Exit wound

‘It’s not just the military who are killed by these things. People who have no say, who are just trying to get on with their lives – the ones everybody forgets. That’s why I’m here. We have to stop-’

‘For fuck’s sake, shut up. Here…’ Her bag contained the same sort of stuff I had in mine: cash, passport, camera, burqa. No weapon. I threw it at her. ‘You come in via the university?’

She nodded and pulled out her burqa.

‘We’d better get out the same way.’

‘Where are we going?’

‘Your hotel.’

Her eyes narrowed. ‘You throttle the life out of me, treat me like a silly little girl who doesn’t know shit, and then expect me to invite you back to my room?’ She gave a soft laugh. ‘They moved me out to the airport. I’m getting thrown out of the country tomorrow. They want me on the first flight out. I’m on the seven thirty to Astana, then Moscow – they’re in such a hurry to get rid of me they’re not even sending me back to Russia. They put security in the lobby so I just took the rear exit. What’s the worst they could do if they catch me sneaking back in with you? Threaten to throw me out in the morning?’

The worst they could do was a whole lot worse than that, but I didn’t think now was the right time to mention it.

86

We sat in the back of the cab in our burqas, me playing the big, ugly sister. There wouldn’t have been a lot to talk about even if we’d both sounded local. We were on the outskirts of the city, in the glow of cheap orange streetlights and what looked like a shanty town thrown together with cardboard, wriggly tin, mud and straw. Dogs skulked and pissed on the pavement. Kids in rags played in the doorways.

Agnetha wore a plain band of gold on the third finger of her right hand. In Russia, that meant she was married. If she’d worn it on the same finger of the left, it would have sent a clear signal that she was divorced or widowed. Either her husband was at home doing a little light housework or she wanted people like me to stop bothering her.

It hadn’t taken us long to get out of the minaret and sneak past the drivers. They were now focused on the Iranian answer to Friday Night with Jonathan Ross. All we could hear was canned laughter, punctuated from time to time by giggles beneath the blankets.

The square was teeming again as women poured out of the mosque. We dusted ourselves down as best we could before taking our places in the crowd. We headed up to the main and jumped into a taxi – a Peugeot 305 with a sunroof, air-conditioning and a nice blue digital dash. Just right for the ladies.

Agnetha gave directions. Her Arabic was really good. These lads weren’t Arabs, but they understood her. After all, their religion was inseparable from the language. They’d known it since they were kids.

I felt my eyes beginning to droop in the comfort of the rear seat and the cocoon-like security of the burqa. I shook myself awake and tried to make sense of the M3C/Iran/Taliban triangle.

The Taliban had the drugs and the cash to pay for the weapons.

It didn’t add up.

Why did Altun need the gold?

Why would a guy who was so high up the food chain organize a robbery and use a Russian plane to cart away the proceeds? Why would the mullahs turn a blind eye? They weren’t that mad.

And then I realized that the deal wasn’t being brokered by the Iranians at all. Agnetha was wrong. They had nothing to do with it.

So what was Altun up to? And why did he need the gold?

I was going round in circles. I had to cut away. The answer didn’t matter. It didn’t do anything for me right now, and it couldn’t affect what I was going to do.

87

We were approaching the airport road. Red and white lights blinked on top of the towers. The terminal glowed brilliant white. It looked like a recently landed UFO.

The Peugeot drove towards Agnetha’s hotel. Beyond the flags in the driveway, the lobby was another beacon of white neon. A bored-looking guy in a uniform slouched at the reception desk. Agnetha asked the driver to go round to the back. I checked my watch. It was coming up to eleven.

She paid off the driver and pretended to look for her car. The blue glow of the dash faded into the night.

She led me to the steel fire escape. I took off my burqa and bundled it into my day-sack but she kept hers on. I was quite pleased about that. The bruises on her neck would be developing nicely. She was halfway up the stairs before she realized I wasn’t following. ‘Aren’t you coming up?’

I shook my head. ‘The room’s probably bugged.’

‘But I-’

‘You online?’

‘Yes.’

‘Whatever I find out, I’ll let you know. What name am I looking for?’

‘Anna Ludmilova. Shall I spell it?’

‘I’ll find you.’