The Outcast

by Michael Walters

Genres: Police Procedurals

Synopsis

Ulaan Bataar bakes in the heat of an unseasonably hot summer as it prepares to celebrate the 800th anniversary of the birth of the Mongol Empire. But the city is facing a series of unexpected crises--an apparent suicide bomber shot down by police in Suuk Bataar Square, a dead body in the City Museum gruesomely arranged to recreate a macabre scene from ancient Mongolian history, an explosion at a political rally, and yet another body found murdered nearby. For Doripalam, now boss of the Serious Crime Team, the crises are growing increasingly personal. As he struggles to keep control of his own personal and professional life, one of his own team is arrested. Solongo, Doripalam's wife is facing her own challenges and finds herself entangled with murder and with the fugitive officer. Worst of all, Nergui, now an influential figure in the Ministry of Security, appears to be pursuing an agenda all of his own. The roots of all this trouble lie in the past--in the history of the Mongol nation, as well as in the more recent legacies of the communist state. As the sun beats down, a chilling figure emerges--a figure from Nergui's past, an outcast, who has returned to exact revenge, both on Nergui himself and on the nation that rejected him.

Release date: September 3, 2013

Publisher: Quercus

Print pages: 320

Sample

There was nothing. Nothing for miles. Nothing for days.

After all these years, it had overwhelmed Sam—the rolling steppe, the distant mountains and, far to the south, the vast terrain of the desert. He was dizzied by it, unable to comprehend the distance, the sense of space. So different from the confined clutter of what was now his home.

If anything, it was better than he remembered, better than his imagination.

He had forgotten the deep intensity of the colours, the expanse of the liquid blue skies, the lush richness of the northern landscapes. And the sheer vastness of the space that lay around them on all sides.

And now, at last, he was free. His hosts had understood what he was looking for, and identified Sunduin, an unemployed graduate, to act as his guide. They would travel east, out into the empty grasslands—the supposed birthplace of Genghis Khan himself.

Sunduin spoke excellent English, but it was easy to see why he had failed to secure more permanent employment. He was a slovenly creature, dressed always in a faded T-shirt and battered jeans, his lank, too-long hair overhanging his pallid forehead. He was surly and taciturn, clearly unenthused by the prospect of acting as a guide and interpreter to an over-indulged Western visitor. Sam kept a watchful eye on his bags and money, certain that Sunduin would not miss an opportunity for an easy profit.

As they flew out on the bumpy MIAT flight, watching the grasslands open up before them, Sam felt both excitement and trepidation. Sunduin was slumped next to him, apparently asleep. He had barely spoken since they had met at the airport, doing just enough to get them through the check-in processes. He woke only as the aircraft touched down at Ondorkhaan, and was equally taciturn in leading them through the primitive airport and out into the sunlight.

As they emerged from the airport, Sunduin gestured across the road and moments later, a truck pulled up. The driver had clearly been waiting for them.

Sam pulled out his wallet to pay the sum that had, according to Sunduin, been agreed. The owner had insisted on US dollars, and to Sam the amount was pitifully small. He half expected a demand for some additional payment, but the man simply counted the bills carefully, stuffed them into the breast pocket of his shirt and nodded. He spoke a few words to Sunduin, and climbed out of the truck. Sunduin threw his own bag into the back seat and took the man’s place behind the wheel, gesturing that Sam should follow.

Sam looked at the driver, who had lit a cigarette and was watching them expressionlessly. “Is he staying here?”

Sunduin shrugged. “He has other business.”

It was a mile or so into town. Sunduin, for the first time showing some enthusiasm, slammed his foot down hard on the accelerator, and they sped along the narrow dirt road. It was not yet nine a.m., but the sun was already growing hot. The landscape was bare but beautiful, mile upon mile of open rolling grassland.

Sam stared around as they approached the outskirts of Ondorkhaan. It was the regional capital, but there was little to the town—a few wooden houses, with an occasional larger, more official-looking edifice along the main street. Sunduin made no effort to reduce the vehicle’s speed as they entered the town.

“Are we stopping?” Sam asked. He had left Sunduin to deal with the detail of their accommodation.

Sunduin shook his head. “I thought we should head straight across there. I’ve booked us a hotel in Dadal.”

Sam nodded. Genghis Khan’s supposed birthplace was close to the small township. “That sounds good. How far is it?”

