The Adversary (3 page)

“Worth the risk?” Doripalam repeated finally. He was finding it difficult to come up with any coherent response. Tunjin sat watching him, playing with a badly-chewed ballpoint pen, apparently unconcerned.

Doripalam shook his head, trying to find an appropriate form of words. “This is what I find so extraordinary,” he said. “This will no doubt sound patronizing, but you're one of the best—the most experienced—policemen we have in this team. We have problems—you know the problems we have. I have little respect for some of your colleagues, and doubtless they have little respect for me. But in your case—”

Tunjin had placed the end of the pen in his mouth, and was proceeding to mutilate it still further. After a moment he withdrew it, gazed thoughtfully at the dog-eared tip, and then inserted it carefully in his ear. Doripalam watched the process as though hypnotized.

After a pause, he tried again. “We have not always seen eye to eye,” he said. “I have often found your approach cavalier, lacking in discipline.” Tunjin had proceeded to prod his inner ear methodically with the pen, and Doripalam was finding it increasingly difficult to sustain his train of thought. “But I saw that you achieved results. I recognized—I thought I recognized—your integrity, your honesty, compared with some of your colleagues.” He hesitated, increasingly convinced that he was wasting his time. Tunjin's maneuvers
with the pen were an almost literal demonstration of his deafness to Doripalam's words.

“It had not occurred to me,” he said, finally, “that you might be guilty of this kind of act. Of falsifying evidence.”

Tunjin withdrew the pen from his ear and peered at whatever he had managed to extract. Finally, he looked up at Doripalam and shrugged. “I am a police officer,” he said. “I just do what I can.”

Doripalam stared at him in bewilderment. “But can't you see,” he said, “that, even if you had succeeded, this kind of behavior, this kind of manipulation of justice, is just not acceptable for a police officer? Especially for a police officer.”

Tunjin shrugged again and inserted the chewed end of the pen back in his mouth. “So,” he said, “it is clear. In due course, and no doubt after due procedure, I am fired.”

“So—we are now in session.” Judge Radnaa looked closely at Tsengel, who was sitting hunched behind the pale wooden desk. “Are you now able to clarify the situation, Mr. Tsengel?”

Tsengel shifted awkwardly and then climbed slowly to his feet. “Yes, madam. At least, in so far—” He paused, as though words had deserted him.

“Mr. Tsengel?” Judge Radnaa looked around the almost empty courtroom. Trials were normally open to the public, and even the most mundane case usually attracted at least a few idle visitors with time on their hands. A trial of this nature would normally have attracted queues of sightseers, not to mention the full
representation of the press. But it had been clear right from the start that this was in no sense a normal trial, and the Ministry had insisted on a closed courtroom on the grounds of protecting its intelligence sources. The defense team, perhaps recognizing that their case would, if anything, be strengthened by this anonymity, had raised no objections.

Tsengel seemed to gather his wits. “In so far as I can,” he concluded. “I have consulted with my superiors,” he said. “Our position remains the same. We have run into some difficulties with our evidence. We would ideally like to seek an adjournment to see if these can be resolved.”

“And are you now able to specify the proposed length of this adjournment?”

Tsengel hesitated, and then glanced across at Nyamsuren, who was sitting, apparently relaxed, next to the accused. “Well, we do not believe that we are able to resolve our difficulties unless we obtain a substantial adjournment. A matter of weeks, at least.”

Judge Radnaa nodded slowly and then glanced over at Nyamsuren. “I take it that your client's position has not changed in respect of such an adjournment?” she said.

Nyamsuren nodded and rose languidly to his feet. “I am sure you appreciate our position, madam.” He glanced back at his client, who was still staring fixedly at the table, his shaven head bowed forward.

