The Outcast (28 page)

The thought of water made Odbayar conscious of his thirst, and he made his way around to the back of the truck. The body of the vehicle was almost too hot to touch and a shimmering heat haze rose from its roof. Odbayar pulled open the rear doors and stared gratefully at the rows of bottled water that Sam had stacked down one side of the available space. There were cans of fuel, too, and some cool-boxes which Odbayar presumed contained food. It had all been carefully planned.

He pulled out one of the bottles and, unscrewing the lid, took a deep swallow of the liquid inside. It was lukewarm from the sun, but after the hours of driving tasted better than anything he had ever drunk. He swallowed some more, and then straightened up.

“Don't drink it too quickly.”

Odbayar turned, taken off-guard by the proximity of the voice. He had not heard Sam approaching. “We seem to have plenty,” he said. “You've planned it well.”

Sam nodded. “But we do not know how long this may take. We need to be cautious.”

As so often in Sam's company, Odbayar felt mildly chastised for his naivety. “I suppose so,” he said.

Sam removed the bottle from Odbayar's hands and took a swallow himself, then pointedly screwed the top back on. “We need to ensure that we're the ones in control. If this drags on, we must be prepared for that. The longer it takes, the more they'll feel the pressure.” He replaced the bottle in the rear of the truck, then
leaned further in and eased up the lid on one of the boxes. “You must be hungry,” he said. “I brought some food. Nothing fancy—just enough to sustain us. Bread, biscuits, some dried fruit. Stuff that will keep.”

“Some bread would be good,” Odbayar said. He was less hungry than he would have expected, but that was probably just the effect of the adrenaline.

Sam reached into the box and pulled out a loaf of bread. He tore off a piece and handed it to Odbayar. The bread was already dry, but tasted fine. “There's some dried meat, if you'd like it,” Sam offered.

Odbayar shook his head. “This is enough.” He pointed towards the rear of the truck. “What's in all the boxes? More food?”

Sam looked at him, his gaze unwavering for several seconds. Then he said: “There's plenty of food. Enough to keep us going, so long as we're careful.”

Odbayar noticed that his question had not been answered. “How much further now?”

“Not far,” Sam said. He turned and pointed ahead. In the distance, the trees thickened across the landscape, dark knots of fir trees, as the land rose towards the hills. “Maybe half an hour. Maybe a little more.”

Odbayar nodded, wondering again why all this was necessary. Why did they have to come here? He understood the symbolism, and understood the practical reasons for needing to be away from the city, but did they really have to come all the way up here?

He knew that Sam had secrets and they were here because of them and because of Sam's background. That was why they would be able to do this. Odbayar had no idea how Sam had coordinated all the required activities, and he had no wish to find out. That was why you worked with professionals, because they knew the things you didn't.

But there was more. He was no fool, and he was much less naïve than Sam might think. Sam was an agent. He was doing a job, not just for Odbayar but for the distant masters who had
always run his life. Odbayar had had no direct contact with them, had no definite knowledge of what they might be looking to gain from all this. One of the challenges he was going to face, if this all worked out, was ensuring that they were happy but that the price wasn't too high. He had assumed there would be scope for some deal that would keep all parties happy.

Was he being too complacent? Perhaps he really was getting involved with something he couldn't handle. Was Sam working towards a different end-game? He didn't think he was, but he'd always known that he was running that risk. However, Odbayar could not shake the feeling of unease; there was something about the way Sam looked at him that had haunted his dreams even during their endless drive up here.

Something personal.

For the first time, standing in the baking heat of the sun, under the inadequate shade of the shabby firs, Odbayar felt a chill of fear. It was an unfamiliar sensation. It had never occurred to him that he had any real reason to be afraid. Sure, he was taking risks. But they were professional risks—to his reputation and livelihood, risks to his future. Not risks to his own life.

Suddenly, looking across at Sam, he realised that he had been naïve; he had no idea who this man was, what his real motives were for getting involved in this escapade, what he might be expecting to get out of it.