Sunduin shrugged. “A little way. Eighty, ninety kilometres. Maybe a couple of hours. It’s not a good road. Sleep if you want to.”

Against his expectations, Sam did sleep, lulled by the bouncing rhythm of the truck and when he opened his eyes, the sun was higher in the sky, the temperature still rising. Sunduin glanced over and said: “Not far now: ten, fifteen minutes.”

“Do you know this area?” Sam asked.

“It’s my country. I know it well enough.”

“It’s a beautiful country.” Sam was conscious that his words were a tourist’s platitude. There was no way he could convey how much this country meant to him, even after all these years.

They were still on the grassland, but the altitude was increasing. There were sparse clusters of trees, tall conifers that threw dark shadows across the intense green of the steppe. Ondorkhaan was far behind, and there was no sign of human habitation.

“That’s it,” Sunduin said. He took a hand off the wheel and gestured ahead of them. “That hill, there. The birthplace of our great leader. So they say.” It was impossible to interpret his tone.

“I look forward to seeing it.”

They drove another half mile, and then Sunduin hit the brakes and pulled them off the road on to the grassy plain. “We stop here.”

Sam looked around, startled by the suddenness of Sunduin’s action. “Is this it?”

“You want to see the birthplace?” Sunduin looked bored suddenly, as though this whole expedition was a waste of his precious time.

“Yes, but I thought we’d go to the town first.”

Sunduin glanced wearily at his watch. “It’s only eleven,” he said. “There’s no point in going to the hotel. I thought you wanted to see the birthplace.”

“I do.” Sam realised that, for all his plans, he wasn’t sure what he had been expecting.

Sunduin opened his door, and climbed slowly out into the warm air. “Are you coming?” he said.

Sam watched him for a moment. “Yes,” he said, finally. “Of course.”

He opened his door, and climbed down. The high sun was hot on his back.

And then, as he straightened, the sky went dark, and a chill ran through his body. It was as if all the light and heat had been drained from the world.

He looked up, startled, half-expecting some unpredicted solar eclipse. In the otherwise empty sky, a single small dark cloud had momentarily drifted across the sun. In a minute, the light would return.

Sam stared across at Sunduin, striding away across the grassland. The sun was already brightening again, but the chill stayed with him. The truth was clear: two of them were setting out on this journey. Two of them would see Genghis Khan’s birthplace.

But only one would return.

It was instinct. Instinct and pure dumb luck.

Tunjin wasn’t even aware of thinking, let alone taking aim. He dragged out the pistol and fired, his mind lagging a lifetime behind what his eyes were seeing, what his body was reacting to.

Afterwards, all that remained were sensations: the jarring kickback from the gunshot; the memory of the impact through wrist and arm; the noise, sharp, explosive, but somehow muffled, as though coming from somewhere far away; the figure crumpling to the ground, a startled expression on his face; the bleaching hot sunlight across the square. Everything fragmented and distant, like someone else’s photographs. The blood. The crowd. The sirens and the endless screaming.

And finally it was as if the sky had darkened and closed in on him. There was a sudden sharp pain across his chest, and he stumbled, his legs unable to support his hefty body. The pistol dropped clatteringly from his hand, and his last image was the startled face of the young uniformed officer beside him.

It was several hours later when he woke. In the square, the sun had been high in the empty sky, relentless in its midsummer glare. Now, its low reddening rays were angled across his bed, glittering on the trolleys and medical equipment. His waking mind was a matching blaze of half-impressions, a brilliantly illuminated swirl that told him nothing.

From his supine position, Tunjin could just glimpse through the windows the startling black and pink monolith of the Hotel Chinnghis Kahn. Beyond that, there was only the sky, a translucent mauve in the dying sunlight. Even now, it looked warm out there.

He tried to move his head, but found the effort too great. He stared up at the blank white ceiling, suddenly conscious that there really was something wrong with him. Not just tiredness, or shock, or the after-effects of unconsciousness. Something more serious.

He couldn’t move. He could—just about—twist his head from side to side. But when he tried to turn his head fully or move his limbs, there was nothing. Just deadness, numbness. No sensation at all.

He stared up, trying not to panic. There had to be some explanation. After all, he didn’t feel ill, did he? No. He didn’t feel anything. His mind felt as numb as his body.

He became aware that he was not alone. There was a chatter of voices, a buzz of white noise that had scarcely impinged on his senses before now. And somewhere a voice he knew.

