The Outcast (16 page)

“And then there's the man with the gun.”

Batzorig nodded. “The replica gun. Not clear if he was really intending to be threatening, or whether he was just confused. We know he was nearly overcome by smoke fumes.”

“And we know he was nearly shot down.”

“And then he vanishes. I have a couple of men trekking around the hospitals, seeing if there's any sign of him. But that's taking time.”

“And then finally we have our dead body in the storeroom. Any more information on him?”

Batzorig glanced down at his notes. “We haven't gotten the pathologist's report yet.”

“He doesn't feel like doing something immediately, just for a change?”

Batzorig smiled. “We'll get it soon enough. What we know for the moment is that the victim was stabbed, and we're assuming that was the cause of death. He was male, pretty young—probably early twenties. Not Mongolian.”

“Like the victim in the museum?”

“Very similar. In fact, it looks as if both of them were probably Asian but not from here. Probably Indian sub-continent—in terms of ethnicity, anyway. We've no information on where they actually came from.”

Doripalam rose from behind his desk and walked wearily across to the window. The view was as depressing as ever—a bleak empty courtyard, hemmed in on all sides by tall grey buildings. It was barely possible to be sure that it was even daylight out there, though the sun must be up by now. “And we think he was killed where we found him?”

“Well, we don't have—”

“The pathologist's report. But I imagine we'll cope. What do you think?”

“Well, that would be consistent with the bloodstains.”

“So that's what we have?” Doripalam said, slumping back into his seat. “Not much.”

“With respect, sir, it sounds a lot to me.”

Doripalam nodded. “A hell of a lot. On its way to being chaos on wheels. But not much that makes any sense.”

“What about the two murders? That suggests some sort of pattern.”

“One kicked to death in a carpet, the other stabbed in a storeroom? Doesn't suggest a very clear pattern to me. Except that both were Asian, but not local. I presume we're checking on where they might have come from?”

“I have someone on it. Checking all arrivals—over the past year to start with. We've checked fingerprints but there's nothing matching. Of course, they might be illegals.”

Doripalam nodded. It was possible. The number of illegal arrivals was, so far as they could judge, still pretty low—though there was some influx from the former Soviet Union and even some from China. But someone would have to be fairly desperate to come here rather than staying put. On the other hand, there were countless reasons, illegal and otherwise, why someone might want to travel anonymously.

“Okay,” he said. “A fragmented set of events. Which might suggest the end of the civilised world as we know it, but might just be a set of coincidences. And no sense to any of it. I think it's time for me to go and get some sleep.” Doripalam was getting to his feet, when his cell phone rang from somewhere deep in his jacket pocket.

He fumbled for the phone and thumbed the call button. “Doripalam.”

There was a long pause while he listened to whatever was being said by the caller. “No,” Doripalam said, at last. “No, we've heard nothing. But it's funny you should ask.”

There was an edge to his voice, and Batzorig watched with mild curiosity.

After another pause, Doripalam said, “No. Nothing. It's a long story. We've not been able to identify anyone who's been arrested. But we do have an account that sounds as if it corroborates yours. So who was it? Who do you think has been arrested?”

There was a long silence. Batzorig, watching, was unsure whether
the caller was still speaking or whether—as appeared to be the case—Doripalam was simply staring blankly into the air.

Finally, Doripalam spoke: “Oh, sweet heaven,” he said. “Now that does make it interesting.”

At first Tunjin couldn't be sure he was even awake. He lay with his eyes wide open, uncertain whether this was darkness or light, sleeping or waking. Perhaps this was what death was like. If so, it was a disappointment.

He moved slightly, and felt the weight of the bedclothes, the discomfort of the hard bed, the drip still clinging to his arm. The hospital.

He twisted in bed and tried to make out his surroundings, realising that now, finally, he was able to move. The room was apparently deserted. Beyond his bed, there was a jumble of unidentifiable medical equipment, but no sign of life. The lights were out, though light was creeping through the uncurtained window. He shifted awkwardly and looked at his watch. Five fifteen. It was summer, he remembered. Grey light at five fifteen must mean morning, rather than afternoon. Not long after dawn.