“Indeed.” She looked back at Tsengel. “And on this occasion I can only agree that the defense counsel's position is entirely reasonable. I can see that you have some difficulties, Mr. Tsengel, though I confess I am at
a loss to understand precisely what they might be. But I think that the defense also has the right to assume that, particularly in a trial of this nature, the State Prosecutor's Office will be fully prepared before the case reaches court.”

Tsengel looked as if a literal burden had been dropped on to his shoulders. He nodded, miserably. “I understand,” he said. “My instructions are that, if it should not prove possible to obtain the kind of adjournment we are seeking, the State Prosecutor's Office wishes to confirm that it has no further evidence to offer. In short, there is no case to answer.”

Judge Radnaa stared at him for a moment. “In formal terms,” she said, “the trial has commenced. I do not believe, therefore, that we are in a position simply to dismiss the case.”

Nyamsuren rose. “If you will permit me, madam?” he said. “My client has been charged with an extremely serious offense, as well as being the victim of a continuous stream of unsubstantiated innuendo. In the interests of my client's reputation, I think it is essential that the verdict is reached on the basis of the evidence that has been presented—”

“Or, to be precise, not presented,” Judge Radnaa said.

“As you say, madam. But I believe that, given the seriousness of the charge, a clear verdict is needed in order to remove any doubts about Mr. Muunokhoi's position.”

“I can only agree with you, Mr. Nyamsuren.” The judge looked across at her colleagues and the citizen's representatives. “We will withdraw and consider our verdict, though I imagine it will not take us long.” She
paused. “In the circumstances, I presume that the defense has no further evidence to offer?”

Nyamsuren glanced over at Tsengel, who was now sitting staring blankly at the floor. “We had of course prepared a thorough defense. However, in the absence of a prosecution case, I think this is now superfluous.”

“As you say, Mr. Nyamsuren. Very well. We will consider our verdict and then reconvene in—” She glanced at the clock on the far wall of the courtroom. Its convex glass face, she noticed, perfectly enclosed the reflected image of the Mongolian flag that dominated the wall behind the bench. “Well, I do not think we will require more than thirty minutes.”

She rose and strode purposefully out of the room, followed by the team of junior judges and citizens' representatives. The door closed behind them, and the courtroom was silent. Tsengel still stared at the floor, avoiding Nyamsuren's eyes.

Nyamsuren was smiling. He nodded at the two silent policeman who had been stationed each side of the courtroom door throughout the trial. “I think your escort duties are almost finished, boys,” he said.

The two policemen made no response, but looked pointedly back past Nyamsuren. Nyamsuren looked over his shoulder. For the first time, his client had ceased staring down at the desk and had raised his head. Beneath his bald head, his eyes were dark and staring, now fixed on the two officers who stiffened, fingers resting on their rifles. There was no evident humor or warmth in his blank eyes but, like Nyamsuren, he was now smiling.

She should have gone with the others, taken the chance when there was still time.

But she had been afraid to leave, worried that her departure would reveal too much. After all, a mother would never leave her child, would not willingly return to the steppe with her son's fate still unknown. She had made that clear to the policeman. She had said: “I won't leave. I won't move on. Not till I know where he is. What's happened to him.”

The policeman had nodded, jotted down some words in his notebook. She suspected that he was not really interested, that he would never look again at the sentences he was scribbling down. He was going through the motions, trying to make her believe that they were taking this seriously.

“We don't know that anything has happened to him,” he had pointed out, in a tone that was presumably intended to be reassuring, but which sounded merely dismissive.

She didn't blame him. He thought she was just another anxious old woman. Probably his own mother was the same. No doubt she fussed about the life he was living, about the risks he was facing as a police officer, about what his future might hold.

“I know,” she said. “I know that something's happened to him.”

The policeman looked up at her, apparently surprised by the quiet certainty of her tone. “But you've told us everything you know?” he said. “You have no other information?” There was a mocking edge to his voice. He didn't care about any of this. He didn't care what she felt.

She stared back at him for a moment, as if she were about to say something. Then she shook her head. “No. I've told you everything I can.”

