Performance Anomalies (12 page)

“Or maybe he’s just smarter than average,” Katerina said.

“Well, I don’t see anything going on now.”

“He’s probably deep in the park by now. We could call someone to track him,” Katerina suggested lightly. “I have some local stringers.”

“Not enough time.” Clara sat down. “I’d have to spend an hour just clearing it. It’ll be dark soon. He’ll be gone, probably is already.”

Katerina looked into the scope and saw an old-model Toyota swing into the museum’s driveway. The trunk popped open when it came to a stop. Cono stepped out of the shade. He loaded all four cases in the trunk, then got in the front passenger seat. The Toyota reversed and was soon shrouded by trees and out of the scope’s view.

“What’s happening now?” Clara said, her pen clicking on the notepad.

“Nothing,” Katerina said. “It’s over.”

“With a little more lead time we could’ve hooked up a high-def camera and run an image analysis on the other man. Why don’t we have the equipment up here?” Clara stood and pressed her head against the window.

“I’m told we have several rooms like this around the city,” Katerina replied. “I guess the office doesn’t have enough equipment to go around.”

Clara sighed. “For an ugly town, the view’s not bad today,” she said. “Pretty clear.” She looked back into the room. “Tell me more about Mr. Zheng.” As her eyes adjusted to the relative darkness inside, Clara assessed with quick glances the well-cut aquamarine pantsuit that drew attention to the younger woman’s breasts, waist, and hips. Her shape reminded Clara of herself ten, fifteen years ago. But Clara had never worn those absurdly high heels.

“After Mr. Simmons briefed me, he told me to make the man’s acquaintance. It didn’t work the first time, but the second time he invited me for a drink.”

“And?”

“And we didn’t talk about his time in Xinjiang, of course.”

“Sheenyan?”

“The Chinese province where his last station was, where the Muslim uprisings happened.”

Clara groaned. “Here I am, learning Kazak for weeks, and we’re only talking Chinese. What did you find out from him?” The small golden cross dangling from a chain around her neck winked in the light as she spoke.

“He thinks Almaty is a beautiful city, with so much greenness, not at all like Xinjiang.”

“And?”

“And he said he represents China’s commercial interests in Kazakhstan. He was vague about how much time he would spend here—it would depend upon the progress of Chinese trading in the region.”

“Did he say anything about the Muslims in Kazakhstan? Is he here to deal with them, like his last assignment?” Clara was back in her seat, scribbling on her notepad.

“He didn’t mention that. Of course they’re
mostly
Muslims here in Kazakhstan, except for the Russians and Koreans. But their religion is more of a tradition, only as much as they could carry on their horses in the old days, they say.”

“What about those mullahs whining over the loudspeakers?”

“You hear more prayer calls around the city now than a few years ago, but not a lot more.” Katerina looked out the window, down to where she had seen Cono a few minutes earlier.

“Many churches here? The big one in the park looks more like a museum.”

“There are some others. The Russians still go to them, but the Russians are fewer now, and they’re poorer.”

“So the Christians are losing out. What else did Mr. Zheng say?” Clara’s pen was hard at work on her pad.

“He wanted to take me to a hotel room, but Mr. Simmons’s instructions didn’t include that, so I didn’t. Instead, Mr. Zheng talked about the superiority of the Chinese in all things, and how his nation would regain its past greatness and rightful position in the world. And we agreed to meet another time.”

“And?”

“He was very gracious. He even said, ‘Till our paths meet again’—his English was quite good.”

“And did Simmons give you different instructions sometimes?” Clara’s chin wrinkled as she pursed her lips.

“I’m sure he put everything in the reports,” Katerina said idly, gazing out the window.

The Toyota’s engine strained on a winding road that rose in the foothills beyond the southwest edge of the city. Cono told Timur about the encounter with the Chinese man, and how many flowers had been offered, but left out mention of the three million that rested on turning over Xiao Li. Timur listened intently to Cono’s recounting of the well-dressed Kitai’s wish to negotiate further with a man of vision.

