The Outcast (40 page)

“Bastard,” she murmured softly. It was not clear whether the word was addressed to the man sitting next to her or to the minister.

“Now,” the minister said, “the fact that nothing appeared on the television news suggests that these carefully laid plans have gone astray. And it's difficult to see how that might have happened without leaving my own position exposed.” He paused. “I might be able to bluff my way out of things. It wouldn't be the first time. But I think I'd be better just making my exit.”

Tunjin was still standing, his gun pointing towards the man on the high-backed chair, wondering what to do. Everything he'd understood had been turned on its head. He could try to stop the minister, but that would just put them back at the mercy of this bunch of thugs. But if he allowed the minister to go—well, he didn't know what the implications might be.

The minister was now standing behind Solongo. “You really don't need to worry,” he said to the dark-suited men. “I really have no interest in you. I'm very happy for you to just slink back into whatever dark alleys you emerged from. I need a few minutes to
get out of here, and then you can just quietly slip away and put this down to experience.” There was a smile playing across his face now, as if he had been mentally working through the options and had settled on his next step. “As for you …” He turned and gestured with the gun towards Tunjin. “Thank you for your assistance. I'd advise you not to try anything, unless you feel like trying to bring these gentlemen to justice single-handedly. You would be wise not to try to stop me, but just in case you should decide to be foolish …”

He leaned forward, grabbed Solongo's wrist and pulled her up in front of him, his gun now pressed to the side of her head. “I really am sorry,” he said, apparently speaking now to Solongo. “I really shouldn't be treating you like this, knowing who you are.” Her eyes flickered sideways as she tried to look at him, her fear giving way to bafflement. “But I suppose that just makes it fitting. Perhaps it's finally a way for your father to pay me back, after all these years. I'm sure he'd enjoy the irony.”

He backed towards the door, still holding Solongo. “Let's say fifteen minutes,” he said. “I want none of you to move for fifteen minutes. That's all the time I'll need. If any of you emerges before then, I'll have no hesitation in shooting this young lady.”

It was some minutes before Sarangeral realised that the silence was far from complete. Slowly, she was able to pick out sounds. In the distance, someone screaming. Another person barking instructions. Behind all that, the sound of a siren.

She raised her head. Gundalai was lying motionless, his body curled into a foetal position. For a moment, she thought he was injured. But then he raised his head and stared at her, his eyes wide.

“Are you okay?” For some reason, she found herself talking in a whisper.

“I think so. Some of the glass caught me, but I don't think I was cut.”

She dragged herself to a sitting position, and for the first time
it occurred to her to worry about her own well-being. Her light-coloured suit was filthy, covered with dust from the explosion and the office unit floor. But otherwise she seemed to have suffered no adverse effects. She pulled herself to her feet and moved cautiously to the window. There was no telling whether the initial explosion would be the precursor to further blasts.

The stage obscured the stadium, so she could not see what kind of state the arena might be in. Through the shattered glass, she could hear the external noises more clearly—shouting, some panicked, some more authoritative. The sound of sirens was growing louder, but still some distance away.

“What shall we do?” Gundalai said from behind her. “Stay here or try to get out?”

“My instinct's to get out, but that might not be the smartest move if there are other bombs.”

Gundalai was brushing the broken glass from his clothes. “On the other hand, if there are other bombs, staying here might not be the smartest move either.”

“Shall we risk it, then?”

She opened the door of the unit, peering into the sunlight. With Gundalai close behind her, she stepped cautiously out. Overall, the impact of the explosion had been much less severe than she had envisaged. A small part of one of the nearby stands had been damaged, leaving a gaping black hole and a scattering of broken wood. In the midst of the festival, the blast would have killed or injured numerous spectators. Today Sarangeral could see no sign of any serious casualties.

There were few people left in the arena, other than one or two onlookers by the main entrance. Even as she watched, a uniformed official began to move them further back.

“Come on,” she said to Gundalai. “Let's get over there.”

They jogged briskly across to the wide main entrance. The man in uniform looked at them quizzically and seemed about to speak, but they moved quickly past him into the stadium parking lot. There were clusters of people standing at the far end of the concreted
area. The sound of sirens was loud in the air, and she assumed that police and ambulances would be arriving shortly.

The atmosphere was strangely calm, very different from the panic she had feared. As they crossed the parking lot, she saw some casualties being dealt with by the arena's own medical staff. One young man was sitting on the ground, ashen-faced, a nurse applying a dressing to his cheek. Another was lying, conscious but motionless, on a hastily-strewn blanket, his leg being bandaged by another medic. Both looked shocked, but not seriously injured.

Beyond these individuals, a thicker crowd had gathered. This was largely comprised of those who had been evacuated from the stadium, although they were being joined by a growing number of curious passers-by. The atmosphere seemed one of enthusiastic interest, rather than fear or panic. Most seemed to have assumed that the worst risks had passed, or at least that they were now at a safe distance. It was an assumption that caused Sarangerel some unease. If there were more bombs, why should they have been planted in the stadium itself? Wasn't it possible that a device could have been hidden out here, perhaps in one of the cars or trucks?

She looked around, in the hope of spying someone in authority. Finally, she pulled out her cell phone and keyed in Nergui's number again. As before, she was transferred immediately to his voicemail. She quickly left a message, succinctly informing Nergui about the explosion, reassuring him, if he should be concerned, that both she and Gundalai were unharmed.

The sirens were loud now, just a street or two away.

It suddenly occurred to her to think about the approaching emergency crews. She had heard the first siren only seconds after the explosion had died away. How could the emergency services have been summoned so promptly?

