The Outcast (34 page)

“Elsewhere?” Nergui had moved to the river's edge. He casually dipped the toe of his shoe into the clear swirling water. The river was relatively deep here—perhaps a couple of metres or more. It would be difficult to cross without moving substantially further downstream.

“I don't wish you to feel self-conscious, Nergui. But you are being watched. Initially by—I don't know, a few dozen people. But shortly by thousands.”

Nergui looked up at the camera as if with mild curiosity. “I think it would take more than that to make me self-conscious,” he said. “Who are these thousands?”

Sam gestured behind him. “It's very simple,” he said. “I've had our transmission from here patched into the closed-circuit broadcasts at the Naadam Stadium. Our conversation is being televised on the large display screen in the stadium.”

“I'm honoured,” Nergui said, bowing faintly towards the camera. “Even though I don't really understand.”

“They—and you—are my witnesses,” Sam said, smiling now. “It is important that everything is out in the open, that everyone sees what happens. This time.”

There was a moment's silence. As the sun beat down from the empty sky, it struck Doripalam that some understanding had passed between Sam and Nergui. Something was working itself out here. Something more complex and personal than Doripalam had imagined.

“Witnesses to what?” Nergui said, quietly.

“I've spent a long time preparing,” Sam said. “All my time in the US. Not wasted.”

“Not wasted,” Nergui echoed. “You're a respected academic, a journalist. An authority on our country and your own.” It was as if he was trying to remind Sam of another life. Something that Sam might have forgotten.

Sam nodded. “As you say. It was a useful position to occupy. In all kinds of ways. A sleeper.”

Nergui gazed at Sam across the shimmering water, as though trying to read his thoughts. “So what have you prepared?”

“I've thought this through very carefully. I had assistance. Some of it willing. Some of it—well, still willing, but perhaps misguided.”

“Odbayar,” Nergui said.

Sam looked at him, his face for the first time betraying some emotion. It was the surprised recognition—familiar enough to Doripalam—that Nergui was, if not yet a step ahead, perhaps fewer steps behind than Sam might have imagined. “Odbayar. He has been of great assistance to me. He isn't to be blamed; he has done what he thought best for his country.”

“I'm sure he has,” Nergui said. “Where is he?”

Sam gestured behind him. “Up there,” he said. “There is a truck parked just above the tree-line, in the shade. I thought it would be inhumane to leave him out in the heat.”

Doripalam recognised the significance of Sam's words and had no doubt that Nergui had done the same, though there was no change in the older man's expression. Odbayar was here and, for the moment at least, was alive.

“We can see him?”

Sam smiled. “Very shortly. You will need to see him. To be witnesses.” He gestured to the camera. “You and everyone out there.”

“There won't be many people in the stadium,” Nergui pointed out. “The festival hasn't started yet.”

“I considered delaying this until the festival, that would have had more impact.” He shrugged. “But the time did not allow. And I think the security would have been more problematic once the festival had begun.”

“But you need your witnesses?” Nergui said. There was method in the way he was talking, Doripalam thought. This notion of witness somehow lay at the heart of whatever Sam was up to.

“I have witnesses,” Sam said. “There are people in the stadium. Some are there by accident—those preparing the stadium for the festival. Some are there at my beckoning. The young man's friend, for example.”

“Gundalai,” Nergui said. Gundalai had been with Sarangarel. She would not have left him alone. If Gundalai had somehow been summoned to the Naadam Stadium, Sarangarel would be there as well. Another witness.

Sam nodded. “Gundalai. And I have arranged for the media to be there. A camera crew, to film this.”

“I hope your faith in our media is not misplaced. I do not think they would attend such an event without good reason.”

“I have given them a good reason,” Sam said. “Despite the best efforts of yourself and your colleagues. They are aware now of the shooting in Sukh Baatar Square, the hotel bombing, even of
the two bodies. I have given them some potentially lurid explanations.”

“Terrorism?” Nergui said, calmly. “I don't know if that kind of explanation is likely to be very credible.”

“Who knows? You're a nation of storytellers,” he said. “It's what you do. Your mythic past and your make-believe future.” He stopped and glanced at the camera. “But I think there's enough to guarantee that the media will be here. Now it's my turn to tell the story.”

The minister was slumped back on the sofa, looking as if the mental fight had been knocked out of him. Tunjin was still standing, acutely conscious of the weapon inches from his back. Solongo was as stone-faced as ever, but Tunjin knew that, below the surface, she was terrified.

He recognised the type of man who was sitting opposite the minister. A well-heeled thug. A hanger-on to the new elite in energy or minerals or international trade. Not making serious money himself, but squeezing a good living from those who were. Someone who got things done. The things his betters wouldn't soil their hands with.

Which raised the question of what kinds of services the minister had been expecting from these people. Whatever the answer, it was clear that he was no longer in control.

“You've finished, old man?” the man said brutally, staring at the crumpled figure opposite.

The minister glared back at him. “Are you going to tell me what's happening?”

The man smiled and stretched out his legs. “You thought you were using us, didn't you? Must be a shock to find you're the one being used.”

The minister glanced up at Tunjin and then across at Solongo. “I've no idea what you're talking about.”

“It's all very simple, really. Nothing flash. Just plain old-fashioned extortion.”

“If you're thinking of trying to blackmail—”

The man laughed, harshly and unexpectedly. “I don't think so, old man. You don't have much of a reputation left to lose. Not if you hang around with people like us.”

“You—”

The man held his finger to his lip, gesturing for the minister to be silent. “Enough. It is nearly time, anyway.” He twisted in his seat and glared at Tunjin. “You,” he said. “The fat one. Sit down over there.” He waved his hand towards a hard-backed chair by the large desk. “Keep an eye on him,” he said to the man with the gun. “Though I don't imagine he'll move too quickly even for you.”

