The Outcast (42 page)

“Maybe. Or, more likely, a one-way ticket to Beijing or Washington, whichever was appropriate. But I fear those days are gone. One of the disadvantages of democracy; we're held to account.”

Odbayar gazed back at him with an air of deep cynicism. “When it suits, yes. Democracy always seems to be a convenient excuse.”

“Not to me,” Nergui said. “I tend to find it deeply inconvenient. But necessary. As to what will happen to your father—well, if he's arrested, he'll no doubt be tried.”

“But you don't think he'll be arrested.”

“It's not his style. He wants to be the one in control.” He paused. “Whatever the cost.”

“It sounds like a variant on the loaded revolver,” Odbayar observed.

“Maybe. He'll do his best to find a way out of this, but if that fails—well, as I say, he'll try to keep control.” Odbayar opened his mouth to speak, but Nergui interrupted. “And you should know, before you say anything else, that he may have a strong hand.” He gestured towards Doripalam. “We understand he has a hostage. My colleague's wife.”

Odbayar turned and stared at Doripalam. “Your wife? I didn't realise …” He stopped. “I'm really sorry,” he said, as though the fault was his own. Then he added, with sudden vehemence: “The stupid
fucking
idiot.”

“What do you want me to say?” Lambaa asked. His voice carried the unhurried nonchalance of someone seeking directions.

The minister pressed the gun barrel into the back of Lambaa's neck. Solongo watched the whitening of the skin around the grey metal. “Just tell them what's happening. And what I want.”

“And what do you want?”

The minister glared at him for a second, rattled by Lambaa's calmness, unsure whether Lambaa knew something he didn't. “A safe passage through the roadblock to the airport. And then to be allowed to leave the country unhindered. That's all.”

“It doesn't sound a lot,” Lambaa said, “but they might object anyway.”

“Just tell them.”

Lambaa shrugged, as if absolving himself of any responsibility for the minister's actions, and then reached forward to pick up his cell phone from the passenger seat.

The movement was so quick that Solongo hardly saw it. In one elegant turn, Lambaa spun in his seat, pulled his head away from the gun barrel, grabbed Bakei's wrist in both his hands, and twisted it hard. The minister let out a high-pitched scream of agony and dropped the pistol. It fell neatly into Lambaa's waiting hand, and Lambaa jammed the gun into the side of the minister's startled face.

Lambaa was still holding the old man's wrist with his right hand. He twisted the wrist again, watching the minister writhe in pain.
“Now this time I really do suggest you sit still,” Lambaa said. “Because if you don't I'll blow your fucking head off.” He reached around with his free hand and pressed a button on the dash. “That's it, Solongo. Get out of the car. Go across to the police, as quickly as you can.”

For a second, he thought she was too bewildered to follow his instruction. Then she shook her head, still staring at the minister. Finally, as if suddenly released from shackles, she drew back her hand and struck him in the face with her closed fist. The minister emitted another shrill shriek and collapsed forward, clutching a bleeding nose.

Lambaa smiled gently at Solongo. “Very good. But I think you'd really better get out now. I don't want to have to arrest you as well.”

She smiled back at him, suddenly looking relaxed, as though the punch had been cathartic, then opened the door and stepped out into the warm late-afternoon sunshine.

Lambaa watched as she made her way, with increasing speed, across towards the police. “Now,” he said to Bakei, “we need to get you out of here.” He pushed open his own door and climbed out, keeping the pistol trained through the doorway.

Holding the gun steady, he began to open the rear door. But this time the minister was too quick. He rolled backwards and frantically pushed at the door on the far side of the vehicle. Forcing it open, he staggered out and ran, weaving, towards the stadium.

Lambaa cursed his own complacency, and then aimed the gun across the roof of the car. He could have brought him down easily enough, but he hesitated. He was unsure of the protocol of gunning down a government minister, particularly one who had not yet even been arrested, much less brought to trial or convicted. He certainly knew that it was unlikely to play well in the private media.

