The Outcast (15 page)

“Well, yes …” He really had no idea what he should say next. Suddenly, everything he could think of sounded gauche. He pulled his coat more tightly around his shoulders, aware how cold it had grown.

“My only question,” the contact said, finally, “is whether you can deliver.”

“Yes, I can understand.” He stopped, barely able to think clearly. How could he persuade this man that he really spoke with authority? “I've been told to tell you—”

“I know what you've been told,” the contact said, with a faint emphasis on the last word. “The question is whether you've been told the truth. Whether they trust you enough. Whether you're good enough to have earned their trust.” The contact paused, as though considering the matter. “What sort of person you are.”

“I—” He stopped, because the contact had taken two steps forward. He could think of nothing further to say as the contact slowly reached out and touched his arm, the pressure firm through the layers of glove and sleeves.

“I think,” the contact said, “we need to find out.”

At first, Nergui hardly noticed the young man. He looked scarcely more than a boy, curled up on the sofa, his arms wrapped around his knees, watching warily.

Nergui followed Sarangarel into the main living room. It was impressive—larger and more opulent than Nergui's own. It seemed that Sarangarel was benefiting from her return to private practice.

She had greeted him warmly enough at the door of the apartment. The block offered the security typical of apartments occupied primarily by Westerners, with CCTV cameras and electronic security locks prominent in the entrance lobby. He had no doubt that she had observed him on the internal screen before unlocking the external doors. The elevator had been open waiting for him, presumably again activated from within the apartment. He had wondered, as the elevator rose soundlessly, whether the security had been her primary motive in selecting this particular apartment. After everything she had experienced, it would have been understandable.

But the apartment had other attractions, not least the vast panoramic windows that, raised above the surrounding buildings, opened on to a vista of open grassland, the distant curves of the mountains. This early in the morning, the low sun cast elongated shadows across the steppe, a tapestry of deep emerald and jade greens.

“That's why I moved here,” she said. “You can forget you're in the city. You can see the seasons change, watch the weather come in across the plains.”

“It's extraordinary.”

“Especially at this time of the day,” she said. “I'm sorry to have dragged you out so early.”

He shook his head. “I was working.”

“You don't change, then?” she said, half-smiling.

“Apparently not,” he agreed. “Does anyone?”

She shrugged. “I seem to have changed more times and in more ways than I can make sense of,” she gestured vaguely around the apartment. “I even seem to be becoming wealthy—relatively so, anyway. That takes some getting used to.”

“It's not a challenge I've ever had to face,” he said, “as a humble public servant.” It sounded like a rebuke, though he had not intended it that way.

It was only then that he registered that they were not alone. The young man had been sitting motionless at the end of the sofa, in a darker corner of the room.

Sarangarel following Nergui's gaze. “This is Gundalai,” she said. “He's the reason you're here.” As she spoke, the young man slowly raised his head and stared at Nergui, as if he too had only now realised that there were others in the room. Nergui nodded in acknowledgement, and turned back to Sarangarel with a quizzical expression.

“My nephew,” she explained. “My elder sister's son.” She lowered her voice slightly. “I think he's in shock,” she said. “He's normally a lively boy—amusing. But he's hardly said a word since he arrived.”

“When was that?”

“Just before I called you. A couple of hours ago. He called me first, to check I was here. Just as well—I wouldn't have heard the intercom if I'd been asleep. But he called from down the street on his cell phone. He got here five minutes later.”

“But why's he here?” Nergui said. “What's all this about? You said something about the Minister's son?”

She nodded. “He's here because I'm the only lawyer he knows, I suppose. He thought I might be able to help him, though I don't know how I can. Except by calling you, that is.” She ran her fingers slowly through her thick black hair. “Look, I'm not sure I'm making any sense. Let me get us some coffee, and I'll try to be more coherent.”

Nergui followed her through into the kitchen. It was well-appointed and modern, demonstrating a minimalist good taste equal to that of the living room. Sarangarel busied herself making coffee with an expensive-looking espresso machine, pouring cups of the dark liquid for the two of them.

She was looking well, Nergui thought. Prosperity suited her. And, after all she'd been through, she deserved it as much as anyone. Even now, in the first light of morning, hurriedly dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, she still possessed the elegance he remembered. For a moment, Nergui caught himself wondering if there was anyone else in her life.

“Let's stay in here,” she said. “I can talk a bit more freely. Not that there's anything to keep from Gundalai, but I want to get things straight in my own mind first.”

They sat at the polished wooden table that dominated the large kitchen. She added a spoonful of sugar to her coffee, and then sipped it slowly for a moment, gathering her thoughts. “You know the minister's son?” she said, finally.

“Not really. I've met him,” Nergui said. “I didn't take to him. Some kind of political activist.”

“That's right,” she said. “He was running some sort of political campaign, Gundalai tells me. Anti-government, ironically enough.”

Nergui shrugged. “You've seen what his father's like. You couldn't expect any self-respecting son to follow in his footsteps. Not right away, anyway. Give it a year or two.”

She smiled. “Still as cynical as ever?”

“Realistic. But I can't say I warmed to Odbayar. I think he'll turn out to be another politician on the make. Just a different variety.” He paused, as though considering the matter. “Not that
there's necessarily much wrong with that. Probably preferable to a starry-eyed idealist, anyway.”

She smiled, with what appeared to be genuine affection. “I never know how to take you, Nergui. I never know how serious you are. I never know how much is just an act.”

“I'm always serious,” he said. “Especially when I'm acting.”

“If you say so.”

“So what's the story? What's happened to Odbayar?”

“I'm not sure,” she said. She briefly repeated the account that Gundalai had given her of the previous evening—the gathering in the hotel, Odbayar's speech, and then the explosion.

Nergui looked up at her. “An explosion? Last night?”

