The Shadow Walker (23 page)

Nergui was unsure how long this relative quiet would prevail. While there were strict rules on police confidentiality, someone, somewhere, would eventually talk about this case to friends and family. Too many people—in the police, in the Ministry and other government departments—were aware of what was going on. And all of these people would themselves be anxious, perhaps feel the need to share their worries with someone else. Gradually the story would filter out, maybe in even more lurid form than the reality, if that were possible. And then the panic would begin.

Nergui knew that they had to make some progress, some real progress, before then. But for the moment progress continued to elude them.

“We're still working through all the routine stuff,” Doripalam said. “All the door to doors, looking through all the missing person reports, combing the areas where the bodies were found—you name it. But it doesn't look promising.”

“No. Mind you, with that stuff, there's no way of knowing. We just have to keep hoping.”

“Anyone ever tell you you're too optimistic to be a policeman?” Doripalam said.

“Oddly enough, no. Though they've found many other grounds for disqualifying me for the role.” Nergui smiled, palely. “There's no other way, though, is there? We can't give up.”

Once the young man had gone, Nergui continued reading
through the papers. He was painstaking, but there really was nothing new, nothing he hadn't seen before. He had combed through every detail, every nuance of the report. Maybe another eye would see something different, though he doubted it. But there seemed to be nothing more that Nergui could contribute.

He looked at his watch. It was already eight o'clock. He felt as if he had been up all night, which was almost the case. It wasn't physical tiredness, more a sense of mental, even spiritual, exhaustion, as if he really was at the limits of his endurance.

There was no one here that he could talk to, not even Doripalam. They'd kept their relationship positive, despite everything, but it wasn't the time to start unloading his personal feelings on the younger man. He had enough to cope with. Was it too early to call Drew? He thought not. Drew had given the impression that he was an early riser, so even after the previous late night, he would almost certainly be up by now. He picked up the phone and called the Chinggis Khaan, asking to be connected to Drew's room. He heard the ringing tone, but the call was not answered. He looked at his watch again. Probably Drew was at breakfast.

Eventually, the operator came back on the line. “I'm sorry, sir. There's no reply. Can I take a message?”

“Just let him know that Nergui called,” he said. “He's got the number.”

He put the phone down, feeling unaccountably anxious. There was no reason to feel concerned. Drew would be having breakfast or had gone for a stroll. It was even possible he was still sleeping and had not heard the phone.

But Nergui could not shake off a feeling of concern. It was that silly Wilson woman. Nergui was not, by the standards of his countrymen, a superstitious individual. But her talk of premonitions and psychic powers, however rational the articulation, left him feeling uneasy. There was something about the way she had looked at Drew as the car had driven away.

Looking back, Nergui thought that he should have insisted on Drew coming in the car with them. Not, he told himself, that
there was any danger in the city at that time of the night. It was only a few hundred meters to the hotel, after all.

But the thought kept nagging at him. Maybe his fears weren't wholly irrational. After all, there was a killer—maybe more than one killer—at large in the city. There had already been an apparent attempt on his or Drew's life. And, of course, one policeman was already dead. In the circumstances, maybe leaving Drew to walk home wasn't his finest decision.

And there were more rational concerns. Drew had been pretty drunk. It was a cold night, icy underfoot. Maybe Drew had slipped, hit his head. Temperatures last night had fallen many degrees below zero. It was beginning to reach the time of the year when those without homes were all too commonly found dead in the streets in the early mornings.

Nergui rose and paced across the office. This was idiotic. He was behaving like a mother whose son is late coming home from a drinking session.

