A Spring Betrayal

Chapter 40

The following morning, we drove out of the city, up to Ala Archa, the national park that climbs up into the mountains. It’s a serene, beautiful place, with rowan and birch trees sheltering under the steep slopes of the valley. At weekends in the summer, it’s always busy with walkers, tourists, and people who just want to get out of the heat and dust of the city. Hike to the far end of the park and you might spot wolves, bears, perhaps even a snow leopard, while eagles and hawks patrol the sky. Saltanat parked in front of the small hotel marking the end of the road, and we started to walk.

The air was crisp, the remnants of the winter still white underfoot, and the music of the river created a swirling soundtrack as we climbed up into the tree line. The snow got deeper, its chill creeping through the soles of my boots. I was out of breath, out of condition, but Saltanat strode ahead, making no concessions to my lack of speed or the leather case she was carrying.

Finally, we stopped, in a natural clearing where birch trees clustered around us like onlookers at a road accident. Or perhaps witnesses at an execution. Saltanat put down the bag, looked around.

“This is as good as anywhere,” she said. “Take off your jacket.”

I felt a cold breeze brush across my chest. The upper branches of the trees quivered, and I felt a faint drift of snowflakes on my face.

Saltanat opened the case, took out a glass jar and a plastic bag. A medium-sized raw steak glistened inside the bag, streaked with blood, marbled with fat. The jar was half full of a thick red fluid that was all too familiar. I decided not to ask where she’d acquired the blood.

Saltanat unwrapped the steak, laid it on the snow, poured a little of the blood on and around the meat, then covered it with my jacket. I shivered and realized I should have brought a sweater. At least, that’s why I thought I was shivering.

Saltanat pressed her Makarov against the bulge caused by the meat, and fired a shot. My jacket jerked as if I’d still been inside it, and some blood oozed out of the bullet hole, its edges blackened by powder burn. I could see charred flesh, smelled burned meat. I felt slightly sick.

“Now the fun part,” Saltanat said. “Put your jacket back on.”

I did as I was told, and waited for instructions.

“Fall forward, and don’t use your hands to break your fall,” Saltanat said. “We need this to look convincing.”

I was convinced she was enjoying this rather too much, but I fell forward, my face buried in the snow, arms flung out. Saltanat placed the steak under the bullet hole, and I could feel a clammy sweat on the back of my neck. Saltanat spattered some of the blood by my side, and I could taste its rich scent in the back of my throat.

“Stay still,” she commanded. I didn’t move for four or five minutes, until she told me to get up.

I lumbered to my feet, brushing snow and dirt off my face, out of my hair.

“My jacket’s fucked, I suppose,” I grumbled, wiping the worst of the blood against a clean patch of snow.

“Not at all,” Saltanat said, scrolling through the photos she’d taken. “A bullet hole, what could give you more street cred than that, a Murder Squad inspector who survived an assassination attempt?”

It would be all too easy for someone to repeat the exercise, next time for real. I’d seen too many bodies sprawled out on pavements, in fields, under birch trees, to think the same fate could never await me.

“Won’t they want to see my face?” I asked. “Find out who I am, I mean, was?”

“The last thing we want is for someone to recognize you,” Saltanat said. “Better to say we decided to turn you into food for the crows. By the way, you make a lovely corpse.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” I said, started back down the hillside toward the car, until I slipped and landed on my ass, felt the snow seeping wet into my trousers. Saltanat’s laughter followed me all the way down.