“Don't tell me I have some news that hasn't reached the all-knowing Nergui?”

“No one tells me anything these days. It's just that there was another incident yesterday.”

“Another bombing?”

“A long story. Tunjin was involved, so you can imagine it wasn't straightforward.”

“Tunjin saved my life,” she said. “And yours.”

“I haven't forgotten. Where does Odbayar fit into this? You said Gundalai was caught in the explosion?”

“That's right. I don't know what happened to Odbayar. Neither does Gundalai. He still has no memory between hearing the explosion and regaining consciousness in the hotel corridor.”

“You said Odbayar had been arrested?”

She paused. “Well, that's what Gundalai thought. It seemed strange to me.” She recounted the events that Gundalai had witnessed outside the hotel—the pair of officers striking Odbayar and apparently dragging him into the van. “Does that sound like an arrest to you?”

Nergui shrugged. “It could be, though I wouldn't expect an unmarked van. But some of the local forces aren't as well-trained as they might be. If Odbayar had annoyed them—and from my limited experience of him, that's not unlikely—they might not have
treated him too gently.” He smiled. “Mind you, they'll probably regret it when they discover who he is.”

“I'm not sure it's particularly funny,” she said. “He might be injured.”

“Probably not,” Nergui said. “They might be incompetent, the locals, but they're not completely stupid. They'd have recognised that Odbayar wasn't your typical off-the-street activist, so they wouldn't have treated him too badly. They'd have just done enough to stop him sounding off.”

“And what if he had been some ‘typical off-the-street activist'? Would it have been okay for them to beat him up?”

Nergui was unsure whether she really was as angry as she sounded. “You know what I think about that. But you asked me whether Odbayar might have been hurt. I think the answer's no.”

“But you don't know for sure.”

“No. You can't legislate for incompetence.” He pulled out his cell phone. “Okay. We need to track down Odbayar, find out where he's been held. I can try the city-centre police.” He stopped, his finger poised above the phone. “But I'll just get the runaround. Let me start at the top and see where that gets me.” He looked up, and she was looking back at him quizzically. “I'll start with Doripalam,” he explained. “Let's see what he knows. About the arrest. And about the explosion.”

“So what do we have?” Doripalam said.

“With what?” Batzorig said. “I mean, which case?”

“Is there more than one?” Doripalam was doodling on his notepad, an endless network of tiny squares spreading from the corner of the page.

“What do you mean?”

“I don't know. I mean, I don't know where things begin or end here. I don't know what's cause and what's effect. So just talk me through it, item by item. Forget what fits where. Forget what makes sense. Just tell me what we have.”

Batzorig sucked gently on his pen. “Okay,” he said. “So where do I start? With the incident in the square?”

Doripalam nodded. “That's the first thing we have.”

“Some kind of terrorist—”

“Some kind of suspected terrorist,” Doripalam corrected. “We don't know who he was or what he was. The intelligence people took it out of our hands before we could find out.” There was no rancour in his voice. He had spent his life accustomed to this suppression of news, the blanketing of information. Even now, as a senior policeman, it didn't surprise him.

At the time, Doripalam had shrugged and moved on. It was the way things were. He thought back to the local chief's words: you get crapped on from above, so you come along crapping on us. Perhaps that was right. After all, his own behaviour at the hotel had not been very different from that of the intelligence officers who had taken over in Sukh Bataar Square. And not very different from Nergui's behaviour in the hospital.

“Okay,” Batzorig said, interrupting Doripalam's thoughts, “a suspected terrorist. Shot dead by our colleague, Tunjin. Who collapsed and was taken to the hospital. That's all I know about that,” he said, expectantly.

Doripalam realised he was expected to contribute something. “There's not much more,” he said, finally. “But Tunjin's okay,” he added. “He was awake when I left.”

Batzorig nodded. “So that's all we have on that. Some sort of terrorist. Some sort of attempted bombing.”

“Perhaps,” Doripalam said.

“Perhaps,” Batzorig agreed. “Gunned down by Tunjin. And then immediately covered up by the intelligence services.” He hesitated, clearly thinking about something. “Do we know why Tunjin shot him?”

Doripalam looked up at the young man, wondering if there was some significance to the question. “Training, I suppose. He did the right thing. Handled it like we're supposed to.”

“Assuming it was a terrorist,” Batzorig said.

“Assuming Tunjin had reasonable grounds to suspect he might be.”

“I didn't know Tunjin was that good a shot.”

“He was in the firearms team. One of the best we had. It's only in the last few years …”

Batzorig nodded. “Yes, of course. But that's all we have on the incident in the square? So I suppose the next thing is the museum. A young man—not Mongolian—beaten to death and delivered in a carpet as if he might be an additional exhibit in the tribute to the Mongol empire.”

“Anything in the pathologist's report?”

“I've only skimmed it. But not much we didn't know. He confirms that the cause of death was the beating. In fact, it looks as if the victim was kicked to death. Pretty ruthlessly.”

“Nice,” Doripalam said.

“And then we have the hotel. Some sort of political rally going on in there.”

“Do we know anything more about that? About the rally, I mean? Who it was, what it was all about.”

“I have someone on to it. It wasn't big time. Just activists sounding off about government policy.”

“What government policy?”

“Usual stuff. Selling off our assets. Betraying our heritage. Corruption.”

“Was there anything else going on in the hotel?”

“Not that I've been able to find so far. It was pretty full. Mainly tourists here for Naadam and the anniversary celebrations. But there weren't any other events going on.”

“So what else do we know?”

“Not much. There was an explosion. We still haven't gotten any information on the cause—whether it was a bomb or something accidental. They're still investigating the site. It wasn't a large blast. Broke a few windows. There was a fire, but it was extinguished pretty quickly. Doesn't seem to be any structural damage.”