What he would do if anything should go wrong.

Sam would have thought everything through. He would have identified any potential problems, anything that might throw them off track and he would have a plan to deal with every contingency. Which meant that, even at the worst, Sam would get out of this safe and sound. He would walk away. No loose ends.

Odbayar shook his head and pulled open the truck door. He was being ridiculous. He had worked closely with Sam for weeks. Sam had been recommended by people who knew what they were talking about. He had planned this to the last detail. Nothing would go wrong.

Sam had already climbed into the driver's seat and was watching Odbayar curiously. “Everything all right?”

Odbayar looked back at the older man, as calm and punctilious as ever in his white shirt and neat college tie. “Just hot.”

“Not far now. It'll be cooler once we get properly into the trees. And when we get some altitude.” Sam smiled, though his eyes gave nothing away.

“Do you want me to drive? You've done it all so far.”

Sam shook his head, still smiling. “No. Just relax. Enjoy the scenery. Enjoy the peace.” His smile broadened, as though some pleasant thought had just struck him. “After all, everything's just about to start.”

“Eight missed calls in the last hour,” Nergui said, holding out his cell phone. “And that's not counting the callbacks from the voicemail service.”

“The minister?” Doripalam asked. He was staring intently at a detailed map of the north of the country.

“All ‘number withheld,'” Nergui said. “So I imagine so.”

“You'd better call him back. He's clearly keen to speak to you.”

“Clearly,” Nergui agreed. He was in his characteristic posture, stretched back in his chair, his ankles resting delicately on the corner of Doripalam's desk. “I suppose I had, actually,” he said. “This is his son we're talking about after all.”

Doripalam shook his head, trying to read the older man's typically blank expression. “There are depths to your compassion I've never recognised,” he said.

“A son is a son, I imagine. Even for the minister.” He pulled himself slowly to his feet. “I'll find somewhere quiet to call him.”

Meaning, Doripalam thought, that you don't want the likes of me listening into the conversation. “You can stay in here. I've things I need to sort out with Batzorig.”

“Thank you,” Nergui said, with apparent sincerity. “It won't take long.” He paused. “How much do we want to tell the minister? It's your call. Your case.”

“About Wu Sam, you mean? Or Professor Sam Yung, assuming they're really one and the same. It's hardly my call, even if it is my case. It's your career on the line. But my inclination is to say nothing, unless you really think you should. We don't even know for sure that Odbayar really is missing, let alone that this guy has anything to do with it. As for the rest of it, who knows?”

Nergui nodded. “I'm very good at playing dumb in such matters,” he said. “You'd be surprised.”

“I'd be astonished.” Doripalam rose and crossed to the door. As he closed it behind him, he saw Nergui resuming his familiar posture, his legs stretched out again, the phone clamped to his ear, looking completely relaxed.

Batzorig was in his own office, also engaged in what looked to be an intense telephone conversation. Doripalam watched through the open door, conscious of how the younger man's confidence had grown since his promotion earlier in the year. He had always been bright and capable, but he had previously been too easily intimidated by authority, real or assumed. As had been demonstrated by his handling of the university vice-president, he was overcoming that particular shortcoming.

“I don't care,” he was saying calmly. “We need it now. No, that's not good enough. Yes, you've explained the situation very clearly. But we need it now.” He paused, listening to another blast of self-justification from his interlocutor. “Yes, from the chief.” He looked up at Doripalam. “Well, if you'd like him to repeat his request in person, I can. Of course. No problem. When will you be ready? Okay, that's fine. No, really, thanks for your cooperation.” He was smiling broadly as he replaced the receiver.

“That was good,” Doripalam said. “So what have I requested?”

Batzorig had the grace to look mildly embarrassed. “I'm sorry, sir. I knew he wouldn't really want to talk to you.”

“Well, who would?” Doripalam agreed. “But I trust that whatever I've requested was worth all your efforts.”

“I hope so, sir,” Batzorig said, with some eagerness in his voice. “It's a helicopter.”

