An Autumn Hunting

Chapter 33

Back in my room, Saltanat sat on the bed to unfasten her heels, then take off the long blonde wig, revealing ink-black hair. Utterly different from the last time I’d seen her, but still beautiful, unattainable in spite of having been infrequent lovers.

‘Nothing to drink, I suppose, Akyl,’ she said. It wasn’t a question, so I didn’t bother to shake my head. ‘Don’t you ever get bored with facing reality head-on, twenty-four hours a day?’ I smiled, didn’t speak. The brutal fact was Saltanat had not only seen as much violence and death as I had, she’d caused a fair proportion of it as well. Working for the Uzbek security services as a ‘troubleshooter’ (their discreet name for an assassin), you don’t spend your days at a desk sharpening pencils, unless you’re planning to push them into someone’s ear.

‘So are you going to tell me what this is all about? Why you’ve dragged me here, made me dress up like a thousand-rouble hooker on Nevsky Prospekt?’

‘I thought we could have a kind of pre-event honeymoon?’ I said. ‘You know, lie on a deserted beach, the sun warm and sensuous on our bodies, that sort of thing.’

‘Bangkok has deserted beaches?’

‘The travel agent lied,’ I said, pleased when she rewarded me with a slight smile. ‘But now you are here…’

I plucked up the courage to reach for her, stroke her face, even feel the contours of her head, so subtly different with her new haircut. I felt dizzy with the scent of her perfume, the nearness of her, the way we seemed always to come together, then drive ourselves apart. We’ve both killed people; perhaps that gives a strange sideways view of the world, or relationships, of the amount of guilt an individual can carry.

We moved closer together, held each other without kissing, her head resting on my chest. I felt strangely lacking in desire, feeling content the gap she always left in my life when she departed was narrowed, however temporarily. She took my face in her hands, kissed me, close-mouthed, ran her fingers along my cheek.

‘Shave. Or that’s the only kiss you’ll be getting tonight.’

When I came back from the bathroom, drying my face with trembling hands, Saltanat was already in bed, her clothes lying on the floor.

‘Come here,’ she said. I did as I was told…

It’s a movie cliché that afterwards a couple lie in bed and smoke a cigarette. So we did.

‘I didn’t think you’d come when I called you from Tashkent,’ I said, and I wondered if she heard the hint of sorrow, of self-pity, in my voice.

‘Texting me to meet you in the bar was pretty smart. A pain in the arse to sit there, rejecting the propositions I got. Five thousand baht, you offered me? I turned down twenty and a weekend in Chiang Mai to end up here in bed with you.’

‘I hope it was worth it.’

‘Don’t flatter yourself.’

But she smiled as she said it, and that made all the difference. I took water from the fridge, poured two glasses, gave one to her. Ignoring the sign on the wall forbidding smoking, she lit a cigarette, sent a jet trail of smoke at the ceiling.

‘We can go out for a drink if you like,’ I said. ‘I don’t know the area but I’m sure we can hunt down a bar.’

‘You’re supposed to be making passionate love all night long to me, remember?’ Saltanat sat up in bed, pouted, said, ‘Me love you long time, too much,’ in a high-pitched imitation-Thai voice.

‘How long can you stay?’

Saltanat gave a noncommittal shrug, tipped ash into her half-empty water glass.

‘You mean in bed or in Bangkok?’

Her voice was serious, professional, the emotionless tones I remembered from our first encounter. But still desirable.

‘Both would be great,’ I said, but Saltanat put a finger to her lips to silence me.

‘I’m here on official state business, and I don’t mind seeing you, maybe even helping you with whatever trouble you’re in,’ she said, ‘but that doesn’t mean I want to get killed on your behalf. Kyrgyzstan was bad. Our time in Dubai was worse. I have a feeling Bangkok may be worst of all.’

‘You heard about Tynaliev being shot?’ I asked.

‘Of course. That’s why I’m here. You probably know he didn’t die?’

I nodded.

‘And you know who shot him?’ I asked in return. Now it was her turn to nod, her face even more serious than usual, her body suddenly coiled, tense.

‘Tynaliev would be pretty unlamented throughout Central Asia if he’d died,’ Saltanat said, ‘but he didn’t. And from his luxury private room at the Hyatt Regency, an entire floor swamped by his bodyguards, he sent a message out to his counterparts, his rivals in Tashkent, Almaty, Dushanbe.’

‘Let me guess,’ I said. ‘The tricky bastard said “Providence has spared me, but my would-be assassin is still at large. This attack says any of us is vulnerable. My friends, this time it was me. Next time, his bullet could be for you. We must deal with him so that no one emulates his folly.” ’

Saltanat said, ‘Actually, that’s a rather more logical and restrained way of putting it. His actual words were, “Gut the bastard and deliver his head and balls.” ’

A dark suspicion began to slither into my mind.

‘The word went out, together with mention of a reward for my head. And that’s why you’re here. To hunt me down. And kill me.’

Just like the first time we met, back in Bishkek as I tried to hunt down the killer of Yekaterina Tynalieva and avoid her father’s rage.

Saltanat’s eyes never left my face, as she reached for her bag.

I felt numb, beyond shock, betrayal written across my face like a blow. I couldn’t move, thought about throwing the glass in my hand at her, couldn’t raise my arms. I felt my balls tighten with fear.

Saltanat’s hand emerged, holding a gun no longer than my middle finger. I stared at its black mouth, knowing that if it spoke, its voice would be the last thing I’d hear.

‘Turn around, Akyl. Please.’

‘Can’t bear to look at my face?’

‘Just do it,’ she said. Was there a note of sorrow in her voice? I couldn’t tell.

‘I’ve always said I wanted to be buried next to Chinara. Up in the mountains, overlooking the valley,’ I said. ‘But that isn’t going to happen, is it?’

I looked at the cheap mass-produced painting on the wall, showing an old lady in a floating market boat selling noodles. Garish, banal, but the colours hit me with a fierce intensity. Hardly the most profound vision of a dying man. But perhaps the best I deserved or could hope for.

And thinking that, I shut my eyes, tensed my shoulders, prepared to die.