It was true, she thought. She had told him everything she could. Not everything she knew. But everything she was able to say.

She had no idea who to trust. She certainly had no reason to trust this smiling, insincere young man. Outside her immediate family, she had no reason to trust anyone. All she could do was try to bring it all out into the open, make it public, arouse as much noise as she could.

And hope that this would be enough to stop him.

After the policeman had gone, she had sat hunched on the small stool at the entrance to her
ger
, staring out across the empty grassland. Behind her she could hear the soft movements of the horses, the clattering of equipment, the desolate cry of a baby.

Her family were preparing to move on. She would not be traveling with them. Not yet. Some of them had offered to stay with her, but she had said no, fully aware that they were also afraid. Afraid for her, afraid for her son. But, mostly, afraid for themselves.

They knew he would come.

The rest of the family struck camp a week later, packing up their tents and equipment with the characteristic efficiency of the nomad. When the horses and trucks were loaded, her brother had come back to speak with her.

“How long?”

“As long as it takes,” she said.

“We will come back for you. When we're settled. As soon as we've found somewhere suitable. It will only be a few days.”

“As long as it takes,” she repeated.

She had watched them go, feeling as if her heart was being torn from her body. A mother does not willingly leave her child.

She had not even been able to say what she felt. Had not trusted her emotions. But, also, had not trusted that somehow, in this vast empty plain, they might not be observed.

It had been a long time before the last black specks of the convoy had vanished into the pale haze of the horizon. Afterward, she had returned to her
ger
, boiled water for tea, and sat down on her stool, nothing now to do but wait.

He would come. She was sure of that. Soon, he would come.

That night, she lay awake, listening to the faint sounds of the spring breezes rustling through the tent frame, the occasional distant sound of a bird or a barking dog. She imagined him out there, perhaps already approaching, perhaps close at hand.

She imagined meeting him again.

The next morning, when her cell rang, she was
almost certain it would be him. She was sitting outside the
ger
, her husband's old heavyweight
del
slung over her shoulders against the early chill.

She answered hesitantly, wondering what she would say.

But it was not him. It was the police, again. A different policeman, more senior than the one who had visited before. No, they had nothing more to report. But, yes, he would like to meet her, hear her story for himself.

She agreed to a time later in the week, not taking in what the emollient voice was saying. She did not fool herself that the call had any significance. It was the publicity, she thought. In that sense, at least, her plan was working. She was getting her story out there. She was getting it noticed.

Perhaps that would help to keep him away. Or perhaps it would bring him sooner. She was no longer sure which she preferred.

He came the next day. When he appeared, it was hardly a surprise to her and she realized that she had forgotten to be afraid.

He was alone. She had somehow imagined him arriving with an entourage, the center of everyone's attention, because that was how she remembered him.

But of course he was alone. He parked his truck carefully, yards away from the remaining cluster of
gers
, and walked slowly across the scrubby grassland to where she was sitting. The morning sun was behind him, and he was little more than a silhouette, but she fancied she could see the empty depths of his eyes.

She remained seated almost until he reached her. Then she rose and slowly made her way into the tent,
feeling his presence close behind her.

The discussion went as she had expected. He did not stop to question what she might or might not know. He did not bother with explanations. He did not attempt to bargain or cajole. He simply told her what he wanted and waited calmly for her to agree.

When she refused, for a moment he looked almost surprised. Then he repeated his request, quietly, in the same polite tone. The sense of threat was palpable.

She refused again. And then she told him what she knew, or what she thought she knew. She told him what she had, and what she would do with it.

She did not know what reaction she expected. Perhaps she had hoped that he would simply turn on his heel and walk away. Perhaps.

But when the first blow came, she knew she had been waiting for it. She tensed just for a moment as his fist struck her cheek, and then she staggered against the wall of the tent. His second blow struck her in the chest, and she fell back, her head hitting the solid wood of the tent frame.