A Spring Betrayal by Tom Callaghan Page A

it over to me as a film clip started playing.
    The clip was shaky and slightly out of focus to begin with, then became clearer. It opened with a close-up of a wrist, wearing an identity band. The sight of it tugged at my guts, remembering the one I wore in the orphanage. I tilted the phone so that no one else in the bar could see the screen, and muted the sound. Saltanat moved closer to me so that she could also watch.
    What we saw was horror.
    The boy must have been about nine, but the look of terror in his eyes was ancient. His mouth was open, a silent scream, which stopped only when a man’s hand slapped him hard across the face.
    I heard Saltanat gasp beside me, and felt her turn away.
    “I’ve seen this,” she said, disgust overwhelming her voice. “In fact, I can’t stop seeing it.”
    I watched on, the rape, the murder. The bar’s stink of pelmeni , sour beer, and stale piss smelled stronger, my stomach rising in nausea. The images swam before my eyes, as if I was watching from the bottom of Lake Issyk-Kul, and I wondered if I was going to faint.
    Then I was bending forward, dry retching, the taste of bile sharp as razors in my throat.
    That was when I felt a sting in my left shoulder, looked up to see Kamchybek’s eyes open wide, as a red poppy bloomed on his chest.
    Blood. Not his blood. Mine.

Chapter 18
    Ignoring the fire in my shoulder, I turned to see Lubashov, the doorman from outside, Makarov in hand, struggling with the magazine, his face twisted with rage and fear.
    I reached across my waist to grab my gun with my right hand, but Saltanat already had her Makarov out, left hand gripping her right wrist, the gun pointed arm’s length at Lubashov’s head. I’ve always believed that center mass of the body is the best target to put someone down—it’s how I’d killed his brother—but there’s no doubt staring into a small black circle of death focuses the mind to a surprising degree.
    “Down. Don’t think about it, do it. Gun down or I put you down,” Saltanat commanded, taking a step forward. I could see Lubashov calculating the odds on unjamming his gun, taking aim, and pulling the trigger. He didn’t stand a chance.
    It was one of those moments when time freezes, cigarette smoke suspended against the ceiling lights, a moment of gray, where everything becomes electric and vivid. I looked over my shoulder. There was a scorch mark on my jacket as if someone had tapped me with a red-hot poker, and a certain amount of blood, but nothing I’d needa transfusion for. If I hadn’t bent down to gag though, it would have been very different. With no need for a blood transfusion.
    Like a man doing a mime act in extreme slow motion, wading through particularly sticky glue, Lubashov lowered the gun down on the floor. It looked as if Mother Lubashova wouldn’t need to buy a second tombstone. But Saltanat didn’t take her eyes off his hands, her gun off his face.
    “You’ve got a good explanation for trying to kill a police officer?” she said.
    Lubashov looked about to burst into tears.
    “My brother,” he mumbled, said something nonsensical about revenge. Over the years of what I laughingly call my career, I’ve learned that the weakness of all these wannabe gangsters is that they mistake violence for an instant solution instead of a last resort. But shooting a Murder Squad detective will bring a wealth of shit down on everyone, even if he’s wanted for questioning.
    Saltanat moved forward, beckoning Lubashov back with her gun, until she could pass his gun back to me.
    “How badly are you hurt?”
    I shrugged, nonchalant, immediately wished I hadn’t.
    “We can pick up some bandages once we leave. It’s just a graze; I’ve had worse shaving cuts.”
    More bravado on my part that Saltanat chose to disregard.
    “What do you want to do with this one?” she asked, nodding at Lubashov, who now knelt down and laced his fingers behind his neck.
    “Not much I can do, is there? Can hardly ask