An Autumn Hunting

Chapter 3

‘I take it you don’t approve of heroin smuggling, Inspector? Or, in the light of imminent events, should I say Mr Borubaev?’

Tynaliev’s face wore an expression of genuine enquiry and concern. I wondered how long he’d practised in the mirror. I guessed it was a trick question, decided to play it safe.

‘It’s against the law for a start, Minister, and the destruction and misery it causes is a real threat to the stability of society, as well as funding criminal elements,’ I said, choosing my words with forensic care, as if reading from a departmental manual.

‘I thought you would say something pompous like that,’ Tynaliev said. ‘Maybe you should be teaching at the American University, telling the world how backward Central Asia is, how we’re nothing but ignorant shitheads who only know how to sell heroin to rich foreigners.’

I said nothing, but wondered if some of the nine million dollars I’d recovered from Natasha Sulonbekova had grown in Afghanistan’s poppy fields. Being even an unwitting accomplice is a burden on the soul.

‘It’s never been a business interest of mine,’ Tynaliev said, as if reading my mind. ‘Too much attention, too much pressure from the Kremlin, the White House and everywhere in between. And too many open beaks all looking to be fed with a constant supply of juicy morsels.’

He shook his head, as if dismissing a far-fetched business proposal.

‘Caution and cover work better in the long run, wouldn’t you agree?’ he said.

‘In my line of work, you don’t survive long without them,’ I agreed, wondering if Tynaliev’s caution extended to giving me an unmarked grave somewhere between Bishkek and Lake Issyk-Kul.

‘I’m surprised you’ve survived at all,’ Tynaliev said. ‘Particularly since the Circle of Brothers still think you put two bullets into Maksat Aydaraliev.’

A shockwave of nausea rose up into my throat, and I wondered if I was about to vomit.

Aydaraliev had been the pakhan, local boss of the gangsters who feed on Russia and Central Asia like starving wolves in the depths of winter. Investigating the murder of Yekaterina Tynalieva, I’d found myself working with an Uzbek agent, Saltanat Umarova. It was Saltanat who had arranged the bullets for the pakhan, one in the back of the head to show he’d been executed, one in the mouth to show he’d talked. My problem? He was shot immediately after meeting me, so I knew where the finger of suspicion pointed. It didn’t help that the finger was almost certainly tensed against a trigger.

I didn’t know if Tynaliev believed I’d executed the old man, or if he knew Saltanat and I had become lovers in a semi-detached sort of way, but silence was still my most likely escape route.

‘The world will know you’ve been kicked out of the force in disgrace. You’ll probably need to get out of the country before the prison bars slam behind you, and the people you put there welcome you with open arms,’ Tynaliev said.

‘You won’t have the protection of a badge any more, but that doesn’t mean you won’t still be useful to certain people,’ he added.

‘Which certain people in particular?’ I asked, increasingly worried this was leading to a deep hole in a cemetery and a marble headstone with an engraving of my face.

‘You never wondered why the Circle didn’t avenge the pakhan’s death?’ Tynaliev asked. ‘Why you’ve survived with fingers, toes and brains relatively intact?’

‘Presumably the new leader is very happy someone cleared the path and helped him step up to the throne?’

Tynaliev nodded.

‘Still a detective, I see, if not in name any more.’

I ignored the sarcasm. Did Tynaliev really believe I’d think he was going to all this trouble simply for the benefit of the country and his fellow citizens?

‘Spend time in the Kulturny, make contacts you can use in your new career,’ Tynaliev said, and my heart sank like a rock towards my boots. The Kulturny is probably the roughest bar in Bishkek; they don’t let people in unless they have a portfolio of prison tattoos or at least one concealed weapon. Even the name is a joke; the place is as anti-kulturny as it’s possible to get. No welcoming signs, no neon lights, just a battered steel door scarred and scuffed from attacks with boots, pickaxes and, on one memorable evening, a Molotov cocktail. The door has no handle, and behind the spyhole that gets you admittance the bouncer is probably drunk or stoned, certainly armed. But I’d been there in the past; to pick up dirt on your shoes, walk where the mud is.

I was with Saltanat the last time I’d visited the Kulturny. There had been gunplay, with a couple of bodies to dispose of when the shooting stopped, so I’d decided I’d drink my orange juice somewhere else. If Tynaliev wanted me there, he’d have a good reason. Good for him, that is; probably bad for me.

‘New career?’ I asked, not looking forward to the answer.

Tynaliev jerked his head towards the exit, turned to his paperwork, dismissing me. As I reached the door, he looked up, hit me with his hardest stare.

‘You’re going to become a drug baron,’ he said, and his smile didn’t even try to reach his eyes.