The Adversary
Michael Walters
New York ⢠London
© 2007 by Michael Walters
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, institutions, places, and events are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual personsâliving or deadâevents, or locales is entirely coincidental.
To Christine, James, Adam and Jonny
They are out on the steppe, miles from home. Miles from anywhere.
It is late afternoon, early spring. The immense sky is clear, just a few wisps of cloud against the rich blue. Everythingâeven the snow tipped mountains that surround themâis dwarfed by comparison.
The sun is already low, and the mountains are casting vast shadows across the green plain. Behind them, the distant hazy sprawl of the city is still drenched in bright sunlight, windows and towers blinking as they speed toward their destination.
He has been told to keep his head down. But it is difficult not to look around. He has never been this far from the city, never seen such openness, such unfilled space. He has lived on the steppe and the mountains were the boundaries of his world, but he had no idea that, after driving for mile after mile, they would still remain so distant and unreachable.
He looks back at the endless strip of dirt road behind, gazing through the wake of dust at the old car that follows their gleaming truck.
He looks forward along the same road, wondering how far it will be before they reach their goal. And he looks out as they pass an occasional camp, grazing
goats and cattle, old men on horseback who watch their passing without evident interest.
There are four of them in the Jeep. He sits in the rear with the boss. The boss's eyes are closed as though he is sleeping, but he suspects the boss is awake, listening to the aimless conversation of the two in the front. He has never seen the boss sleeping, though clearly he must. He finds himself nodding from the motion of the truck but tries to keep awake by guessing how far they have to go.
On their return, there will be five of them in the truck, so it will be more crowded. He imagines the boss will sit in the front then.
At some point he falls asleep. When he opens his eyes, the sun has almost set and the truck is slowing. It seems they have reached their destination, though when he looks out of the window this place looks no different from the endless miles of empty grassland they have already passed.
The truck pulls to a halt, and the boss instantly opens his eyes. The driver twists in his seat to look back at him. The boss says nothing but nods faintly. This is the place.
Behind them, the car draws to a stop. The boss opens his door, and they all climb out and stand around the truck, as the car driver maneuvers his vehicle around them. He stops, finally, thirty or forty meters away. They watch as the driver climbs out, opens the rear door and pulls out two metal gasoline cans.
The sun has nearly set now, just a brilliant red sliver visible over the mountains. The mountaintops and the
western sky glow crimson, and the remaining sky is a deep mauve, the first stars beginning to emerge.
In the far distance, the city is a tiny bundle of smoky light. But otherwise, the steppe seems deserted.
In the dim light, they watch in silence as the car driver systematically pours gasoline across the roof of the old car. The rear door is still open, and he leans inside to pour more of the liquid across the rear seat. When both cans are empty, he throws them back inside the car. Then, as if making a final adjustment, he unscrews the cap of the car's gas tank.
He pauses and looks across at the boss who gives his usual almost imperceptible nod. It is not clear whether it will be visible to the car driver in the twilight, but it seems that he has received the signal. He begins slowly to walk backward away from the car, watching where the spreading pool of gasoline has begun to seep across the grass. He pauses and pulls something from his pocket. He makes a sharp movement with his hand, and then he tosses a glowing object on to the damp ground at his feet.
He pauses, momentarily, to ensure that the discarded match has ignited the gasoline. Then he begins to walk, much more rapidly, to where the rest of them are standing.
He nods to the boss with a faint smile, and then they all turn to look back at the car. It is almost dark, the clear sky laden with stars, and the spreading wall of flame is dazzling in the gloom. They watch as it sweeps unstoppably across the body of the car.
Without a word, the boss turns and climbs into the passenger seat of the Jeep. The rest follow, three of
them squeezing into the rear seat, and then they pull away, turning back on to the road toward the city.
The young man looks back through the rear window. The car is burning, a meaningless beacon on the vast empty plain. He watches as it diminishes behind them. The glare expands briefly as the gas tank ignites and the car explodes. And then it is disappearing once more, soon little more than a tiny earth-bound echo of the star-filled night.
And, as the Jeep pounds back along the dirt track toward the city, he is still unsure whether it was only his imagination, or whether he really could hear, in those moments before the fire caught hold, the pounding of fists and the crying of a panic-filled voice from inside the spreading wall of flame.
The court room faced east, its large windows looking out across the city and the blank expanse of Sukh Bataar Square. At midmorning, early in the year, the low sun streamed across the pale wooden benches, silhouetting the figures of the room's few inhabitants.
Judge Radnaa leaned forward, momentarily dazzled by the sunlight, blinking impatiently. “So you are saying we cannot proceed?” she said. She could barely make out the features of the man facing her, could not read his expression.
“It is complicated,” he said. “We need more time.”
Judge Radnaa looked across at the panel lined up on the bench beside her. Two other, less experienced judges, and three citizens' representatives. The maximum possible representation, reflecting the seriousness of this case. Behind themâas if to remind them of the gravity of their responsibilitiesâthe courtroom wall was adorned with the striking red and yellow geometries of the national flag.
“We have already been sitting for two weeks,” she said. “And, before that, we spent a long time in preparation. You assured us that the prosecution case was comprehensive.”
“As I say, it is complicated,” the man said. “There have been developments.”
“But you are not prepared to enlighten us as to the nature of these developments?”
“It isâ”
“Complicated. Yes, Mr. Tsengel, I think we have grasped that. I understand that you are relatively new to your role in the State Prosecutor's Office. It may surprise you to learn that the law is frequently complicated.”
“Yes, butâ”
“I do not think this is acceptable, Mr. Tsengel. We have already invested very substantially in this case. We have listened to the evidence that the State Prosecutor's Office has so far presented. This is clearly a very important case with many ramificationsâ”
“Well, that's exactlyâ”
“And yet, now, two weeks into the case, you are seeking a significant adjournment because ofâdevelopments. And yet you are unwilling to share with us the nature or significance of these developments. That is, I think, an accurate summary of the situation?”
“Yes, but, well, it isâ”
“I think we understand very well what it is, Mr. Tsengel. I think we should perhaps now seek Mr. Nyamsuren's views on this topic.”
Tsengel opened his mouth as if to intervene, but remained silent. He was a short, rather awkward young man, who looked uncomfortable in his cheap, Western-style suit. He shifted from one foot to the other, as though keen to make his escape from the judge's presence.
Judge Radnaa looked across at the two other men,
who had been sitting at a desk in the middle of the room, whispering incessantly to one another during the previous discussion. She gestured to one of the two men, a tall slim figure in a black suit of considerably better quality than Tsengel's. He rose slightly, acknowledging her gesture.
“Mr. Nyamsuren,” she said. “Will you join us for a moment?”
Nyamsuren exchanged a glance with the other man, a heavily built middle-aged man with a shaved head, and then rose to approach the bench, a quizzical expression on his face. “There is a problem?”
“So it would seem,” Judge Radnaa said. “The State Prosecutor's Office is seeking an adjournment.”
Nyamsuren raised his eyebrows. “Really?” He looked across at Tsengel, smiling vaguely. Tsengel stared down at the floor. “There is some difficulty, Mr. Tsengel? Mr. Muunokhoi has already been substantially inconvenienced. I presume we are not talking about a long delay?”
Tsengel looked up, his face pale. “Well, it's difficult to say. I meanâ”
Nyamsuren turned to stare at Tsengel, as though in astonishment. “I am sure this is some simple misunderstanding, Mr. Tsengel. The State Prosecutor's Office is always very thorough. And my client has co-operated fully with the authorities at every stage. I cannot see what further developments might have occurred at this point.”
