The Outcast (31 page)

The steppe was spread out before them, folds and billows of green, with only the occasional white scattering of a
ger
camp or brown line of a road to mar its emptiness.

This country telescopes distance, Doripalam thought. The sheer absence of landmarks draws the horizon to you. He was familiar with this phenomenon in the Gobi, and knew how deadly it could prove for those lost to the elements. You see sanctuary in the distance—a camp, a scattering of trees indicative of clean water, livestock—and you start to walk, assuming you can reach it in safety. But the miles stretch on, and your target grows no nearer. And eventually the sun, the heat, the dehydration catch up with you. A metaphor for life.

Nergui was watching him, his expression quizzical. As so often, it was as if he had some conduit to Doripalam's thoughts. “You think we're wasting our time?”

Doripalam shook his head. “I don't know. It's all so tenuous. We don't really even know that there's any cause for concern.”

“I think we do know that,” Nergui said. He leaned back in his chair, and peered out of the helicopter towards the ground, far below. “I have not been entirely frank with you.”

Doripalam shuffled around in his seat, trying to take in what Nergui was saying. It was as if he wants to wrong-foot you, he thought. He picks his moments. Way up in blue heaven, the air throbbing with noise, your senses dulled by the miles of nothingness, your mind drifting to blankness. “What are you talking about?”

“I have told you the truth,” Nergui said. “But not the whole truth.”

Doripalam couched forward in his seat, pressing his hands to his forehead, wanting to lose himself in the endless rhythmic drone of the rotors. “You know,” he said at last, “I don't find that too surprising. I wonder if you've ever told anyone the whole truth.” There was an edge of bitterness to his last words that he did nothing to conceal.

“Probably a justified comment,” Nergui said, his voice toneless through the earphones. “But you know I have my reasons.”

Doripalam saw no reason to bite back his anger. “You always have your reasons, Nergui. But you need to recognise that now and again you have to deal with us mortals. Maybe you should cut us a little slack.”

Nergui was staring out at the landscape, watching the skittering of the helicopter's shadow over the plain. His deep brown face was as expressionless as ever, his blue eyes unblinking. “Old habits die hard,” he said, finally. “Self-protection, I suppose. And the protection of others.”

“Okay, so tell me what this is all about.”

“It's the story of Wu Sam,” Nergui said. “The whole story.”

Doripalam watched the older man, realising that for once Nergui was lost for words; his eyes, fixed on the far horizon, looked haunted. For a moment, he wondered whether to intervene, offer some anodyne words, but all his police training suggested otherwise. Hold the silence. Let the other person break it. It's easier to tell the truth than to say nothing.

“We arrested him,” Nergui said, finally. “We knew his background, why he'd come here. We thought we knew what he'd done. We had enough evidence.”

“And what did you have?”

“We had a set up,” Nergui said. “We didn't realise it at first. We were seeing what we wanted to see. A low-grade informer—not even a proper spy. Someone paid peanuts to relay back whatever scraps he might stumble across.”

For a moment, Doripalam thought that Nergui really had lost the thread, his mind distracted by the incessant booming of the rotors, the ancient tangles of his own story.

“We assumed we had a psychopath on our hands, and we wanted him dealt with as quickly as possible.” For the first time, he looked directly at Doripalam. “We wanted a result. We believed what we wanted to believe,” he paused, half a beat, “what we were encouraged to believe.”

“I don't understand,” Doripalam said. His patience was wearing thin. Here he was, once again, chasing some half-explained intuition of Nergui's. Some phantom who might turn out to have nothing to do with all this in the first place.

“I lost focus,” Nergui said. “I didn't pay attention.” A smile played across his face, flickering like the shadow tossed by the helicopter across the steppe. “My political sense failed me. I've been more careful since.” He stopped. “I'm sorry. I think this has haunted me more than I realised. What I knew. What I should do about it.” He took a deep breath. “It began when we interviewed Wu Sam. We interviewed him as we would any suspect. He wasn't a diplomat, so he had no formal immunities. We treated him like any foreign national suspected of a serious crime, so the Chinese couldn't accuse us of political machinations.”

