The Outcast (23 page)

“We know,” Doripalam said. “I know. You know. Something's happened to him.”

“But we don't know what. And we don't know why.”

Doripalam shook his head. “You can be bloody gnomic, Nergui. But even by your standards—”

Nergui held up the photograph, as though to halt any further discussion. “So this Sam Yung,” he said. “Where is he?”

“I have Batzorig over at the university now, trying to find out. According to the visa details, he's on a three month visit.”

“Do we know why he's here?”

“I did a bit of hunting on the internet to see if I could find anything. There were a couple of references to academic papers
he'd published on the origins of the Mongol empire. I imagine he's here for the Genghis Khan anniversary.”

“Or that's his excuse for being here,” Nergui said. “If we assume that his motives are not purely academic.”

“Quite. But, if so, why is he here? Why after all this time?”

Nergui continued to study the photograph, as though he might glean more knowledge from the blank oriental features staring back at him.

“One of your hunches? You think there's something behind all this?” Doripalam picked up the phone and pressed the speed-dial code for Batzorig's cell phone.

Nergui placed the photograph carefully down on the desk. “I'm flying blind, you know that. I'm always flying blind.”

“But usually in the right direction.” Doripalam's tone was wry.

Batzorig had just entered the vice-president's office when his cell phone buzzed. The middle-aged man, rising from his desk, had opened his mouth to speak, but Batzorig held up his hand. “I'm sorry,” he said. “It's the chief. I need to speak to him. I do apologise, but I'm sure you understand.”

The vice-president looked as if such behaviour was far beyond his understanding but he watched unblinking as Batzorig took the call.

Normally Batzorig would have felt some discomfort at his own rudeness. But, having been kept waiting for thirty minutes after he had seen the vice-president stroll past his secretary into the office, he felt little inclination towards generosity.

“I think I did mention,” he had said to the vice-president's secretary, “that this is a murder enquiry. And that it's potentially urgent.”

“The vice-president is a busy man. He'll see you as quickly as he can. I'm sure he appreciates how important the matter is.” Her tone implied that the vice-president's assessment of this and most other matters would differ significantly from Batzorig's own.

This was a cheap revenge, therefore, but a mildly satisfying one. Batzorig held the phone close to his ear and spoke quietly, while
ensuring that the vice-president would be able to follow his words. “Yes, sir. Well, no, not as much as I'd hoped yet. I had to wait a little while to see the relevant party, sir.” He was aware that, in similar circumstances, Doripalam would have simply walked past the secretary. Nergui would quite possibly have had both her and the vice-president placed under arrest. Batzorig still had some skills to acquire.

“No, I haven't yet, sir. No one seems to know.” Batzorig could feel the vice-president's gaze fixed on him, and wondered how long it would be before his call was interrupted. “Yes, that's exactly what I'm doing. I would have—but, as I say, I was kept waiting for some time. Yes, I will tell him that, sir.” The final sentences hadn't been a direct response to Doripalam's actual question, but Batzorig trusted the chief would understand that he was playing to a different audience.

Doripalam caught on quickly enough. “If you like,” he said from the other end of the line, “you can tell the snooty old bastard that if he doesn't cooperate immediately we'll have him brought in for obstructing a murder inquiry.”

“I'll pass on your sentiments, sir,” Batzorig said. He felt able to meet the vice-president's gaze now.

He turned off the phone and smiled at the old man sitting behind the desk. The vice-president was a tall, slightly stooped individual, his swept back hair clearly dyed black. He had the air of someone who had never consciously failed to be the centre of attention, and who was on the point of reclaiming this rightful role.

“I'm terribly sorry, sir,” Batzorig said. “It's the chief. The head of Serious Crimes. He was just emphasising the urgency of the matter, this being a murder investigation.”

The vice-president had clearly been about to express his displeasure, but now stopped and gazed at Batzorig warily. “What does this have to do with the university?”

“Possibly nothing, sir. But you'll appreciate we have to follow up all leads.”

“I just hope that you're not wasting your time.” The words “and mine” were as audible as if they had been spoken.

“That's the point, sir, if you'll forgive me,” Batzorig said, earnestly. He was beginning to enjoy this. “It's never time wasted. If nothing else, it enables us to eliminate a line of inquiry. That's the nature of police work.” He had been schooled by masters in the art of patronising pompous interviewees.

“And this line of inquiry would be what, precisely?”

Batzorig paused, as though weighing up how much he should reveal. “We're trying to track down a Mr.—sorry, a Professor Sam Yung. We understand that he's a visiting scholar from the US.”

The vice-president's gaze remained constant. “You'd better sit down, Mr. … ?”

“Batzorig.” Batzorig lowered himself into the chair opposite, thinking that this represented a first small victory.

“I must confess that I'm a little taken aback, Mr. Batzorig.”

“Sir?”

“You do realise, of course, that Professor Yung is a most distinguished academic. An honoured visitor to our country.”

“If you say so, sir. It's not really my field.”

“No, well. But you'll understand my surprise that Professor Yung—”

“I'm merely trying to contact him. That's all.”

The vice-president looked at him for another long moment, as if trying to read the thoughts of the moon-faced young man sitting opposite. “Yes, of course,” he said, finally. “Well, I can give you the address where he's staying. We've provided him with one of the university apartments.”

“I know that. It looks a very pleasant place.”

The vice-president allowed a momentary glimmer of surprise pass across his face. “You have his address?”

“Yes, sir. It was given to the immigration service as part of his entry requirements.”

“Of course. And you've been over there?”

“It was the first place I tried, sir. We're just looking to talk to
him informally. At this stage, I mean.” Batzorig left the final words hanging ambiguously in the air. “There was no one at the apartment. I tried some the neighbouring apartments and eventually found someone who knew him. Another member of your faculty, I believe.” He paused, managing to imply that the presence of this second faculty member might somehow be incriminating.