“How is he?” Doripalam asked. They were standing just inside the door, whispering, as if trying not to disturb the vast figure on the bed.

The doctor shrugged. His demeanour and his expensive-looking Western-style suit suggested that his presence here was interrupting some more attractive engagement elsewhere. “It’s too early to say,” he said. “He’s been unconscious for a long time.” He glanced at his watch as if calculating precisely how long.

“A coma?”

“No.” The doctor smiled, adopting the patronising manner unique to his profession across the world. “Not what we would call a coma.”

“So what precisely would you call it?” Any member of Doripalam’s team would have warned the doctor to avoid superciliousness when dealing with their boss.

“He’s been unconscious, that’s all. It’s part of the recovery process. He’s been through a lot. But we don’t know quite how much. We don’t know how bad it is.”

“You don’t know how bad what is? What is it exactly?”

The doctor stared at Doripalam for a moment, as if wondering whether to challenge his right to enquire into this matter. “There are no relatives?” he said at last. “No next of kin?”

Doripalam shook his head slowly. “No,” he said. “Not as far as we know.” He paused. “Look, he works for me. But that’s not why I’m here. Not the only reason, anyway.” He hesitated again, unsure how to phrase his next words. “Let’s just say I owe him one. He once saved my life.”

“It may be a stroke,” the doctor said, finally. “We’re doing tests. But it wouldn’t be surprising.” He was looking almost embarrassed now. “I mean, he’s massively overweight. He drinks—”

“Like a fish,” Doripalam said. “Though rarely water, I understand.”

“His blood pressure was through the roof. He’s really been very lucky. It could have been much worse.”

“So how serious is it?”

“We don’t really know,” the doctor said. “He’s still alive. That’s a good sign.” He caught Doripalam’s expression. “No, I mean it. This could easily have killed him.”

“That might have been preferable,” Doripalam pointed out. “Depending on what else is wrong with him.”

The doctor nodded. “We have to see. He might be paralysed, or partly paralysed. It might be minimal. Or it might not.”

There was a sound behind them. Both men turned and looked along the length of the quiet private room. Beyond Tunjin’s bed, the city skyline was dark against the reddening glare of the setting sun. A nervous-looking nurse was staring at the monitors. She looked up at the two men, her eyes wide. “He’s awake,” she said. “He’s looking at me.”

The minister barely raised his head as Nergui entered. “Okay,” he said, “so what’s this all about? What’s going on?”

Nergui had grown accustomed to this absence of preliminaries, the lack even of common courtesy. There had been a time, not so long ago, when it had irritated him, but now he knew that it was all just part of the show. Occasionally, he could even feel a degree of sympathy for the old man.

Nergui lowered himself into the seat opposite the minister’s desk without waiting to be invited. “We’re trying to find out,” he said.

The minister looked up, with an expression that suggested that Nergui had just admitted to an act of criminal negligence. “You don’t know yet, then?”

“No,” Nergui said. “Except that it’s not what it looks like.”

“And what does it look like?”

“An attempted suicide bombing. Maybe something like Madrid or London but on a smaller scale.”

“Everyday life in Basra or Baghdad,” the minister said. “Well, that’s what it looked like to me. But you know better.” The last words had an undertone of scepticism in them, but it was half-hearted. The minister knew better than to underestimate Nergui’s judgement.

“I think so,” Nergui said. He stretched out his legs, looking untroubled. His socks, the minister registered, were a pale green. Inevitably, they matched the tie he was wearing beneath his usual dark grey suit. “There are factors that need to be explained.”

The minister stared at him for a moment, as though contemplating whether to enquire further. Finally he said, “We’re keeping a lid on it, though.”

“As best we can. We’ve put an embargo on the media.”

“Can we make that hold?”

“For a while. They like to keep us sweet. But we can’t push our luck.”

“What about witnesses?”

“Lots of them. But they don’t know quite what they witnessed. We just have to accept that the rumour mill will be churning.”

“But they’ll know we’re concealing something.”

“That’s hardly new territory. They’ll make up some story about government iniquity that’ll be even worse than the truth.”

“You always know how to reassure, Nergui,” the minister said. “But you’re on top of things?”

“As far as it’s possible to be.”

“Why do I have the feeling that you’re keeping something from me?”

Nergui shrugged. “Because that’s my job, I imagine. It’s what you pay me for.” He paused, weighing up his next words. “I’m saying what I know. It’s not my job to engage in idle speculation, Bakei.” Not many people called the minister by name, when Nergui did so, it was always with an undertone of warning, an invocation of their shared history.