Doripalam resisted the urge to comment. “And the interview?”

“The second murder,” Nergui said. “The evidence was unequivocal, but he seemed genuinely baffled by it.”

“He wouldn't be the first suspect to deny the obvious,” Doripalam pointed out.

“Of course not. What I mean is, I found myself believing him. Tunjin and another officer were conducting the interview. I was watching from the observation room. And, after a while, I began
to believe what he was saying. That he was innocent. That he hadn't committed the murders.”

“If you were right about what he'd done, he was a psychopath. A born manipulator”

“Perhaps. But I'm no fool. All my instincts told me that he hadn't committed the murders. But that he was implicated in some more complex game.”

Nergui paused, apparently gathering his thoughts. “They interviewed him for that first day. Then at the end I went in on my own. They were getting nowhere, and my unease was growing all the time. I felt we were further away from the truth, rather than closer. He'd started to talk about being set up. So I went in, and he spoke to me.”

There was a sudden shout from the front seat of the helicopter. Batzorig was twisting his head back over the seat, gesturing ahead of them. “This is it,” he called back. “Pilot reckons we're just about there.” He pointed off to their left. There was a moderate-sized cluster of wooden buildings, the odd pale dots of
gers
, two larger buildings apparently fabricated from corrugated iron, faint trails of smoke rising into the clear sky. “That's Ondorkhaan. The airfield's just beyond the town, but I'm assuming we don't need to go there. The pilot's asking where we should put down.” He pointed off to the right, where the land rose towards the forests. The terrain was rich and verdant, the afternoon sun glinting on the sinuous line of a river. “That's the birthplace, supposedly. Do we want to head up there?”

Nergui nodded. “Get as close as we can. It doesn't look like the easiest place to land.”

Batzorig spoke briefly to the pilot. The helicopter banked in the air, the green earth sweeping away beneath them.

Nergui looked back at Doripalam, who was watching him quizzically. “Wu Sam told me a story.” He gestured towards the landscape below them. “That's why we're here. I still don't know for sure if the story was true. But if it was, I want to know how it ends.”

For a moment, as they entered the wider central thoroughfares, Tunjin almost lost them. The black car turned a sharp left into Peace Avenue, not slowing, its speed perfectly judged to merge seamlessly with the line of oncoming vehicles.

Pretty impressive driving, Tunjin thought. The black car was already disappearing into the commuter traffic circling the centre of the city.

He crunched the gears of Solongo's car, cursing its lack of acceleration, as he reached the corner with Peace Avenue. The traffic had thickened, and he was forced to slow. Losing patience, he slammed down the accelerator. With a barrage of horns behind him, he pulled sharply across into the outer lane. They were in the commercial district, the avenue lined with newly erected office buildings, studded with the increasingly familiar Western logos.

Tunjin hovered between lanes, incurring the wrath of the surrounding motorists, searching for the black car ahead. At last he spotted it, in the outer lane, eight or nine cars ahead. For once, Tunjin felt grateful for the sedate pace of Mongolian driving.

The black car was moving left, preparing to leave the avenue towards the city centre. Tunjin put his foot down, keeping it in sight as they emerged briefly into the road alongside Sukh Bataar Square. The far side of the square, where the new Genghis Khan memorial was being completed, was closed to traffic. For a moment, Tunjin wondered where the car was heading, then it turned to the right, behind the state museum.

Tunjin was still only a car behind, and had no difficulty in following. But the car had already moved to the left, preparing to turn into the rear of the museum. Behind him, a horn blared as Tunjin hit his brakes. He twisted the wheel to the right and, ignoring a further succession of horn blasts, he pulled into the kerb and stopped, his wheels at an angle across the pavement. A car passed, the driver shouting obscenities from his open window.

