The Shadow Walker (13 page)

“And then we go on to the camp. It's not too far—I've arranged for a jeep to take us out. I've set up an interview with the man who runs the place, and I've asked him if we can also talk to a few of the staff. You never know, someone might remember Delgerbayar.”

Drew settled back in his seat, still trying to make himself comfortable. “This probably sounds a stupid question,” he said, “but what exactly is a tourist camp?”

“Just what it sounds like,” Nergui said. “There are a number of them, scattered about the Gobi. Permanent clusters of
gers
which people visit for vacations.”

“Holiday camps?” Drew said. “In the desert?”

“Well, you could perhaps think of it as a large beach.” Nergui smiled. “Though I admit it's a long walk to the sea.”

“So who uses them?”

“They're still very popular,” Nergui said. “Some of them cater for tourists from the former Eastern bloc—we used to get a lot of tourists from there, when it was impossible for them to go elsewhere. But now it tends to be either international tourists—for them, it's part of the experience of visiting our country—or Mongolians from the cities who wish to visit the desert on their vacations. The place we're visiting caters mainly for foreign tourists.”

“But—assuming that Delgerbayar's story was true or at least partly true—why would a contact have arranged to meet him in a place like that? Why not in Ulan Baatar?”

“That is part of the mystery,” Nergui said. “I have no answer. It is a strange place to arrange an assignation. Assuming that Delgerbayar's story was true, then it's possible of course that the contact was a foreigner, maybe a tourist or someone posing as a tourist. But that still doesn't explain why they should have arranged to meet in such a strange location.”

“Maybe they thought it would be a discreet meeting place?”

“That's quite possible. Of course, there are discreet places where one could meet in Ulan Baatar, but not many. In practice, the city tends to be something of a small village. Too many people know one another, frequent the same bars, the same restaurants. Delgerbayar was unlucky enough to be spotted in the Ulan Baatar. No matter where else he went, there was always the risk that he might be seen by someone.”

“Which implies,” Drew said, “that his contact—if there was one—was someone he didn't want to be seen with.”

“Indeed.” Nergui nodded, and not for the first time Drew had the impression that the Mongolian's thinking had already progressed several stages beyond his own. Nergui's face, though, was as inscrutable as ever. “Now,” he said, finally, “you should enjoy the journey. It is not every day you have an opportunity to see the vast expanse of the Gobi.”

This was true enough, but it was not easy to take Nergui's advice. Intriguing as the destination might be, the journey itself was anything but enjoyable. The takeoff had been unnerving—there had been at least a brief moment when Drew was convinced they were going to plow off the end of the runway into the cluster of sheds beyond. The ascent was little more reassuring, since he had the impression that the small aircraft was having to use every unit of its limited engine power to lift its heavy cargo. And now they were at what would normally be described as cruising altitude, the airplane was small enough to feel every buffet of air turbulence. Drew found no difficulty in declining the meager meal of dried meats and biscuits that was proffered, but accepted the familiar small bottle of vodka that accompanied it with relative enthusiasm. Across the aisle, a group of young men, dressed in gray overalls, had already produced a larger bottle of vodka which they were consuming at an impressive pace.

Nergui glanced across at them and smiled. “Mongolians do not like to fly,” he said. “We think it is unnatural. So we calm our fears
with drink. Which of course does little for either our safety or our state of mind.”

Nergui had clearly noted Drew's discomfort, and devoted his time to distracting stories of the desert, the nomadic herdsmen who frequented it, and other anecdotes of Mongolian life. Drew also had the impression, perhaps unfounded, that Nergui was attempting to distract his thoughts from the case that they were investigating.

The time passed quickly enough, though, even if it felt much longer in the pit of Drew's stomach. Before long, first the buildings and then the vegetation fell away, and Drew could see the vast expanse of the desert spread out before them. Drew had never seen a desert before and his expectations were conditioned largely by filmic images of the Sahara—empty wastelands of sand baking in the eternally noonday sun, a few palm trees, tents and camels.