“I'm afraid I don't see—”

“I was told that he hadn't been around for some time. At least a couple of weeks. And that I should visit the faculty, that you might have some idea where he was. Which is why I'm here, sir.” Batzorig was smiling now. “I was told something about a trip?”

The vice-president looked much less self-assured. It was strange, Batzorig thought. This was a different world now, a very different society. There was no reason why foreign visitors should not travel freely wherever they wished, but the vice-president, like many of his generation, had never quite shaken off the shackles of the old regime. He was a product of the days when no foreign visitor—and certainly none of the very rare travellers from the West—would have left the city without the full knowledge of the authorities and a dutiful MIAT guide. It was clear that he felt some discomfort at being unable to account for his visitor's whereabouts. In the old days, his position would have been untenable and the tone of this meeting would have been very different. Batzorig decided to make every effort to remind the vice-president of the old days.

“I take it Professor Yung is not in the university at present?” he said, calmly. “Do you know where he is?”

“Professor Yung is a guest of ours, and a distinguished scholar of our nation's past,” the vice-president said, in the tone that he no doubt adopted for graduation-day speeches. “We would of course wish him to take the opportunity to explore our heritage and landscape.”

It was finely done, Batzorig was forced to acknowledge, but there was an undertone of hesitancy to the vice-president's words. “This would be an official trip, then?” Batzorig offered. “Hosted by the university?”

“We have organised several official trips for the professor.”

“Including this one?”

The vice-president shook his head. “No. I understand that this excursion was organised at the professor's own request. He wished to explore some of the country for himself. The official trips can be a little formal.”

Batzorig gazed impassively at the vice-president for a moment. “He's exploring the country on his own?”

“Not on his own.” The vice-president stopped, and then went on as if trying to extricate himself from the web of his own circumlocution. “Look, Mr. Batzorig, I've had very little direct involvement in this. We received a request from the professor to visit as part of his sabbatical. He was keen to experience the anniversary-year celebrations and exhibitions. And we were only too pleased to welcome someone of his eminence.”

“He really is a distinguished scholar, then?” Batzorig said, trying hard to keep any note of irony from his voice.

“Of course. You must understand that ours is not a field that is widely studied in the West. Genghis Khan is always of interest, but the broader study of the Mongol empire is a more specialist area of expertise. Professor Yung has written a number of well-regarded papers.”

The best we could find, then, Batzorig mentally translated. “But his current whereabouts?” he prompted.

“I have to say that, although Professor Yung was cooperative enough in terms of our formal programme, I had a sense that his real interest lay elsewhere. That he found the structured excursions a little constraining. Perhaps understandable for one of his background.” He stopped, possibly in response to Batzorig's facial expression. “He asked for our support in visiting one or two locations on his own. We were only too happy to assist.”

“So where is he at the moment?” Batzorig interrupted.

“Well, the last I was aware, he was travelling up to Genghis Khan's birthplace. Or supposed birthplace.”

“When was this?”

There was a moment's silence. “It was—well, it must have been nearly two weeks ago. I'd rather assumed he'd returned, but from what you say …”

“I don't know, sir. I only know that none of his neighbours appears to have seen him.”

“I've certainly not seen him around the faculty. I mean, he's discharged all his formal duties—the lectures and seminars he agreed to as part of the visit—so there's no particular reason for him to be here. But I'd assumed that he would attend some lectures.”

“But you've seen no sign of him for the last two weeks?”

“He may have decided to extend his excursion.” This was said with an air of bravado, as though the vice-president were challenging Batzorig to question the validity of the statement.

“You said he wasn't travelling alone?”

“We'd organised him a guide. Someone who spoke English. Professor Yung spoke some Mongolian, as well as Chinese, but he was far from fluent.”

“He spoke Chinese?”

The vice-president nodded. “Yes. He was born in China, in Beijing. But his family was from Inner Mongolia, apparently. Hence his interest in Mongolian history. One of those who perceive the links rather than the divisions between our two countries.”

“He had been here before?”

“Not that I'm aware. I think that was the point. He'd always been fascinated by our country; had been brought up tantalisingly close to it, but had spent most of his adult life on the far side of the world.”

“When did he move to the US?”

“I'm afraid I've no idea. I just had the impression that he'd lived most of his adult life there.”

“And the last you knew, he was intending to visit Genghis Khan's birthplace?” Batzorig paused. “You'll forgive my ignorance, sir, but that would be where, precisely?”

“Precisely,” the vice-president said, perhaps sensing that he was moving on to more comfortable conversational terrain, “it's very
difficult to say. Imprecisely—well, it's out in the east. Up in the hills. The nearest town is Ondorkhaan.”

This meant nothing to Batzorig, who had rarely ventured beyond the city boundaries. “How far is that?”

“Some distance. There are flights to Ondorkhaan, and it's a drive beyond that.”

“Who was the guide, sir? Who's with Professor Yung?”

“I'm afraid I can't help you there. It was organised through one of my staff, who in turn arranged it through one of his students, as I understand.”

Batzorig raised his head, thinking of Wu Sam's history, wondering if this Sam Yung might indeed be the same man. “One of your students is accompanying him?”

“Not exactly. I mean, we often would do it that way. A lot of our graduate students speak excellent English, and are keen to earn some extra money.”

“But not this time?”

“Nobody was available. Over the summer, most of them have gotten jobs already.”

“So who is it?”

“I think it was an ex-student. Someone who's done this kind of thing before. I can find out.”

“I'd be grateful if you could do that, sir. As soon as possible.”

The vice-president was finally beginning to recognise the urgency in Batzorig's tone. “Yes, of course. When do you need the information?”