The minister shook his head. “You never engage in idle anything, Nergui. What about the shooting?”

“That’s in hand.”

“You knew the officer involved, I understand? One of your people?”

Nergui gazed back at the minister, his face blank. It never paid to underestimate the minister, either. “He was, yes. Before.”

“A good one?” In the circumstances, the question was far from casual.

“As good as they come.”

“And it’s under control?”

“Trust me,” Nergui said. “It’s in hand. All of it.” He paused. “All we need to do is find out quite what it is we’re holding.”

“Tunjin. Can you hear me? Can you hear what I’m saying?”

It didn’t seem appropriate to shout in a hospital, not in circumstances like these. But he wasn’t sure what Tunjin could hear, what was getting through to him. His eyes were open, but there was no expression, no indication that he was awake. Without the remorseless pulsing of the monitor behind the bed, Doripalam could have imagined that he was looking at a corpse. He glanced back up at the doctor, who was watching the scene, his face barely more revealing than Tunjin’s. “What do you think?” Doripalam asked. “Can he hear?”

The doctor shrugged. “Who knows?” he said. “Keep trying.”

Doripalam looked back down at Tunjin. “Tunjin, it’s me. Doripalam. Can you hear me?”

There was something there, he thought. Definitely something. He tried again, louder this time, trying to ignore the doctor’s presence. “It’s Doripalam, Tunjin. Can you hear me?”

Tunjin’s pale fleshy head was slumped back on the bed, but something in his eyes indicated recognition, acknowledgement, awareness of who he was or what he was saying. It was, Doripalam thought, like reaching into a cave or into deep water, sensing there was something to be grasped if you could only reach it.

Tunjin blinked unexpectedly. “Tunjin,” Doripalam said again, “can you hear me? Can you understand what I’m saying?”

Tunjin was blinking repeatedly now, as if trying to clear his vision. Swimming up from the depths, awareness filling his eyes. The set of his face changed, concentration welling up from within, and his mouth began to move.

“Ungh …” It was little more than a plosive exhalation of breath, but it was the first sound that Tunjin had uttered since they had brought him in here.

“Tunjin. Can you hear me?” Doripalam looked back at the doctor, wondered whether he could somehow use his authority to make the laid-back bastard do something. Though he had no idea what it was that needed doing.

“Umph …” Tunjin’s mouth and jaw were working, wrestling with the air. His eyes were bright, now full of expression, staring upwards at Doripalam.

“Gun,” Tunjin said. It was the first distinct word he had spoken.

Doripalam looked at the doctor, who gave another of his characteristic shrugs. The familiar intelligence was returning to Tunjin’s eyes, but his body looked like a beached whale on the hospital bed, his immense chest rising and falling as he struggled to speak.

“Can you hear me, Tunjin? It’s me, Doripalam. Are you all right?”

“Gun,” Tunjin said again, his intonation growing more urgent. “I shot—” His eyes were darting backwards and forwards, as though trying to work out who was present, who was listening. It was still not clear he recognised Doripalam.

“It’s all right,” Doripalam tried to sound calm. “You don’t need to worry. You did the right thing.”

“But—” Tunjin stopped, as though trying painfully to work his way through a complex argument. “But …” He stuttered to a halt once more.

Doripalam turned to the doctor. “Is he all right, do you think?”

The doctor was watching Tunjin’s movements with apparently casual interest. He nodded towards the monitor behind the bed. “Better than I would have believed possible,” he said at last. “I don’t know what was wrong with him, but it certainly wasn’t a stroke. Or if it was we’ve just witnessed a miracle. Perhaps I should get one of the priests in here. Those Western born-again ones who hang around the square. They’re very keen on the hand of God stuff, I understand.”

Doripalam gazed at him for a second, then redirected his attention back to Tunjin. Tunjin’s mouth was opening and closing. Finally, he spoke again: “Gun—I shot—” He paused again, holding his breath as though making a final effort to articulate whatever idea he was wrestling with. “It was the gun,” he said at last, quite distinct this time. “Whose gun? Whose gun was it?”

It suddenly struck Doripalam that this was more than a succession of random stuttered words. He had assumed that Tunjin was simply trying to come to grips with the whirl of ideas and images filling his brain. But he was trying to say something quite specific.

“Tunjin,” he said, “what is it? What do you mean?”