Nergui had been sitting here, he thought. Nergui had been watching him. So where was he now?

He grabbed hold of the bed sheet and tried to manoeuvre his body upright. It wasn't easy. But, given Tunjin's bulk, it was never easy. He jerked his torso up, and then, in a painful movement, swung his legs on to the floor. Gasping, he sat up.

He felt okay. Probably much better than he had any right to. A slight headache. His heart beating unnaturally fast. Short of breath. Nothing unusual.

The room was definitely empty. He dragged himself to his feet
and stumbled over to the window. The room looked out on to a main street, adjacent to the central square. The sun was up, but hadn't been for long, and the street was drenched in rich sunlight and long dark shadows.

He walked slowly across to where a door opened on to the corridor beyond, and peered through the small window. A man in a dark grey suit sat in a hard-backed chair immediately opposite. As far as Tunjin could judge, he was fast asleep.

I should stay here, Tunjin thought. I should wait for Nergui to return.

He paused, his hand on the door handle. But I don't know why I'm being detained, he thought. I don't even know—his addled mind went back to the confusing conversation he had had with Nergui—if Nergui has the authority to hold me here anyway.

Those unfamiliar with Tunjin's capabilities were often surprised that someone of his bulk could move with such grace and dexterity. He pulled back the door and peered out soundlessly. For a moment, he hesitated, looking down at himself. He would not get far dressed in a hospital gown.

He moved back into the room. There was a free-standing cupboard to the left of his bed. He pulled it open and identified his clothes. Trousers, an old T-shirt, shoes. That would do.

He dressed quickly, leaving the shoes off for the moment. Then he moved back to the door and glanced through the small window.

The man was still in the chair, his head slumped forward. Maybe it was a trick, but Tunjin could always claim that he was looking for a lavatory. He slowly pulled open the door and stepped out into the corridor. The man moved slightly, and for a moment Tunjin expected him to raise his head. But he remained motionless. Tunjin moved silently past him. Moments later, he had turned the corner and was hurrying down an adjoining corridor, less concerned now about making a noise. He turned another corner, then stopped briefly to put on the shoes.

He passed innumerable closed doors, and finally found himself facing the hospital's main bank of elevators. He was about to press the
call button when he realised that one of the elevators had just arrived at his floor. He moved quickly back into the stairway beside the elevators, as the elevator door opened and a man emerged.

Tunjin watched as the man disappeared towards the room that Tunjin himself had recently vacated. He moved quickly back towards the elevators and pressed the call button. The elevator was still waiting and opened immediately.

It took him seconds to reach the ground floor and the deserted entrance lobby. He looked around, half expecting to see some security guard or receptionist, but there was no sign of anyone. He looked back over his shoulder, conscious that, if the man from the elevator had been one of Nergui's people, it would not be long before his own departure was discovered.

He reached the main door and pulled on the handles, but at this time of day the entrance was securely locked. For a second, he stood wondering what to do, considering the likelihood of finding another, unlocked exit.

Then it occurred to him that the door was locked electronically. On the outside there was a security keypad, requiring a code number. But the door could be opened from inside simply by pressing a control behind the reception desk. Finding the switch easily, Tunjin was soon pushing open the double glass doors and stepping out into the summer morning.

“You can close your mouth now,” Doripalam said. “And put your eyeballs back in their sockets.”

“It's some place, though,” Batzorig said. He was still staring up at the apartment block, trying to take in its sleek contours, the lines of dark metal and glass.

“It won't weather well,” Doripalam commented. “Give it a few of our winters.”

“It'll still look a lot better than my place.” Batzorig said. “I knew I chose the wrong career.” He was joking, but the undertone of regret was real enough.

