An Autumn Hunting

Chapter 56

There are always taxis loitering outside Tynaliev’s house, dogs waiting to be thrown scraps from the master’s table. They all know how to reach central Bishkek, and a few of them will have taken reluctant passengers to Sverdlovsky station for further ‘discussions’.

I waved to the nearest one, clambered into the back seat, lit a cigarette to soothe my nerves. Meeting Tynaliev always had that unsettling effect on me, like crossing a field and hoping the bull is in a good mood. The driver glared at me as I lit up, said nothing when he saw me stare back. As a concession, I cracked open a window, let cold air take my smoke away.

The driver continued to glare at me until I told him my destination: the Kulturny Bar. His attitude immediately dissolved into fawning obedience, at the thought of being behind the wheel for a gangster who could give him a thousand som note or a bullet behind the ear, depending on his mood. I couldn’t say being mistaken for a thug made my day worthwhile, but at least it meant I didn’t have to listen to the radio.

I paid the driver off with a five hundred som note, and before he could say he had no change, told him to keep it, left him staring after me still unsure whether I was a mobster or not. He watched as I kicked at the graffiti-smeared door until it opened a crack, then drove off, leaving a thin trail of exhaust fumes to remember him by.

I didn’t recognise the guard at the door, but he’d obviously done enough stints as face patrol security to recognise me. A grunt, a nod of his head, and I was inside, looking down the staircase into the darkness. I’d been inside this shithole too many times, seen too much trouble there, wondered if I’d ever have to traipse down those stairs again, my feet sticking to the soiled concrete.

I walked past the torn and faded poster of the heroin-addicted girl still staring at the camera in dead-eyed opioid despair. Underneath, someone had scribbled a new phone number and ‘ALL HOLES AVAILABLE’. Romance, Kulturny-style. The door didn’t have ‘Abandon hope’ written over it; anyone who entered here had disposed of that luxury long ago.

The main bar stank of sweat, spilt cheap beer and fried chicken, although I’d never seen anyone risk the food. There are limits, even when you’re an alkash putting away two litres of vodka a day. The barman saw me, started to fumble under the counter. Maybe he was just reaching for a clean towel, if the place had such a thing. Maybe. He paused when I raised a warning finger. Perhaps he saw the Makarov under my jacket.

The room was almost empty, apart from a drunk in the far corner, staring into space, trying to remember who he once had been. I pulled up one of the bar stools, inspected the seat for stains, sat down.

‘Inspector.’

No love lost, but no change to the status quo. It felt good getting my old title back, but I thought the gun had more to do with any respect I’d been shown.

‘Vodka?’

‘Two small bottles,’ I said. ‘The good stuff. Unopened.’

He nodded, his face giving nothing away, a good Kyrgyz. He pulled down two half-litre bottles, set them in front of me. I pretended to reach for my wallet, he pretended they were free, shook his head. I picked one bottle up, took it over to the drunk, placed it within reach. He didn’t acknowledge the gift, but I knew if I tried to take it back, a chicken claw of a hand would reach out and stop me. I sat back down at the bar, slid the remaining bottle into my jacket pocket.

‘You don’t want a glass?’

I shook my head.

‘Just get on the phone, you know who to call,’ I said, made my voice brutal and set for violence.

‘You know who he’ll hurt if he doesn’t want to talk to you,’ the barman said, his face taut with anxiety.

‘You know who I’ll hurt if I don’t talk to him,’ I said, gave him the hard stare.

Using his body to hide the number he dialled, the barman listened for a moment, looked increasingly worried as the ringtone continued, finally whispered into the mouthpiece for a couple of moments, handed the phone to me.

‘Inspector.’

Aliyev’s voice was measured, precise, perhaps even a little amused.

‘Pakhan,’ I replied. We were obviously going to be formal.

‘Time to meet.’

‘Better sooner than later, don’t you think?’ I said, listened to the silence for thirty seconds.

‘You know Mr Quang is no longer in police custody?’ Aliyev asked.

‘Locks everywhere have a habit of springing open when you pick them with a big enough banknote.’

‘Of course, there are situations where no amount of money buys you a way out,’ Aliyev said. There it was. No veiled threats, no suggested alternatives. I knew he meant to kill me. And he knew I was intent on killing him.

‘One of my representatives in Bangkok has already discussed your visit with Quang. I regret to say he holds you responsible for the temporary loss of his liberty. Not to mention the damage to his villa, the kilos of product that were seized and then “disappeared”. The death of his “friend” whose reappearance in a basket at a Bangkok laundry created quite a stir. Oh, and he seemed particularly angry that the Cambodian government is taking steps to recover a sculpture stolen from Angkor Wat. They’re also threatening to extradite his father for the theft.’

‘No point in telling him I’m not to blame,’ I said.

‘No point at all,’ Aliyev agreed. ‘In fact, he’s offered me a substantial reward if I can manage your return to Bangkok.’

‘Drugged and in a packing case, I suppose.’

‘It may have to be something uncomfortable and disagreeable like that,’ Aliyev said, ‘but then again, not as disagreeable as you staying here.’

I looked around the bar in all its cheap, shabby decay. Chipped Formica tables decorated with beer rings and scarred by cigarette burns. Mysterious stains on the threadbare carpeting. A subtle hint of vomit mingling with the scent of piss from the toilets. I didn’t think I’d miss the Kulturny, except it was a place I’d known for many years, and the familiar becomes more significant when you sense you’re approaching your death.

‘Inspector, are you still there?’

‘Yes,’ I replied, feeling the solid weight of the gun at my belt, the vodka bottle in my pocket, ‘I’m still here.’

‘Then I suggest we meet at—’

‘No, I’ll say where and when,’ I interrupted. ‘And I don’t want you bringing that troupe of badly trained halfwits you call your men along.’

‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ Aliyev said, and I could almost believe he felt affronted. ‘Where do you suggest, Inspector? Somewhere public, I imagine. Of course, your Uzbek lady friend isn’t invited; I’m sure you understand.’

‘She’s left the country,’ I said.

‘Really? Well, a woman like that, she was never going to hitch her wagon to a loser like you, was she?’

‘That sounds pretty accurate,’ I said, left it at that, wondered for a moment if he might be right.

‘You always think you know who your friends are, Inspector, until you look around and discover you don’t have any.’

‘That’s a terrible thought, pakhan.’

‘It’s the way of the world. A lesson I learnt very early on.’

‘You went to the wrong kind of school,’ I said. Aliyev merely laughed.

‘I’m the one with several million dollars in my bank account, Inspector. I’m not even sure you can afford to pay for the bottle of vodka you’ve just bought. Tell the barman to put it on my bill.’

‘Maybe we’ll share a toast. To old friends. If we had any,’ I said.

‘Where do you propose we meet?’

Voice smooth as Thai silk, a shark homing in for the kill.

‘I’ve been thinking about that,’ I said. ‘Not in the city, too many people, we don’t want anyone to get hurt.’

‘The furthest thing from my mind,’ Aliyev lied.

‘Late afternoon, say four o’clock.’

‘Da, but where?’

‘I’ll meet you tomorrow, at the grave of our fathers,’ I said and put down the phone.