“I think,” a quiet voice said from behind them, “that he’s enquiring about the ownership of the weapon.”

Doripalam looked around, startled despite the gentleness of the voice. Startled, above all, because he recognised the speaker. “Nergui,” he said, turning to face the tall figure standing in the now open doorway.

Nergui said nothing, his impassive gaze fixed on the figure on the bed.

“I left you a message,” Doripalam was aware that his voice sounded almost accusatory. For the first time, he realised that Nergui was not alone. Two men in plain dark suits were standing behind him, only half visible in the shadows of the corridor.

Nergui nodded. “I know. Thank you. That was good of you.” He paused, his blue eyes still fixed on Tunjin. “But I’d already been contacted.”

Doripalam finally grasped the significance of the words that Nergui had spoken seconds before. “What did you mean, ‘ownership of the weapon’?”

“The ministry is investigating what happened in the square.”

“I know,” Doripalam said, bluntly. “They made that very clear when they arrived on the scene.”

“I am very sorry. The ministry is not known for its courtesy, I’m afraid.”

“Look …”

Nergui nodded. “This does not fall into your remit. We are dealing with it. But they—we—should have kept you informed. Especially in the circumstances.”

“Circumstances?” Doripalam could see that Nergui was gazing straight past him, his blue eyes fixed on the prone figure on the bed.

“I am here formally to detain Tunjin in custody,” Nergui said, his voice toneless.

“Custody? The man’s ill. After all he’s been through.”

Nergui nodded. “I understand that. But he is a witness to what may have been a terrorist act. And there are aspects of the situation that we need to investigate.” He paused. “I am sure you understand.”

“I don’t understand anything, Nergui,” Doripalam said, his temper rising. “You come muscling in here, throwing your weight around, just like your people did in the square. This man isn’t just a colleague, he should be a friend of yours. He saved your life. What’s all this stuff about custody?”

Nergui nodded again, his face grave, his expression suggesting that Doripalam’s words had simply confirmed his own thoughts. “I know. I have no wish to be difficult. But I’m afraid we’re taking over now.”

“Look, Nergui, you can’t just—”

“You know that I can, Doripalam,” Nergui said, gently. “And you know I wouldn’t do it lightly.” He paused. “I’ve no problem with you staying around for a little while to keep an eye on Tunjin, if you wish. But he’s our business now.”

“So how many am I making?”

Odbayar was sitting cross-legged on the floor, a tattered paperback book splayed on the carpet in front of him. “As many as you can. There won’t be a shortage of support.”

He sounded confident enough, Gundalai thought, but then he always did. Regardless of the circumstances or the facts. It was a talent, there was no question about that. Quite an impressive talent, and so far Odbayar had come a long way on the back of it.

“You could help,” Gundalai pointed out, gesturing with his paint-brush. “We’d get twice as many done. If you think the numbers will justify it.”

Odbayar pushed the book aside. His expression suggested that Gundalai had made a proposal which was novel, perhaps intriguing, but fundamentally absurd. He nodded. “Oh, the numbers will justify it,” he said. “That’s why your contribution is so critical. That’s why everything needs to be done properly. That’s why it needs our full commitment. Every one of us.” He nodded again, more slowly this time, as though reflecting on the profundity of these statements. Then he picked up the book and continued reading.

Another talent, Gundalai supposed. The ability to respond, at length and with impressive fluency, without actually answering the question. And implying that, even by asking it, you were somehow failing to live up to Odbayar’s own irreproachably high standards. He was not a politician yet—not a conventional politician at any rate—but it was clear that Odbayar was already perfectly fitted to the role.

“These all right, then?” Gundalai held up a sample of his craftsmanship.

Odbayar put his book down again, looking only momentarily irritated by the further interruption. He tipped his head on one side and squinted at the banner that Gundalai was holding. It was a primitive affair—stiff cardboard tacked to a piece of old wood—but Gundalai’s draughtsman’s skills were undeniable. Odbayar nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, looks okay,” he said, as close to enthusiasm as he was ever likely to get. “Good slogans, too.” The wording of the slogans had, needless to say, been Odbayar’s own.

In truth, Odbayar’s slogans had a tendency to be wordy. It was a pity, he thought, but there was no point in underselling the sophistication of their core messages. Odbayar saw himself as representing the popular will, but he was no populist. There were too many people peddling false hope, easy solutions. It was time to tell the truth, Odbayar declared, even if the truth might take a little longer to explain.