The question was answered almost immediately. A line of marked police cars, sirens wailing, appeared in convoy on the main road that ran along the north side of the stadium grounds. Two screamed to a halt, scattering dust, and parked nose to tail, blocking the two
lanes of the road. A third pulled up beside them, covering, though not yet blocking, the entrance to the stadium itself. Whatever their purpose might be, the drivers were not primarily interested in the bombing.

It was a few minutes before an ambulance arrived, pulling up beside the small group of casualties. The two ambulance men helped the injured into the back of the vehicle, then the ambulance turned and sped back along the concrete track towards the main road, the siren recommencing its distinctive whoop.

As it disappeared, the third police car moved into position, fully blocking the entrance to the stadium, preventing any other vehicle from entering or leaving. The main road—the key route from the city centre to the south-west and the international airport—was completely closed.

A battered truck approached the roadblock from outside the city. A uniformed policeman climbed languidly from one of the cars and leaned down to speak to the driver. A moment later, the truck did a rapid U-turn and sped back down the road, as the driver either abandoned his planned trip or sought some alternative route.

It was clear that no traffic would be coming past this point in the immediate future. Something was happening, Sarangeral thought, and its focus was not the explosion. The explosion had been a symptom, and these people were waiting for the cause.

“Move!”

Solongo stumbled slightly as he drove her down the wide marble steps in the museum's main hall. She thought she was going to fall, but she regained her balance and continued down the remaining stairs, aware of the steely grip of his hand on her wrist, the gun barrel inches from her head.

She had been in a daze since she had been bundled into the back of the car. Perhaps partly the merciful effects of the morning's alcohol, deadening her sensitivities. But more likely it was shock. She had always been aware of the risks that Doripalam faced, but
she had never seriously believed that those risks might extend to herself.

And now she found herself stumbling through a deserted museum, a gun at her head, dragged by an apparent madman. A madman all the more terrifying because his demeanour seemed utterly calm and in control. She had recognised the elderly man as soon as they thrust her into the room at the museum, not only from the television but she had seen him, from time to time, at functions that Doripalam had attended in his official capacity. But she could make no sense of this terrifying turn of events.

The clattering sound of their footsteps echoed around the empty halls of the galleries, deserted now in the late afternoon. The minister was moving faster, his eyes fixed determinedly on the side exit ahead of them. Sunlight from the high windows barely illuminated the gloomy interior. They passed silent eyeless statues, cluttered displays, the inevitable image of Genghis Khan staring disapprovingly down from a giant poster.

Finally, they reached the exit. The door was wedged open, and the minister pulled it back and thrust her out into the dazzling daylight.

She wondered then if there might be a momentary opportunity to escape, to pull away and seek help in the main thoroughfares, but the door opened on to a narrow side street, and an official-looking car was waiting a few metres away. As the minister emerged into the daylight, she heard the engine start.

The minister grasped her wrist more tightly and whispered harshly in her ears. “Act normally. I'm going to put the gun in my pocket, but it'll still be aimed at you and I won't hesitate to use it. On you and on the driver, if necessary.”

She stared at him for a moment, wondering what normal might mean in these circumstances. Then she turned and made her way, a few steps in front of him, to the car.

The uniformed driver was presumably one of the official ministerial pool, who had brought the minister down here and had been waiting to take him on to his next assignation. It was difficult
not to be impressed by Bakei's confidence, she thought. He had come to the museum on this clandestine errand, and yet had no hesitation in using ministerial facilities. And why not? He would have aroused much less suspicion by making full use of the trappings of his office than if he had tried to skulk around on his own.

Her only immediate hope was that the driver would respond to her presence in some way that might provide her with an opportunity for escape. But no doubt official drivers were encouraged to turn a blind eye to anything they didn't understand, particularly if their boss turned up unexpectedly accompanied by a member of the opposite sex.

Sure enough, the driver offered no reaction, but simply climbed out to open the rear doors. Solongo looked at his face for a moment, hoping that a silent spark of telepathy might somehow jump between them. But he simply gazed blankly back at her, his eyes shaded by his peaked cap.

“The airport, next,” the minister said. “As quickly as you can.”

Solongo climbed reluctantly into the rear seat. Bakei followed her, allowing her to glimpse the hard round barrel of the gun jutting against the material of his jacket.

Moments later, they were back in the main streets, maintaining a steady but rapid pace through the late-afternoon traffic around the central square. The driver knew what he was doing, timing perfectly the changes from lane to lane. They were unlikely to encounter any significant delays.

She had no idea what the minister's plan might be. His behaviour suggested desperation, a last throw of the dice. Perhaps a long-planned exit. It was clear that something had gone badly wrong. The minister looked like the kind of man who would have prepared, very carefully, for just such a contingency.

They sped down the western side of Sukh Bataar Square, heading south on to Chingisin Orgön Chölöö, the main avenue that swept south and then west past Nairamdal Park, then the Naadam Stadium and out towards the international airport. Already the city centre
was behind them, the faded greenery of the park stretching off to their left, the squat tower of the Bayangol Hotel to their right. She could see couples walking in the warm weekend sunshine, clusters of old men draped in the familiar heavy
dels
despite the summer heat, children running across to the play area or down to the lake. She felt as if she could just wind down the car windows and call out to them, telling them what was happening. But the car sped by, and crossed the junction with Teeverchidin Gudamj, the road along the southern edge of the park.

As they passed, something caught her eye, and she looked at the minister to see if he had spotted it. He was staring straight ahead, his eyes fixed on the hazy surface of the road, as if he was already envisaging his own escape.

She risked a glance over her shoulder. She had been correct, even though she had only glimpsed the movement in the periphery of her vision. There were two parked police cars, one on each side of the junction. As she watched, the cars pulled forward, now blocking the two carriageways of the road behind them.