. I heard a groan, almost silent as if from a great distance, and wasn’t sure whether it came from her or me. And then, shockingly, I remembered a winter afternoon, in the apartment where Chinara and I lived when we were first married, a dismal studio down in the concrete depths of the tower blocks in Alamedin.

The building’s heating had broken down, so we spent the entire day in bed, getting up only to run to make chai, our breath white in the bitter cold. Her long hair spread out on the pillow, her eyes closed, smiling with pleasure and contentment as we kissed. In our first bed, where we conceived the child that was never to be born, the center of our universe on that distant endless day. And I remembered another bed, the final one, where the morphine took her from me, piecemeal. Where Chinara had sometimes groaned in her sleep, waiting for nothing more than the ending of pain. An ending I gave her, with my hands and an embroidered cushion.

I felt Saltanat’s hands take hold of me.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Nothing,” I lied, despite the evidence. I wondered what I could say. I could hear the hesitation in her voice, knew that even ice maidens have fears, insecurities. As do Murder Squad inspectors.

“I’m just tired, I’ve got a shoulder that looks like it’s been chewed by wolves, an entire police force looking for me, and I’ve been to Jalalabad and back without any sleep.”

I sensed her pull away from me, felt a wave of guilt mingled with irritation.

“I’m also not twenty-one anymore,” I added, just to reinforce an already obvious conclusion.

I looked around to see her already wrapped in a towel. Her face was set, stubborn.

“I’m aware of that, Inspector,” Saltanat said, her words clipped and impersonal, spat out like bullets. “And I may not be twenty-one either, if you ever decide that you are.”

She stalked out of the bathroom and shut the door, in the way a braver man than me might call angry. I turned off the water and tried to dry myself on the handkerchief-sized towel Saltanat had been kind enough to leave for me. For the ten thousandth time in my adult life, I realized I knew nothing about women.

I waited until it was likely that Saltanat was dressed, aware no woman likes being seen half-naked while in the middle of a quarrel. I emerged to see her in yet another all-black outfit, reloading her Makarov.

“I’m sorry,” I said, and I was. “I’m confused, happy you’re here, worried I’m putting you in danger.”

It wasn’t even close to the whole truth, but when has that ever helped explain things? Memories can betray the present just as easily as providing something to cling onto.

Saltanat sat back on the bed, lit a cigarette, and watched as I pulled on my socks. I felt less than graceful, but at least she wasn’t pointing a gun at me. The way she cocked her head as she looked at me said I was partially forgiven, but she wasn’t going to say so right away.

“Sit down and I’ll stitch that shoulder. Again,” she said. It didn’t hurt any less than the last time, which surprised me, since she’d already made the holes. Perhaps she took a little extra time to pull the thread tight. But I knew better than to complain.

“You’ve got a plan, I hope,” she said, helping me button my shirt.

“Let’s look at the situation,” I replied, meaning I didn’t. I went through the motions of lighting a cigarette to buy myself a little time.

Saltanat raised an eyebrow, to show she was ready and waiting.

“Our strength lies in what Graves doesn’t know. Right? If he knew there were just the two of us, a soon to be ex-cop and a member of the Uzbek security services, he’d just laugh. He can stomp us out whenever he wants; nobody is going to stop him or protect us. He puts the word on the street, and one spring morning, some govnosos we’ve never seen before walks up and puts three .22s in the back of our heads.”

I drew deeply on the cigarette, feeling the nicotine hit me hard.

“Nothing we can do about that. But if he thinks he’s up against a rival gang, then we have a chance. Are we trying to take over his heroin routes? Or muscle into the bars and clubs he owns? Or maybe we just want a nice healthy payoff? We’re using the snuff films as our leverage.”

I paused, thinking I sounded quite plausible, even to myself.

“The point is, he’s confused. He doesn’t know where the attack is coming from, or why. He’s on the defensive. Any of his allies might be his enemy, and he doesn’t know it. Who can he trust, who might betray him?”

“That’s all very well,” Saltanat interrupted, “but what are we going to do?”

“When you don’t know what to do next, you get a very big stick, whack it everywhere, see what emerges from the shit you’ve caused.”

I reached for my bag, rummaged through it until I found what I wanted.

“Time to give our friend a very big whack.”

Saltanat looked scornful.

“And how do you propose to do that?”

“With one of these,” I said, then showed her the hand grenade nestled snugly in my hand.