“We all chose the wrong career,” Doripalam said. It was true, he
thought. There would have been a time, not so long ago, when people like Batzorig and he would have been part of the elite—the trusted servants of the state. Now the elite were the businessmen, the lawyers, the property dealers, the traders in everything from gold to energy. It was strange that Sarangarel was now part of that world.

The sun was well up, but it was still early and there was no sign of life along the street. The apartment block looked equally uninhabited, its blank windows giving no clue as to what or who lay within. Doripalam found Sarangarel's name among the array of buzzers, and pressed. After a moment, the door clicked open and they entered into the cool marble lobby.

Air-conditioning, Doripalam thought. Still rare enough here, except in some of the large hotels and office blocks. To the right of the elevator, there was a closed door with a mirrored window which might perhaps lead to a concierge's room. The elevator doors were open, waiting. He hesitated for a moment, as if expecting some further signal. Then he led Batzorig into the elevator, pressed the button for the third floor as Nergui had directed, and waited while the almost imperceptible ascent began.

When the doors reopened, Nergui was standing in the corridor waiting for them. Doripalam had half-wondered whether Nergui might make some apology for his behaviour in the hospital. But Nergui would already have moved on, disregarding any impact his actions might have had on Doripalam's sensibilities. Doripalam recalled how Nergui had behaved when Sarangarel herself had been kidnapped: an icy detachment, an absolute focus on the practicalities, his personal feelings buried beneath a shell of pragmatism, as solid as the winter earth.

The thought led him, as so often before, to curiosity about Nergui's relationship with Sarangarel. As far as he knew it had never blossomed into anything more than a cordial acquaintance, though there had been a time when Doripalam had expected something more substantial to emerge. Now, Sarangarel had called Nergui first, and, presumably, had chosen to call him in the small
hours of the morning. Doripalam wondered what the significance of that might be.

“How's Tunjin?” Doripalam said, determined that, if nothing else, Nergui would have to acknowledge their previous encounter.

“Improving, I think,” Nergui said. “I left him sleeping.”

“With your people?” Doripalam had no real expectation that Nergui would shed any further light on his dealings with Tunjin.

Nergui nodded. “Keeping an eye on him.” He gestured towards an open door, halfway down the corridor. “Sarangarel's apartment,” he said.

Doripalam noted with some amusement Batzorig's silent but expressive reaction to the dimensions and furnishings of the room that they entered. It was difficult not to be impressed—everything was striking, from the careful understatedness of the décor to the enormous windows framing the pure blue of the morning sky.

Sarangarel was sitting on an expensive leather sofa, cradling a cup of coffee. To her left was a young man—skinny, anxious-looking, his long hair swept back from his stubbled face. There was something mournful about him. He had the air of someone accustomed to treating life lightly who had unexpectedly stumbled upon a hidden darkness. He looked up as the three men entered as though hoping they might bear some positive news.

Sarangarel rose to greet them. She looked even more remarkable than Doripalam remembered. A year ago, she had been a striking woman, her elegant beauty matched by a self-possession that had been strengthened rather than undermined by the challenges she had faced. But it was clear now that at the time some spark had been dimmed by those pressures. There was a new energy in her movements, a brightness in her eyes. Even at this time in the morning she had an extraordinary presence, looking ready to take on the world and anything it might throw at her. Doripalam glanced at Nergui and wondered what he might be thinking. But, as always, his dark face gave away nothing.

“Have you found out anything?” she said. “About Odbayar, I mean.”

Doripalam shook his head. “Not really. Not so far. We have corroboration of what …” he gestured towards the young man.

“Gundalai,” she said, and the young man nodded as though being reminded of his own name.

“We have some corroboration of what you saw,” Doripalam said, addressing himself to the young man. “We were there ourselves, outside the hotel—”

“You saw it?” Gundalai said, suddenly scrambling to his feet. There was an unexpected flash of anger in his eyes. “You let it happen?”

Doripalam held up his hands. “No. We didn't let anything happen. We arrived afterwards. It was the local police handling it.” He briefly recounted what the local officer had told them about the young man with the gun.