The Shadow Walker (36 page)

Nergui nodded. “I think you are a brave man, Mr. Kartashkin, to state your views so openly.”

“I am anything but brave,” Kartashkin said. “But I am trusting you with this. I do not want more bloodshed.”

“I could insist on you coming back with me to give a formal statement,” Nergui said. “And I may yet have to do so. But for now I think it is better if we treat our business as concluded. You have told me nothing.”

Kartashkin nodded, the relief showing on his face. “Thank you. There is little else I can do, but I would help if I could.”

“I would give you one piece of advice, Mr. Kartashkin. Get out of this. As soon as you can.”

As they left the boardroom, they saw two of the men who had left the meeting now standing at the far end of the corridor, watching them. Nergui made a gesture of apology. “I am sorry for disturbing your meeting. I hope that I did not keep you waiting for long.” He walked slowly along the corridor toward the two men, who were watching him warily. One was tall, thin, shaven headed. He wore dark glasses even indoors, in the middle of
winter. His stare was blankly intimidating. The other was shorter, his hair combed tightly back, his eyes bright and blinking.

“Routine questions, I'm afraid,” Nergui said. “We're investigating some illegal prospectors near one of your sites in the north. I just wanted to check whether you had actually met the prospectors, whether you could provide any information about them. But Kartashkin says no. Is that your recollection also?” He gazed impassively at the two men, a faint smile on his lips.

There was silence for a moment, then the taller man spoke, scarcely above a whisper. “We know nothing of this. We simply wish for the police to enforce the law.”

“It is what we try to do,” Nergui said. He nodded slowly, as though musing on his words. “But thank you. And my apologies again for the disturbance.”

He turned and made his way down the stairs, Doripalam close behind, feeling the men watching him until he had walked across the reception and back out into the street.

As soon as they stepped back into the cold morning air, Nergui began to stride, with characteristic speed, back toward HQ. Doripalam hurried to keep up. “Nasty bunch,” he said.

“Very. I was keen for them to know that Kartashkin had told us nothing.”

“What do you think about Kartashkin? About what he said, I mean?”

“I feel,” Nergui said, “as though he has provided us with another piece of the jigsaw, but I have no idea about how it all fits together. If it's true that Ransom's and Delgerbayar's deaths are somehow connected with the Gobi project, then where does Badzar fit in?”

“Maybe Badzar's working for one of the partner groups. Perhaps he's a hired killer.”

Nergui stopped suddenly and turned to look at Doripalam. “It's possible, I suppose, but I can't see that it makes much sense. Who would hire a madman? And what professional killer would leave the bodies the way these were left?”

They crossed the road, stepping over the thick piles of graying snow left by the snowplows. The roads were largely cleared now, and the morning traffic was becoming busier.

As they turned the corner back toward police HQ, Nergui's cell rang. He pressed the receive button, holding the phone to his ear as he walked.

It was one of the junior officers. “We've had another call, sir. From our friend.”

“Is he still on the line?” Nergui said. “I asked for him to be put through to the cell.”

“We tried, but he wouldn't hang on. Obviously thought it was a ruse to give us time to trace him. But he left a message.”

“What message?”

“Said he wanted to meet you, sir. Just you. On your own. He's still claiming that he's got the British officer. Says he's prepared to release him but only if he can meet with you.”

“Did he give us any reason to believe that McLeish is still alive?”

“Not really. Didn't stay on long enough.”

“So what next?”

“He wants an answer from you, sir. As to whether you're prepared to meet with him. The implication was that if you don't the British officer won't be alive much longer.”

“Assuming he's alive now. Okay, we're only a few minutes away. Did he give you any indication when he would call again?”

“He said in fifteen minutes. And that we should be ready with an answer.”

“In that case, I'd better try to come up with one.”

He ended the call and relayed the gist of the message to Doripalam.

“What are you going to do?”

“I don't know,” Nergui said. “He's got us over a barrel, as he's no doubt fully aware. We can't just ignore this. The political ramifications are too great. But it would be crazy to go into a one-on-one meeting with a psychopath like this. Especially since
we don't even know if he does really have McLeish or, if he does, whether McLeish is still alive.”

“You could go in with some backup.”

“It would be a risk. If McLeish is there and alive, we don't know what Badzar would do if he thought we had him cornered.”

“And it could all be just a hoax?”

“As you say. It could all just be some lunatic trying to make idiots of us. Not that that's been particularly difficult in this case.”

They had arrived back at HQ. Despite the brilliance of the morning sun, the place still looked depressing, its dark concrete looming over them. The thick snow by the entrance was already gray from the tread of countless feet. Nergui did not feel at home here. He felt that the regular police resented his presence, were suspicious of his motives. But equally, he realized, he no longer felt comfortable back in the Ministry. He had always considered himself an astute political player, a survivor, but he was increasingly beginning to feel that this world was leaving him behind.

Inside, the offices were almost deserted, most of the officers engaged in the manhunt for Badzar. So far, he appeared to have slipped away without trace.

Nergui stopped by the telephone switchboard. “When do we expect him to call back?” he asked the operator.

The operator glanced at his watch. “Ten minutes,” he said. “Maybe a little less.”

Nergui nodded. “I'll be in my office,” he said. “Put him straight through.”

He led Doripalam into the office and sat himself down behind the desk, gesturing Doripalam to sit opposite. The files on the case lay untouched in front of him.

“I don't think I have a choice,” Nergui said.

“What do you mean?”

“I think I have to do what he says,” Nergui said. “Meet him. Alone.”

“Even though we don't know whether McLeish is even still alive?”

“Especially because of that. The Minister can't keep a lid on this story much longer. The Western media are going to be all over us in the next twenty-four hours.”

“The story won't be improved if we end up losing one of our senior officers as well,” Doripalam pointed out.