The motor almost choked as the car mounted a final incline that ended at a gate of wide steel doors topped with razor wire. Timur yanked the parking brake and got out to unlock the chain securing the gate, then returned to the car and eased it forward to a truck landing in front of a high aluminum roll-up door. To the left, beyond the truck landing, the steps and grooves of a giant quarry pit were encased in shadows. Timur got out again and relocked the gate.

“It doesn’t make money anymore,” Timur said. “Rocks are too cheap. My old man was hoping to turn it into a tourist lookout like the one at Koktyube. But he’s too old, and I took it from him. The equipment still works. The machines make a hell of a noise, especially the grinders. It all makes for easy burials.”

Timur unlocked a sliding bar, hoisted the aluminum door high enough so he could squeeze underneath, then pulled hard on a thick chain to raise the door higher.

With the car inside the long, vaulted building, they lifted the four cases into an interior metal shed that Timur had opened. It was full of jackhammers and wire on wooden spools. Drill-bits as tall as a man were stacked against one wall.

When the shed was shut Cono said, “It’s not a very princely palace to house your state treasure. Where are the porters?”

Timur brushed the dust from his hands. There was dust everywhere, even in the still air. “I have thousands of porters working for me, the whole National Security Bureau, but none of them has been to this place. When there’s a big job to be done, you have to do it yourself. Every sheik knows that, even if it means driving a beat-up Toyota.”

Timur flipped open a metal lid on the wall of the shed. Cono saw the digital touch panel just before Timur’s body blocked it from view; Timur punched in a code, each tap making a different tone, which Cono memorized. The lid twanged shut, emitting a small cloud of dust.

“If anyone touches the treasure, they’ll be surprised,” Timur said.

“Looks pretty low-tech. It blows up and the flowers burn with it.” Cono kissed his fingers to signal a goodbye. “But then I guess there’s no better technology around here.”

“I can’t show you all the state secrets, can I, brother? There’s a lot more.”

“More places to blow up money?”

“Cono, I wonder if you have confidence in me. The place is full of tunnels from when there was a little silver down below, before the old man had to blast the big pit in search of rocks to make gravel for his Soviet bosses. The good thing was, they ignored the mine after that. But I didn’t. I’ll be back later without you.”

“I guess you played here as a kid. Underground.”

“I know the tunnels better than I know my family.” Timur’s gaze flickered momentarily toward the back of the building, where a horizontal double door was fixed to the crusty floor, flanked by a disused forklift and a rusting iron frame with flywheels. There was a metal box mounted to the side of the horizontal doors, like the one on the shed. The glance had lasted less than a second, but Cono took in all that Timur’s eyes exposed.

“And when the money is downstairs,” Cono said, “and everything goes poof above, no harm done.”

“The jihadis aren’t the only ones who can rig explosives. You see through too much, Cono. That’s why I prefer to keep you as a friend.”

“As a friend,” Cono said, “as a friend.” He waited a second, looking at Timur, before he raised his right hand and rubbed his ear.

The Toyota’s engine screamed as Timur downshifted to check their speed on the swerving road descending toward the city.

“How’s the girl?” Cono asked.

“Not eating much, but at least she hasn’t scratched the eyes out of any more of my toads. They tell me she tries to come on to them, but I’m sure they overestimate themselves.”

“Most men do. It’s the only way they can reproduce. It’s why we’re all here, us humans. Overestimation.”

“Humans,” Timur grunted.

For a fleeting second Cono thought of Xiao Li’s captivity with Timur’s thugs, but he swept the image from his mind. Then the sweet smiling face of Dimira’s dead daughter appeared and dissolved. Timur swung the wheel to take another tight corner. One of the city’s power plants loomed on their right, its two towers jetting black smoke into a darkening sky. A skinny man was squatting outside the wall of the plant, defecating.