Despite himself, he picked up the phone and dialed the number of Drew's cell, which he had scribbled on a pad on the desk. There was a long, empty silence while he waited for the roaming signal to connect. Finally, there was a click and the sound of the overseas ringing tone. The ringing stopped suddenly, and for a moment, as the familiar voice reached his ears, Nergui thought Drew had answered it. But then he realized that, from apparently immeasurable distances, this was simply the sound of Drew's prerecorded voicemail message. “I'm sorry I'm not available at the moment, but if you'd like to leave a message—”

Nergui left a message, but somehow with no confidence that it would be picked up. His tiredness had fallen away, but it had been replaced by a yawning anxiety, an insuppressible sense that something was dreadfully wrong.

Blackness. Silence. Nothing.

Death must be like this. Perhaps, after all, he was dead. Or perhaps he had been buried alive. His body felt numb, and he
couldn't tell if the numbness was internal or somehow imposed upon him.

But he must be alive. He was thinking. His mind was confused, uncertain, but he was slowly, step by step, piecing together a train of thought. Images. People. Voices. A cold white hard sheet. A burning orange light. Something unexpected. Something frightening.

Panic rose in him, though that surely must be another indication that he was alive. The dead didn't panic, did they? His breath caught in his chest. That meant he was breathing, at least, though for how long was another question.

He tried to hold his breath and listen. Could he hear anything? No. Nothing. Not even the beating of his own heart. Perhaps this was what death felt like, after all.

He was unsure how long he lay in this semicomatose state. Maybe hours, perhaps only minutes. Gradually, though, he became aware that something was changing. The feeling was slowly returning to his body, the numbness slowly melting away. He could move his eyes, begin to move his fingers. He began, finally, to feel like a human being again. He was not dead. Or, if he was, death was much closer to life than he had ever imagined.

But the gradual return to sentience was neither pleasant nor reassuring. As the feeling gradually began to flow back into his limbs, he became increasingly aware of the pain. A dull throbbing ache that filled his arms and legs and head, the kind of painful lethargy that accompanies a serious bout of influenza. And more localized aches—bruises or contusions on his back, on his head. And, on top of all this was a feeling of lassitude. Even in other circumstances, he would have struggled to rise from where he was lying.

As more and more feeling flooded back into his body, he became aware that his supine state was not voluntary. There was some kind of binding, holding his arms, and something similar around his ankles. When he tried, painfully, to lift his head, he became aware of a cord around his neck, tight enough to throttle him if he tried to move more than a centimeter or two.

He realized—like a third party observing his own predicament—that he ought to be frightened. He had no idea where he was or what was happening here, his brain was not processing this at all. But one thing he could work out, what was happening here was clearly not good.

Slowly, slowly, consciousness came dribbling back. Why was he here? What was going on? Where was he? The questions came in no rational order, but at least he was beginning to formulate questions.

Suddenly, as if he had woken from a deep sleep, clarity hit him. Whereas before there had just been a fog of sensation, now he could remember everything up to a point. He remembered the dinner at the embassy. He remembered the Wilsons, and the bizarre turn taken by their conversation. He remembered the strange behavior of Helena Wilson. He remembered the car driving away into the frosty night. And then—

Then what? Himself drunkenly stumbling away. Something, someone crashing into him. And then nothing. And then this.

With full consciousness came a full sense of horror. He had no idea where he was or why he was here. But he was lying in the dark, with no sign of light or life, his limbs strapped down. And someone, for some reason, had brought him here.

“I'm sorry, sir. You can leave a message for him, but that's all we can do. I'm sure you appreciate—”

Nergui sighed and leaned forward over the reception desk. “No,” he said. “I do appreciate that you're doing your job, but so am I. If you don't have the authority to do it, then can I speak to whoever's in charge here?”

“I'm sorry, sir. I mean, I understand you're in an official capacity, but I've been told strictly—”

It would never have been like this in the old days, Nergui thought. There was a time when one flash of your official card would have been enough to terrify the wits out of any functionary who got in your way. In those days, they knew what the Ministry was capable of. It was still generally unwise to cross the Ministry, but there was greater willingness to take the risk these days, particularly if Western currency was involved.