The slogans were all variations on a common theme: selling out the people’s birthright, betraying their heritage, giving away their inheritance. Theft. But not just the theft of money or possessions—though there was certainly that as well—but something more profound. The theft of their history. Everything that made this country what it was. Everything they were supposedly celebrating this year.

And it was worse even than that. It was also the theft of their future. Everything that this land might one day become.

Odbayar wasn’t the only one to see it. He could feel that things were moving in his direction. It was evident in the opinion columns, the editorials, in the privately owned newspapers. He could hear it in the grumblings of the old men gathered in the square, smoking their cigarettes, playing their endless games of chess. People were finally beginning to realise how serious this was.

“You think people will still come?” Gundalai said, with his uncanny knack for timely intrusions into Odbayar’s train of thought. He had his head down, painstakingly working on the lettering of the next placard.

“Why wouldn’t they?” Odbayar said. “We have all the student bodies behind us. And some of the opposition parties are beginning to come on board, unofficially at least.”

“But after yesterday people are jittery.”

“That was nothing to do with this. No one knows what that was about.”

“So how do you know it was nothing to do with this?” Gundalai said, with unarguable logic.

“Why would it be? This is just a peaceful protest. We’ve informed the authorities.”

Gundalai shrugged. “Maybe that was a peaceful protest as well. Maybe he’d informed the authorities.”

“That was—” Odbayar stopped, realising just too late that Gundalai was winding him up again. “Yes, all right. Very funny.”

Gundalai looked up, his face as deadpan as ever. “But there was a man shot,” he said. “Killed. Whatever the story, it’s bound to have an effect. Things like that don’t happen here. And they’re hushing it up. There was nothing on the TV news.”

“If anything, I think it’s going to increase the turnout,” Odbayar said, with his familiar self-confidence. “It’s just another example of how we can’t trust this government. And of how they won’t trust us with the truth.”

Gundalai had moved on to his next placard, and was carefully drawing a pencil mark to align the lettering. “Me,” he said, “I’m just worried about who they might want to shoot next.”

“This is ridiculous.”

Nergui’s expression, as always, revealed nothing. He glanced across the room at the huge bulk of Tunjin on the bed. “I have a job to do.”

“What is your job these days, Nergui? Do you even know?”

It was a reasonable enough question, given everything that had happened in recent months, but Doripalam could feel that he was stepping onto dangerous ground. He had no idea what Nergui was thinking or feeling these days.

Nergui looked back at him with the faintest of smiles on his lips. “My job’s the same as it ever was,” he said. “I just have to keep on finding new ways to carry it out.”

“And that’s what you’re doing, is it?”

“That’s exactly what I’m doing.” He shrugged, the smile growing more definite now, with, at least for a moment, the first signs of some warmth. “I don’t expect you to like it. But it’s what I do. Nothing’s changed.”

“And what you do is take into custody someone who saved your life? Who probably saved dozens of lives yesterday? I don’t begin to understand this, Nergui.”

Nergui shrugged. “It’s not your job to understand it. Not this time.”

Doripalam opened his mouth to respond, then bit back his words. “It’s my job to protect Tunjin’s interests,” he said. “No one else is going to do it. And he’s part of my team now.”

“And we will keep you fully informed.” It was the tone, Doripalam thought, that Nergui might use with a particularly inquisitive member of the press or some junior representative of one of the opposition parties. It felt like a calculated taunt, the dismissal most likely to sting Doripalam.

“So what are you planning to do, then?” he said. “He’s in no state to be moved.”

“So I understand,” Nergui said. “Though perhaps his illness is not quite so severe as you first feared?” He looked over at the doctor, who had been following their exchange with his usual mild curiosity. “Would you say so, Doctor?”

The doctor shrugged, clearly no more intimidated by Nergui than he had been by Doripalam. “He’s certainly made what appears to be a remarkable recovery. But we’ll need to do tests. We won’t be able to release him for some time.”

“How long?” Nergui said. “Twenty-four hours?”

“That should be enough. Depending on what the tests tell us.”

“Of course,” Nergui said, smiling now. He looked back at Doripalam. “Everything must be done properly. That is why I brought my two colleagues. To ensure that Tunjin is looked after while he’s in here.” He gestured to the two figures in suits, who had moved silently into the room.

Doripalam did not recognise them, though he knew most police officers and ministry agents, at least by sight