Timur was silent through three more curves, the brakes squealing in protest at each one. As he let the car glide down the final straight incline, the last fingers of daylight receded behind the foothills in the west.

“You said the Kitai wanted to hear more from me.”

“He told me he wanted to propose something to my boss,” Cono replied. “So it’s a good moment to hand the ball back to you. The Kitai bid is in, the condition for the girl to be freed. I told the Kitai that you’re his man, if the price is right; I even bargained on your behalf. It’s time for me to clear out.”

“Cono, friend, I need your help a little longer, so I’ve got to keep the china doll. Just for a while.” Timur kept his gaze straight ahead. “You get too attached to your women. It’s always a big mistake.” A black SUV sped toward them and went by, accelerating effortlessly up the grade.

They were now at the far western reach of Almaty, where the terrain stopped its headlong descent from the foothills and began to flatten out. Timur made a loop of the roundabout, headed east toward the city, and ratcheted into third gear on a two-lane street that was deserted except for a few body shops and two cows grazing on a narrow wedge of weeds.

“That girl Katerina played you too, when you were here last time, working for her and helping me on the side. She’s still around, playing with the Americans. Fucking at least one of them. I could throw her out of my fine country, but with her here at least I know what I’ve got.” Timur allowed a small smile to turn up the corners of his mouth.

“Cut the shit, Timur. You’ve got your money and the Kitais wagging their tongues for you. There’s no reason to hold onto the girl.”

A face behind the windshield of an approaching truck caught Cono’s attention—a driver’s face wrinkling with momentary creases of panic, his eyes darting as his flatbed accelerated. The Toyota’s headlights illuminated the driver’s fingers. Cono perceived the tension in them even before the driver jerked the wheel to his left. Nearly instantaneously, Cono yanked the Toyota’s steering wheel, sending the car into a skid. The truck almost tipped as it veered sharply to block the pavement from curb to curb. The Toyota fantailed, its rear fender smashing into the cab of the truck.

Timur was stunned by the collision, his head drooping against the steering wheel. Cono shoved his left foot onto the pedals and gripped the shift. The Toyota lurched backward and then forward over the curb, clearing the truck’s front bumper as Cono heard the first shots smacking the air and pocking into the back of the car. He spun it around the truck and rammed its nose under the belly of the flatbed, which provided a partial barrier against the shooters. Then he seized Timur’s gun, rolled out of the car, and lay prone beneath the truck. From this position he could see three men hunched around an SUV on the other side of the flatbed signaling to each other and dispersing, one to the left, one to the right, the third crouching as he approached the truck head-on. To Cono’s mind they were all three nearly motionless even as they skittered and dodged, firing, maneuvering for a kill. Cono felt exhilaration—the ecstatic awareness that his strange brain and body had ordained him for just such moments, by allowing him to enter a space outside of time.

His first shot, at the slick-haired man on the right, revealed that the pistol aimed high. His second shot found its mark below the man’s ear. The thug to the left had almost found protection behind the truck’s cab but the piercing of his temple tipped him into a dive that planted his head into the big front tire. The head rebounded and fell, its face wide with surprise.

The crouched man straight ahead clamped the trigger of his automatic rifle. Cono rolled away in time to avoid the sparks spraying off the concrete and in one motion grabbed the brake line above him and hoisted himself against the undercarriage, pressing his toes against a chassis strut. A burst from the automatic rifle raked the road beneath him. Another burst battered the truck siding near his head. He lowered himself just enough to take aim, upside down. With his last shot Cono saw the crouched man’s mirrored left lens crack as it made room for the nine-millimeter hole; the attacker’s tucked body rolled back and slumped to one side.

Cono slid out from beneath the truck and moved to the cab’s passenger door. He could see in the side-view mirror that the driver already had his hands clasped behind his head. Cono opened the door and rose up on the step plate.