Some of that he would undoubtedly see over the next twenty-four hours. But the landscape they passed over was surprisingly varied—they passed over hills, forested areas and green plains. As they flew south, the undulating hills slowly gave way to something closer to Drew's ideas of a desert. But even here he was surprised at how green the land looked. It was sand, for sure, but there had apparently been some rain over the preceding weeks, and a fine sheen of green, burgeoning grass, had spread across the landscape. Although the grass was sparse, from this altitude it bore a startling resemblance to a well-tended British lawn.

As they flew above the expansive landscape, far below Drew could see few signs of life. There were occasional clusters of
gers,
with the movements of animals that, from this height, might have been horses or might have been camels. Now and again, there was a fast moving cloud of sand which Drew assumed was a vehicle of some kind. But otherwise there was little to be seen until they began to approach Dalanzadgad.

The descent was as unnerving as the ascent had been. It felt
almost as if they were plummeting from the sky, though he had to assume that the pilot knew what he was doing. Drew felt his ears popping from the pressure change as the aircraft banked and then leveled, preparing for landing. Drew was never particularly good with airplane landings and this was one of the worst he had experienced. He was convinced they were simply going to plow directly into the ground, and so he was hugely relieved when their tires hit the runway and bounced. The impact was a shock, but they—and the aircraft—seemed unscathed, bouncing speedily across the ground toward the airport buildings. Even then Drew thought they were still going too fast, but somehow the pilot managed to keep control of the aircraft and they pulled up safely at the stand.

There was no polite waiting for the pilot to turn off the seatbelt signs. As soon as the aircraft stopped moving, the crowd of passengers jumped up, as though coordinated, and began to scramble for their luggage in the overhead compartments. Somewhere behind, Drew once again heard the sound of a clucking chicken.

Only Nergui remained motionless in his seat. “There's no rush,” he said. “We might as well relax.”

Drew didn't feel too relaxed, but he was glad of the opportunity to recover from his airborne ordeal. “Is the flight always like that?” he asked.

“More or less. Not always that smooth.” Nergui smiled gently, and once again it was difficult to be sure whether he was joking.

With remarkable speed, the crowd of passengers poured toward the rear entrance, and Drew and Nergui rose to follow. Outside, the sky was clear blue and the sun was already high. This late in the year, though, the temperature was cool.

Drew followed Nergui down the stairs and across the runway to the small concrete airport building. There were no passport or customs controls at what was exclusively a domestic airport. The arrival hall was anonymous, another example of Communist functionality. A couple of uniformed police men were standing
conspicuously in the corner, watching the disembarking passengers without interest.

Nergui walked over and engaged them in conversation, pulling his formal ID from his pocket to show them. Instantly, both men jumped to attention. They didn't quite salute, but they showed Nergui a respect which had been noticeably absent in their earlier demeanor.

Nergui beckoned him over, and spoke what were clearly a few words of introduction to the two officers. Both nodded toward him.

“They're going to take us to the airport manager,” Nergui said. “I don't imagine there's much he'll be able to tell us himself, but I think it's only courteous that we speak to him before we start bothering his staff.”

They followed the police officers out of the main hall, and along a corridor to a small, sparsely furnished office. A small harassed-looking man was sitting behind a desk, scribbling figures down on a bundle of papers and occasionally stabbing numbers into a large, old-fashioned-looking calculator. He looked up impatiently as they came in.

Nergui spoke a few words and introduced Drew, who nodded politely. The manager brushed aside his papers and spoke brusquely to Nergui. Even without any understanding of the words, it was clear that he was not pleased to have them there. Nergui spoke a few quiet words in return, and the man rose, his chair scraping back across the polished wooden floor. He spoke angrily and stalked over to the window, which looked out on to gray concrete walls.