Nergui straightened up, smiling. Then he turned sharply on his heel. For a moment, the receptionist looked relieved, assuming that she had dealt successfully with a troublesome visitor. The look of relief turned to a look of panic as Nergui calmly pushed open the door that led behind the reception desk “Now, if you'll just give me a cardkey to open Room 204, I won't need to cause the kind of fuss that might disturb your guests.”

“You can't—” she said. “I'll call the police—”

Nergui shrugged, still smiling. “I've told you. I am the police.
Please do tell the manager if you wish to. He can join me in Room 204. Now please give me a key.”

She stared at him for a moment, then reluctantly took a card from the drawer beside her and ran it through the computer system. “That will open it now,” she said.

“And if you or the manager should decide to call the police, you should mention that it's Nergui who has taken the key.” He briefly flashed his pass again. “There, you see. If you tell them that, they will not be surprised and will not waste their time coming over here.”

He let himself out from behind the desk and made his way across to the elevators. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the receptionist hesitate and then pick up the phone. He hoped that she was only calling the manager.

He knew he was being foolish. There was nothing for him to worry about, and he could have waited and done this properly. But the sense of anxiety had continued to nag away at him. It was eleven a.m. now. He had called Drew's room repeatedly, but there had been no response. Drew's cell phone appeared still to be switched off or out of range. There had been no word from him at all. Nergui had even tried to call the British ambassador, in case Drew had for some reason returned to the embassy the previous evening after the car had left. The ambassador, fortunately or unfortunately, had been tied up in a meeting and had not yet returned Nergui's call.

Finally, when he could see nothing else to do, he had come across to the Chinggis Khaan. The receptionist had called up to Drew's room, but there was, as before, no response.

It was perfectly feasible that Drew was deeply asleep or had decided to get some air. Maybe he was out exploring the city, doing some of the tourist activities while he had the opportunity. Maybe Nergui had simply missed him and he was already on his way to the police offices.

Or maybe, Nergui thought, he had not been back here at all.

The elevator opened on the second floor and Nergui made his way
along the corridor to Drew's room. He slid the card through the electronic lock, and pushed open the door.

The room was empty. The bed was undisturbed, though if the chambermaids had already visited the room, it was still possible that Drew might have been here this morning. The room itself was very tidy, with only a few personal possessions—a hairbrush, a paperback thriller, a still unpacked suitcase on the stand—to indicate that it was occupied.

Nergui pulled open the wardrobe doors. There were a couple of suits and several shirts hanging up. Nothing else. A pair of polished black shoes on the floor. Policeman's shoes, Nergui thought.

“Excuse me, sir, I must ask you—”

Nergui turned. A short, overweight man was standing in the doorway. He was balding and his hair was badly combed across in an attempt to conceal the fact. He was wearing an expensive-looking Western-style suit. Presumably the manager.

Nergui nodded politely. “Can I help you?” he said.

The manager looked nonplussed at Nergui's question and it took him a second to gather his thoughts. “I'm sorry, sir, but this really is—”

“Has this room been made up yet?” Nergui said. “Have the chambermaids been in here?”

The manager opened his mouth, clearly about to repeat his objections to Nergui's presence, then he stopped. “I can check for you,” he said, finally. “Can I see your ID first, though, sir?”

Nergui nodded. “Of course.” He smiled and pulled out his ID again. “Here,” he said.

“That's fine, sir. No problem. You understand we have to be careful.”

“Naturally.”

He followed the manager back out into the corridor. A group of chambermaids were standing by the elevators, chatting. The manager approached them and spoke briefly, then turned back to Nergui. “They say that room's already been cleaned.”

Nergui smiled at the group of women who were watching him with some curiosity. “Police,” he said. “Room 204. Which of you cleaned that room?”

One of the women, young and pretty with dark hair, raised her arm shyly. Nergui looked at her. “Had the bed been disturbed?” he said. “Had anyone slept in it?”