“You're right,” Nergui grimaced at the thought. “But, as I say, I don't think there's a choice. All I can try to do is minimize the risks. The risk to me. And the risk to McLeish, if he's still alive.”

“And how do you do that?”

Nergui shrugged. “I've got my own talents in that direction. And I'll be armed. And I want you as backup.”

“Me? But I not sure I'm the best—”

“There are highly trained officers I could take with me, but I'm not sure who to trust here anymore. I don't know who Badzar is working for, if he's working for anyone. And I don't know who or what he knows. I have a feeling that if I set this up as a formal mission, he may well know. And that may mean the end of things for McLeish.”

“But I'm still not—”

“Doripalam, we've no idea what we might be letting ourselves in for here. We don't know what's driving Badzar. We don't know why he's suddenly decided to make himself known. It could be a trap. But why bother with a trap? We presume he's already got McLeish—if he's got demands, then he's already got more than enough leverage. If he wanted another victim, he could find one easily enough without putting himself at this risk. He could have killed me while I was waiting at the factory last night. I think it's more likely he wants something.” He paused. “And maybe
he
doesn't know who he can trust, either.”

Doripalam nodded and opened his mouth to speak. But then Nergui's phone rang. He picked it up, listened and reached out to switch on the intercom. “It's him,” he mouthed.

The same sibilant voice emerged from the low quality speaker. “Have you had time to think?” it asked, without preamble.

“What is it you want?” Nergui said.

“To see you. Alone.”

“How do I know McLeish is safe?”

“You don't. You won't until you meet me. Now, please stop wasting my time. Are you prepared to meet? Just you. If there's any other police presence, McLeish dies.”

“If he's still alive.”

“As you say. Yes or no?”

Nergui paused and glanced across at Doripalam. “Yes,” he said. “Just tell me where and when.”

Not quite silence.

Drew lay, straining every muscle to try to see or hear something, to try to gain some clue as to what was happening.

Someone was watching him closely as he struggled, in one more vain attempt, with the ties that gripped him. He didn't know how he could feel the presence of this other person.

But there was not quite silence.

It seemed like hours since he had heard someone enter the room, but was probably only minutes. And even though he knew that whatever happened next was unlikely to be pleasant, a part of him still refused to accept this, still somehow believed that his current state would continue indefinitely.

Why did his captor not simply get on and do whatever it was he intended? Why this endless torturing uncertainty? Was it simply an attempt to wear down his resistance? But why? Drew had nothing—no possessions, no information—that was likely to be of interest to whoever had kidnapped him in this country. If the intention was to extort some demands from the government, either here or at home, there was nothing obvious to be gained through this kind of psychological torture.

He continued to alternate between struggling with his bonds, and lying as still as possible, trying to gain some sense of what might be happening. But both activities were equally fruitless, nothing more than an empty gesture, a vain attempt to demonstrate to his captor that he had not yet ceased to resist.

And then, suddenly, unexpectedly, he felt the soft touch of a hand against his, the startling warmth of human contact. The touch was so gentle that at first he thought that he was imagining the sensation. But then he felt his hand being grasped firmly in another's grip, a strange feeling because the hand felt harsher, drier, than human flesh. He twisted his head, trying at least to see the hand, trying to see what was gripping his fingers.

And then he saw it. It was, indeed, simply a human hand clutching his own, but the fingers were enclosed in the kind of protective glove worn by those handling food in a shop or café. The kind of glove that might be worn by someone who did not wish to leave any trace of fingerprints.

Drew arched his back, trying to see more, but could still see only the hand and, beyond that, a wrist surrounded by a white shirt cuff. The hand was grasping his own tightly, pulling it hard to one side. He felt his heart beating loudly, his breath pounding through his chest as he wondered what would follow.

And then he heard something metallic, something heavy, being lifted from the ground. He could hear his captor's breathing, the slight strain of someone lifting something heavy, high above his head.

Drew tensed as he felt the momentum of the object through the air above him, his mind jumped back to the sights of the dismembered bodies, the thought of how those limbs had been removed. And as he felt the draft of air above him, he did not even have the breath to scream.

He felt, rather than heard, the heavy thump of metal on wood. He remembered, crazily, stories of those who had lost limbs initially feeling no pain, not even recognizing that they had been injured.

But then his breath and his senses returned, and he realized that he was genuinely not hurt. He twisted his head to look at where his captor's hand was still gripping his own.

In the bench just by his hand, a large ax was buried a centimeter or so into the wood. His hand had been pulled back
to avoid the ax, so the blade had instead cut neatly through the bindings around his wrist.

Drew opened his mouth to shout, though he had no idea what words he might utter to this still unseen figure who was unlikely to speak any English. Before he could speak, a handcuff was slip around Drew's untied wrist. He felt his arm being pulled again, and was then aware that the other half of the handcuffs had been firmly attached to an object, as yet invisible to him. He twisted again in his remaining bonds but could still see nothing.

The figure moved behind him, and his other hand was gripped and pulled aside. Again, there was the swish of the ax falling through the air and he felt another bond fall free.

He tried to move, but the remaining bonds on his ankles and neck still held him firmly in place. He caught a glimpse of his captor as he moved rapidly around the room, a black shadow passing swiftly across his constrained vision. The figure was down at his feet now. Again, Drew felt the hand on his leg, holding his feet to one side as the ax fell again, severing the bond on his left leg. And then the same on his right. His legs were free, and only the tight binding on his neck still held him in place.

His captor moved slowly alongside the bench. Drew twisted his head as much as possible, and for the first time saw the figure who was standing beside him.

The man was unremarkable. He was of average height, stockily built, dressed in a cheap-looking, black Western-style suit. He wore a white shirt, open at the neck. He stopped now and stared at Drew.