Tunjin sat down heavily on the chair. The man with the gun pulled across another chair and straddled it, keeping the pistol pointed towards him.

“Good,” the man on the sofa said. “So we're all settled.” He pulled a cell phone from his jacket pocket and thumbed one of the keys, glancing at the screen. “The message has arrived,” he announced, speaking as if everyone else in the room would understand.

He rose and made his way to the corner of the office, where there was a large, flat-screen television. He glanced at Solongo. “Your former director looked after himself very well. I'm sure you appreciated it.”

The man turned and beamed, with the air of a master of ceremonies introducing the top of the bill. “I'm reliably assured that the moment has arrived.” He pointed the remote control at the television, which burst into life with a gentle click. “Let the show begin.”

Nergui.

Even given the poor quality of the image, there was no mistaking that dark chiselled visage. He was facing the sun, the intense light catching in his dark hair, his glinting eyes.

The camera steadied and the scene on the large screens became clearer. Nergui was standing at the river's edge, looking at the man whose head was silhouetted in the foreground. A few feet behind stood Doripalam. Off to the right, there was a third figure—the young officer, Batzorig.

Like the rest of the small crowd, Sarangeral was trying to make sense of what was being shown. For several minutes, there was no sound, so the scene resembled a surreal silent movie. Perhaps a Western, Sarangeral thought, Nergui looked the part, standing dark-suited and motionless in the hot afternoon sun.

Keeping one eye on the screen, Sarangarel anxiously tried to spot Gundalai in the crowd. He was an adult and ought to be capable of looking after himself, but something about his unexpected disappearance, combined with the eerie sight of Nergui's silent figure on the screen, left her profoundly uneasy.

A loud crackle brought her full attention back to the screen. The noise lessened and resolved itself into a babble of speech, at first indecipherable but slowly coalescing into meaning.

“… a nation of storytellers,” the voice said, booming around the nearly-empty stadium. “It's what you do. Your mythic past and
your make-believe—” The sound cut out again for a second, replaced by a burst of static.

There was a sudden commotion at the far end of the stadium. A truck had driven through the large open gates, and two eager-looking young men were unloading a television camera and other pieces of equipment. There was an argument going on with another camera crew who were already in place with a camera pointing up at the screen. A poised young woman—presumably a television reporter—was watching the exchange with some amusement.

It appeared that the media had been alerted. Had she been right all along, then? Was this some stunt by Odbayar?

There was another crackle from the loudspeaker system, and the voice from the screen resumed “… It's my turn to tell the story.”

Finally, the man on the screen turned to face the camera. It wasn't Odbayar, as she had half-expected. In fact, it was no one she recognised. A small, slight man, Chinese in appearance, though with a shape to his face that suggested some Mongolian blood. He had moved to the side of the shot, so that it was possible now to see the glittering river, the rock with the spread-eagled body, and the far bank with the motionless figures of Nergui and his colleagues. For a moment, the shot appeared staged, as if the participants were posing for a bizarre portrait.

The man, staring straight into the camera, looking not unlike a news reporter himself, gestured behind him. “I owe an apology to this young man. He was not responsible for his actions or for his own death. He is a victim of your country. A victim of its decadence, its descent into corruption and decay.”

It sounded like a prepared speech, something he had rehearsed and repeated to himself, waiting for the day when he would finally get the chance to deliver it. She assumed that this was some convoluted political allegory that Odbayar had cooked up, some metaphor that would reveal its meaning before much longer. But she couldn't begin to imagine how Nergui had ended up participating.

It was obvious from a rising murmur of chattering that some in the stadium were already losing interest. The two television
crews were now talking more amicably to one another. Perhaps they had begun to suspect that they were not after all in competition to secure some major scoop.

“But this,” the man on the screen went on, “is merely a symbol. You can think of it as the end of an old order, a discredited world. My purpose today is to look forward into a brighter future.”

He sounds like an evangelist, Sarangeral thought. Another of the born-again Christians from the United States or Europe. This man had the same unyielding certainty about his own role and purpose in the world.

The man walked up towards the static camera, leaving behind the golden strand of the river and the matchstick silhouettes of Nergui and his colleagues. He was still talking as he trudged up the steep slope, his voice short of breath. “I am not here simply to tell you stories—though I have many stories that will surprise you. I am here to take action. In a moment, you will see the power I have at my disposal.”

The man was close to the camera, his eyes staring fixedly at the lens. For the first time, Sarangarel felt a tremor of fear. This no longer felt like a stunt. This felt like madness. There was a look in his eyes that she could not read, an emptiness unmistakable even through the blurred transmission. The man's expression had transfixed those around her as well. The growing murmuring died away; and faces turned back to the screen.

The man reached forward and the image juddered wildly on the screen. It took Sarangeral a second to realise that he had picked up the camera and was striding up the hillside, pointing the lens towards the trees in front of him. The soundtrack was a muffled thumping—the sound of the man's footsteps as he headed up the slope.

Then his voice reemerged. “I need to show you,” he said, sounding breathless, though it was unclear whether this was the result of physical exertion or a growing excitement. The confusion on the screen resolved itself into a shot of rising grassland, dark fir trees, a boundary of bright light and deep shadow. In the middle, almost obscured by the shade, was a black Land Cruiser.

The shot was held for a second, and then the image bounced again as the man walked forward to open the rear door of the vehicle. “The first item I have to show you.”

At first, the rear of the truck appeared empty. Then the camera zoomed in towards the area behind the front passenger seats. A box, with wires. Sarangarel was no expert. But it was clear to her that they were looking at an explosive device—or something mocked up to resemble such a device.

Around her, all eyes were fixed on the screen. At the front of the arena, Sarangarel could see that the attitude of the television crews had changed yet again.