On the other hand, he suspected that there were few who would share his reticence in circumstances like these.

“He's all right, though?” Gundalai said. “He's really all right?”

“He's on the helicopter. Nergui didn't say very much, but, yes, he's fine.”

“I want to see him, then,” Gundalai said. “I
need
to see him.” He sounded like a small child demanding some treat from a reluctant parent.

“It won't be long,” she said, aware that she was already allowing herself to slip into that parental role.

“I know,” he said, “it's just that I want to be sure.”

“It won't be long,” she repeated. “Nergui said we should stay well back. It could be dangerous out there.” Even as she said the words, she realised that she had made a mistake.

“That's what I mean,” Gundalai said. “Odbayar's safe for the moment, but anything could happen.”

“Nergui's there,” Sarangarel pointed out. The words sounded reassuring to her, but she was conscious that they would carry little weight with Gundalai. “He'll make sure that Odbayar's safe. There's nothing more we can do.”

“That's your generation's mantra, isn't it?” Gundalai said. “There's nothing more we can do. That's why people like Odbayar do what they do. Because they believe there is something we can do. Instead of just wringing our hands.”

She realised there was little point in arguing. In a way, he was right; her generation was complacent. Unlike some, they hadn't had to fight for their freedom. It had just been thrust upon them. And now, perhaps, they were allowing the potential to slip away. Standing by, while politicians did deals, selling off the past, mortgaging the future. Odbayar's idealism, however misguided, was perhaps something to be cherished.

She turned, preparing to offer some conciliatory word to Gundalai. But he was already gone. He was twenty or thirty yards away, running furiously across the concrete, his scrawny limbs jerking awkwardly.

She opened her mouth to call him back, but it was too late. And perhaps he could do something. Or, at least, perhaps he should be allowed to try.

Lambaa's hesitation was enough to allow the minister time to reach the corner of the stadium. He flung himself around the
building, aware that at any moment he might be struck by a bullet.

Beyond the stadium, there was an open field. A helicopter, which he had watched descending as they had sped across the open land, was standing two hundred metres away. There was a single police car parked near the main entrance to the arena, but no other sign of life.

It was all over, he thought. It really was all over. While he had still been in the car, he could delude himself that he might somehow manoeuvre his way out of this. But now there was no chance. Now, there was likely to be only one way out.

He fumbled in his jacket pocket, checking to see whether the key to that particular exit was still there. His fingers touched the cold metal of the second gun, the one he had taken to the museum with him. Then it had been his insurance policy. Now, it was his last resort.

He was almost at the main entrance to the stadium when something caught his eye, a flicker of movement in his peripheral vision. He slowed his run slightly and turned to look. A young man had been running from the far side of the parking lot, initially heading for the helicopter. His progress had been hindered by the still-spinning rotors, and he had hesitated momentarily, then continued running to his left, avoiding the blades but trying to attract the attention of whoever was in the aircraft.

The minister watched the young man, now only a short distance away. He looked familiar. They had met somewhere, sometime. Maybe a friend of Odbayar's.

The thought of his son stopped the minister in his tracks. He had long ago ceased to think of himself as a family man—his wife long dead, his son a grown-up political embarrassment, both in any case little more than public-relations appendages. The neat nuclear family that had been expected of the senior Party official, and that had been expected no less of the elected politician he had subsequently become.

But his son was a real person. A good person, probably, if the
minister had had any idea of what that might really mean. An idealist. Someone far removed from his own opportunistic pragmatism.

It was as if the young man had been sent to him—another innocent who might provide his passage home.

The minister paused by the stadium entrance, and then called and waved. The young man turned, clearly baffled as to who was calling him. He saw Bakei standing, still breathless, in the shadow of the arena.

It was clear that the young man had recognised him, and for a second Bakei thought he might have misjudged the situation. Perhaps this was just another plain-clothes police officer. Perhaps he had inadvertently handed himself in.