“A helicopter?”

“Yes, sir. The city unit has use of one. It's the military's, strictly speaking, and that's where they borrow the pilots from. But they've been experimenting with it for handling stuff out on the steppes or the desert. Much quicker than taking a truck.”

“I'm sure,” Doripalam said. “How do you know all this stuff?”

“I just read the circulars, that's all, sir.”

“I always knew there was something different about you, Batzorig.” Doripalam stopped, his tired mind only now absorbing what Batzorig had said. “Now just remind me precisely why it is that we need a helicopter.”

“Genghis Khan's birthplace, sir. It's up in the north, near Ondorkhaan. A long way. I assumed we'd want to go there.”

Doripalam nodded. He still couldn't understand how Batzorig managed to remain so enthusiastic after what was rapidly heading towards a forty-eight-hour turn of duty. “I suppose we do,” he said. “Or somebody does. If that's where Sam Yung, or Wu Sam, or whoever the hell else he's supposed to be, was last sighted.”

“That's what I thought, sir. The only other option was to wait for the next scheduled flight, but that wouldn't be till tomorrow. I'd assumed it was more urgent than that.”

“So you commandeered a helicopter for us?”

“Well, borrowed, I think. It's theoretically available to all parts of the police service if you go through the appropriate channels.”

Doripalam gestured towards the phone. “And that was you going through the appropriate channels?”

Batzorig blushed faintly. “I short-circuited them slightly, I suppose.” Then he smiled. “But only at your request, sir. As you'll recall.”

Solongo stepped out into the hallway. Tunjin followed her, wondering how to handle this.

“Who do you think it is?”

She shook her head. “Haven't a clue. I'm not expecting anyone.”

“Perhaps it's someone for me,” he said. “Maybe they've tracked me down.”

“How could they have? No one saw you come here, did they?”

“I don't think so. I mean, nobody followed me from the hospital.”

“Nobody knows you're here. It's probably just a delivery or something.” Between them, the buzzer sounded insistently.

“Are you expecting a delivery?” He'd developed a finely honed sense of paranoia during all the events of the previous year, when that gangster Muunokhoi and his cronies really had been out to get him. Paranoia had saved his life then, and he'd seen no good reason to underestimate its value ever since.

“I don't know. It could be something from the museum or—”

Tunjin watched her closely as she moved to the door. If he was honest—and this was definitely the paranoia talking—he had no particular reason to trust Solongo. He'd turned up here on one of his usual badly conceived whims. He hardly knew her and she was not, to put it at its mildest, exactly his type. And he'd found her knocking back the vodka first thing in the morning. He couldn't blame her if her priority had been to get him out of her apartment. Perhaps she'd found some opportunity to contact Doripalam.

The buzzer sounded a third time, a rapid staccato succession of buzzes, as though the caller was becoming impatient. “You'd better answer,” Tunjin said. If it really was Doripalam's men out there, they'd batter the door down if they thought Solongo was in danger.

She nodded and pressed the intercom. “Yes?”

The answering voice was metallic, devoid of character. “Police. We need to speak to you.”

Solongo glanced at Tunjin. She seemed genuinely surprised. If she had called Doripalam, she was clearly a skilled actor. She put her finger to her lips, indicating that Tunjin should be silent. “I don't understand,” she said into the intercom. “What police? Why do you want to talk to me?”

There was a moment's pause. “It would be helpful if we could come up,” the voice said, finally.

“I'm sure it would,” she said, calmly. “But I'm not in the habit of allowing uninvited callers into my apartment without identification.”

There was another pause, a brief crackle of static on the line. “We can show you ID when we come up,” the voice said.

Solongo took her finger off the intercom button. “I don't like the sound of this,” she said. “I don't know what they want, but it seems official.”

“Maybe it's the murder,” Tunjin said. “Maybe they're just after another witness statement.”

“But those would be your people, wouldn't they? I mean, Doripalam's people. Surely they'd have said so.”