An Autumn Hunting

Chapter 25

Finally I’d endured enough of the master plan, decided it was time to drag reality back into the picture.

‘I’m flattered you’re telling me all this. But right now, don’t you think we should find out who set out to blow us into scraps of meat at Derevyashka? And whose storm troopers attacked the safe house? Imported mercenaries or problems with your Chinese suppliers?’

Aliyev nodded, slammed his open hand down hard on the table. One of the guards looked over, saw no immediate danger, turned round to stare blank-faced into the unfathomable future.

‘That’s exactly what I’m talking about. Someone who understands the big picture and the details that need to be dealt with.’

Aliyev gave the smile I was getting used to, the one that never considered reaching his eyes.

‘Handing you over to the authorities gets me a lot of concessions. And the minister’s interest in seeing you wouldn’t be held back by being in a hospital bed.’

I nodded. Better to shoot myself, get it out of the way, than reach the same conclusion after a few hours or days dark with pain.

‘You’re not worried Zakir might have betrayed this location as well?’ I asked, genuinely curious.

‘He didn’t tell anyone about the underground safe house,’ Aliyev said, his nonchalance surprising me.

‘But you still blew his brains out.’

Aliyev shrugged.

‘Loyalty will only take a man so far, then he starts remembering the humiliation, the begging in front of his comrades. Then because the pain isn’t there to remind him he’s weak, he gets ideas above his station.’

‘So you shot him?’

‘What would you have done? Waited until he pressed a gun barrel into the back of your neck?’

I said nothing. Aliyev shook his head.

‘Your scruples hold you back, our survival drives us forward. You want the sunlight and the mountains, but we live in the dark, in the shadows.’

He rubbed at one of the streaks of blood on the floor with his shoe.

‘Zakir was a piece of shit anyway,’ he said, dismissing a man’s life the casual way you stub out a half-smoked cigarette.

We spent the next four days cooped up in the house, while Aliyev questioned me about every aspect of the police force. What I’d learnt, what corners could safely be cut, what was a no-go area that would pull down the wrath of the law upon his head. To my surprise, he didn’t seem interested in which police officers would be willing to look the other way, or make a quick phone call to warn of future trouble. Perhaps he’d already bought everyone worth knowing.

I’d once watched Leonid Yurtaev, the first Kyrgyz grand master, play a series of games in a chess tournament; the way Aliyev thought reminded me of Yurtaev’s approach. Always aggressive, ready to smash forward, confident he could see ahead more clearly than his enemies, thanks to his deeper knowledge and understanding. If it ever came to the endgame between Aliyev and myself, he would sweep the board clean.

Every night I would crawl into my bed exhausted, wondering if I’d made a fatal mistake, a flaw in my defence that would conclude the game with a midnight opening of the door, the bark of a shotgun. It didn’t make for a restful night’s sleep.

Then one morning, as I stood naked by the window, staring out at the high brick wall, wondering what was taking place in the world beyond, I heard the door open. I didn’t turn round, concentrated on what looked like the first snow clouds of early autumn race across an ice-blue sky.

‘I’ve seen more muscles on a chair.’

Aliyev. Perhaps I wasn’t going to be executed after all.

‘Brains beat brawn. Your words, not mine,’ I said, still gazing out at the sky.

‘Get dressed, ten minutes for chai and khleb, then we’re out of here.’

I heard the door shut behind me, let out the breath I’d been holding in without even knowing it. Once outside the high walls, my chances of surviving – even escaping – might improve.

The bread was stale, the tea tasteless; whatever Aliyev spent his millions on, elegant dining wasn’t one of his weaknesses.

‘Time to move on,’ he announced, dropping a single cube of sugar into his cup. I helped myself to my customary three.

‘You’ve heard something?’ I asked. ‘A police raid?’

‘The police aren’t my only enemies,’ Aliyev said, giving the twisted smile that somehow made him seem more human, more likeable. ‘But I don’t believe in waiting until anyone makes a move on me before I react. One step ahead for preference, two for advantage, three to make sure I win.’

Very different from the old pakhan, I thought, an attitude that might even see Aliyev climb into his grave as an old man, grandchildren gathered around.

‘So where are we going?’ I asked.

‘Rule Number Two. Know everything, tell nothing until it suits you.’ Aliyev gave me an interrogative stare. ‘Right now, you don’t need to know. And why is it so important to you anyway?’

I tried to make my tone flippant.

‘I just wanted to make sure I packed the right clothes. No point in taking a swimsuit to the mountains, is there?’

‘Don’t worry, you’ll find everything there you need,’ he said.

Breakfast over, Aliyev led the way outside. A battered marshrutka, one of the minibuses used by everyone as cheap transport around the city, was waiting for us, exhaust giving the depressing cough of a dying chain smoker.

‘Stylish,’ I said.

‘Safe,’ Aliyev replied, as the side door squealed in protest. ‘You’d rather be dead sitting in leather seats?’

‘I’d rather be somewhere warm, preferably several thousand kilometres away.’

‘Interesting,’ Aliyev said, beckoning me into the darkness of the vehicle. ‘That’s exactly what I have in mind for you.’