But the young man's expression was not that of someone about to effect an arrest. He looked angry, anxious.

“Where is he?” he shouted, across the expanse of concrete.

The minister had no idea what the young man was talking about, but he could already see distant movement across the parking lot. Police cars moving into position. The helicopter's blades had slowed now, too, and at any moment the young man's attention might revert to his original objective.

“Come here,” the minister called, “and I'll show you.”

Odbayar, staring blankly from the window of the helicopter, spotted him first.

“There,” he said. “That's Gundalai.”

Nergui stared past him, out across the sunlit concrete, towards the shade of the stadium. “Your friend?” he asked.

Odbayar looked back, momentarily baffled as to how Nergui should have known Gundalai.

“We met him,” Nergui explained. “He was very concerned about your whereabouts.”

“I—” Odbayar stopped, clearly at a loss for words. “But what's he doing here?”

“He's here looking for you,” Nergui said. “The more immediate
question is what he's doing over there?” He glanced back at Doripalam. “I told Sarangeral to keep well back.”

“Let's hope she has,” Doripalam said, his own thoughts still fixed on his wife, anxiety gnawing at him.

“In any case,” Nergui said, “I think we have a situation here. Look.”

There had been some kind of scuffle outside, Doripalam could see now. The young man—presumably Gundalai, though it was impossible to see—had moved towards the stadium, and had been grabbed by another figure. It took Doripalam a moment or two to adjust his eyes to the relative gloom of the stadium precincts. Then, his throat suddenly dry, he muttered “Bakei?” His mind was reeling, wondering what had happened to Solongo.

Nergui nodded. “I fear so. I think duty calls.” He gestured to the pilot, who opened the side doors. In a moment, Nergui was out on the concrete, Doripalam behind him.

“You should stay here,” Nergui said to Odbayar, who was also climbing out.

Odbayar shook his head, firmly. “Not if it really is Gundalai. I've let him down too often.”

Nergui gazed at him for a moment, then nodded. “Okay.” He glanced at Doripalam. “Let's go.”

He looked familiar, Gundalai thought. He had definitely seen the elderly man before somewhere. He associated him with something important—some sort of celebrity, someone on television.

It was only as he drew close that Gundalai suddenly knew the answer, and by then it was too late. The elderly man was pointing a pistol steadily towards him. “I think you had better stop there,” the man said calmly.

Gundalai stopped, his heart pounding both from the exertion and his growing fear. The minister of security. Odbayar's father. They had met face to face only once, at some semi-official party. Odbayar had introduced them, with an unprecedented expression of embarrassment. The minister had shaken his hand—the contact
could scarcely have been briefer—and then turned away. The look on his face had not even been disdain, just disinterest.

He seemed more interested now, though, and there was a suggestion in his eyes that he recalled Gundalai after all. That would be a politician's gift. Perfect recall of anyone who might vote for him.

Gundalai glanced over his shoulder towards the helicopter. The rotors had stopped, but there was no sign of anyone emerging.

“That way,” Bakei said, gesturing towards the main entrance to the stadium. “We'll see if we can buy a little time. You might be my ticket out of here after all.” He was smiling now, but the smile was anything but reassuring.

Gundalai began to walk forward, wondering whether he should make a move against the minister. After all, he must have forty years on the old man. But he didn't have the gun. Youth and fitness were unlikely to count for much compared with one squeeze of that trigger.

The arena was deserted following the earlier evacuation. Gundalai could feel the presence of the minister behind him, the gun barrel inches from his back.

He risked one more glance over his shoulder. There was activity around the helicopter, the doors opening, though Gundalai could not see who was emerging.

“Keep going,” Bakei said quietly from behind. “Over there by the stage.”

Gundalai shuffled forward into the sunlit arena, waves of heat rising from the sand. Suddenly, absurdly, he felt like a performer, the focus of attention for a nonexistent crowd. About to put on the show of his life.

“What's he up to in there?” Odbayar said from behind them, a faint note of hysteria in his voice.