Nergui looked back at Drew and smiled faintly. “We don't seem very welcome,” he said.

“I had that impression,” Drew said. “What's the problem?”

“I'm not entirely clear,” Nergui said, still smiling. “Our friend seems to be under the impression that we will disrupt the smooth running of his operation, and spread fear and anxiety among the passengers.”

“You've told him we'll be very discreet?”

“Of course. But he doesn't appear to be reassured.” The smile was still fixed on Nergui's face, but as he turned back toward the airport manager, his face returned to its familiar blank mask. He spoke a few more calm words to the manager, who once again responded angrily, stamping his foot petulantly on the floor.

Afterward, Drew couldn't actually recall seeing Nergui move. But suddenly he was standing only inches away from the airport manager, his eyes blazing. Nergui spoke, still softly, not raising his voice. Drew had no idea what the words meant, but he could feel the sense of threat even from across the room. The manager blinked, and Drew reflected to himself that it was the first time he had ever seen the blood genuinely drain from someone's face. The manager's mouth opened once, twice, but no sounds came out. Nergui said something more, and the man nodded quickly, his eyes blinking.

Nergui turned back toward Drew and, like a light bulb being switched on, the smile returned. “That's fine,” Nergui said. “Just a little misunderstanding, I think. We can see anyone we like, and our friend here will be only too pleased to make the introductions.”

Drew found that he could barely speak himself. “That's very nice of him,” he said, finally.

“Isn't it?” Nergui said. “But we're a friendly people.”

Nergui led the way out of the office, and back into the main hall, the manager now scuttling along behind him.

“What was all that about, anyway?” Drew said, as he hurried along behind Nergui. “Just bureaucracy?”

Nergui spoke without looking back. He was heading toward a group of uniformed check-in staff, who were standing chatting by one of the desks. “I don't know,” he said. “I thought at first he was just being difficult—you know, the usual petty official protecting his turf. But then I got the impression there was something else, that he might actually be frightened.”

“I'm not surprised he was frightened,” Drew said, deciding that
there was little mileage in not being fully open. “You scared the life out of me, let alone him.”

Nergui laughed. “No, before that,” he said. “I was doing my usual, polite officer of the law piece, flattering him into helping. You know the kind of thing—?”

Drew knew it all too well. It usually worked okay with the petty official type.

“—and he was stonewalling. Not just being difficult, but looking genuinely anxious at the thought of helping us out. That was why I put the screws on a bit.”

“You think he's afraid of something? Or someone?”

Nergui shrugged. “Possibly. Who knows?”

By this time, he had reached the group of check-in staff, who were looking at him with some curiosity, assuming that he was a passenger in search of information. Before Nergui could speak, the manager had caught up with him and interjected, gesturing backward and forward between Nergui and the others as he effected introductions.

Drew watched him closely. It was frustrating, tailing behind Nergui, unable to contribute meaningfully to any interviews, spending half the time wondering what the hell was going on. But the one advantage of his position was that he could at least watch carefully the expressions and body language of those that Nergui was addressing.

Nergui was right, he thought. This man did look more anxious than the situation justified. Even if one accepted the supposed reason—concerns about disturbing passengers and staff—this did not explain the gleam of sweat that had already appeared on the manager's forehead. It surely couldn't be the first time that the police had wished to investigate on site—this was an airport, after all. But as the manager hopped from one foot to the other, twisting his head and interrupting as though having to interpret to the staff what Nergui was saying, he did look scared. He was doing his best to conceal it, with overeager smiling and laughing, but even some of the staff were regarding him oddly.

Nergui simply ignored him, talking steadily and calmly to the group of staff. After a few moments, he reached into his jacket and brought out the picture of Delgerbayar which he had copied from the police files. He showed it around the group, allowing them time to gaze fully at the face. Nergui had shown Drew the photograph during the flight. It looked to be a well-taken photograph, though Drew could not relate it to the white, blood stained visage he had seen.