Tunjin climbed awkwardly out of the car and peered at the imposing museum building. Its carved stone frontage looked out over Khuldadaany Gudamj, one of the avenues that criss-crossed the city centre, the broad central square off to the left. The rear of the museum was gloomy and utilitarian, with a functional courtyard for delivery vehicles.

He crossed the street and peered through the museum gateway. The black car was parked in front of the rear entrance, and there was no sign either of Solongo or the others. The wide loading bay was closed, its heavy metal shutter firmly locked, but a smaller door beside it was wedged ajar.

The museum would be open, as far as he knew, though the public areas would probably be quiet on a weekday. In any case, a large section of the building was currently closed off, as Solongo and her team completed the preparations for the anniversary exhibition.

The open door led into the loading area, which was in darkness and apparently deserted. To the left, a gloomy corridor stretched into the interior of the building with more doors, mostly closed. Tunjin moved cautiously down the corridor until he reached a dimly lit stairwell, with concrete steps leading up to the rest of the building. He peered up the stairway and began slowly to climb.

At the top of the stairs, a further corridor stretched out, again with an array of doors, some open, some closed. The first open door he passed led into an office, with two desks set against the opposing walls. Both were clearly in use, but there was no sign of any occupant. The walls were lined with the familiar likeness of Genghis Khan, pictures of Karakorum and numerous other images
relating to the Mongol empire. At the far end of the room, a bookshelf was crammed with academic-looking volumes.

He continued his slow progress along the corridor, stopping at each closed door to listen for any sound. The silence seemed unnatural, as if the museum's inhabitants had been mysteriously removed.

Finally, at the far end of the corridor, he heard something. He stopped, straining his ears. The sound of a voice, a male voice. Perhaps more than one.

Ahead, the corridor widened into a lobby, more brightly lit and salubriously decorated. Beyond the lobby, there was an antiquated-looking elevator and a set of marble-faced stairs—the entrance from the administrative area into the public sections of the museum.

To one side, there was a new-looking leather couch, with a polished wooden coffee table set in front of it, and two further doors, both half-open. Their brass fittings suggested that they led to more impressive offices than those Tunjin had already seen.

The voices were clearer now—two of them, both male. Tunjin could make out no words, but the speakers were engaged in some kind of dialogue, their respective tones clearly distinguishable. One was low and murmuring, calm and deliberate. The other was higher pitched, emotional, though it was hard to pinpoint what emotion was being expressed. Perhaps anger. Perhaps anxiety.

Tunjin stopped opposite the first open door, positioning himself to peer inside without betraying his presence. As far as he could judge, the office was deserted. Two desks were visible, both topped with slightly outmoded computer monitors.

He moved towards the second door. The door was ajar, but he could not see what lay behind it. He stepped forward again until he was parallel with the doorway.

The voices were increasing in volume, the contrast between the two speakers becoming more pronounced. Tunjin listened harder, trying to discern any words. Finally, inches from the door, he could make out some of what the first speaker was saying. “Ridiculous … outrage … half-baked …” All hissed in the same intense half-suppressed whisper.

There was a small gap between the door and the frame, allowing Tunjin just enough space to peer between the hinges. Trying hard not to move the door itself, he peered through the tiny aperture.

It was a plushly appointed office, presumably that of the absent museum director. At the far side, below a large window, there was an expansive dark-wood desk, with a brass lamp, a telephone and little sign of any working clutter. Closer to hand, there were two black leather sofas, set facing one another across a glass-topped coffee table. There were people sitting on both sofas, as well as a figure propped on a high-backed chair.

Tunjin moved slightly, trying to make out more detail. Both sofas were set at right angles to him, and he could see some of the faces ranged opposite each other. All but one was male. The woman was sitting at the far end of one of the sofas, only her shoulder and the side of her head visible. Solongo.

There were four others, apparently of varying ages. The man on the high-backed chair was relatively young—probably late-twenties—and dressed in the dark suit and dark glasses that, in Tunjin's experience, was the standard uniform for a certain type of higher-class thug. The other men on the sofas were older, dressed in similar dark suits but looking more comfortable in the formal attire than their younger colleague.