The Adversary by Michael Walters

hoped not. He had enormous respect for Doripalam—he thought Doripalam handled the day to day aspects of this job better than he had, if only because he seemed to have infinitely more patience with all the nonsense involved. No, it was the job he couldn’t leave behind. And not just because he liked the pace and the excitement of it, compared with the cerebral challenges of his Ministry role. But also because he thought it mattered. It was important. It was what held the fabric of this increasingly fragile society together.
    All the rhetoric he’d trotted out to Doripalam—well, of course it was overblown. How else did you get the Minister to take any notice of this kind of thing? But, nonetheless, it had been sincere. As he saw the growing influx of drugs dealing, mindless violence, not-so-petty theft—the slow but sure seepage of influence from thewider world—he did begin to think that maybe the battle was already lost. All those grand ideological battle-cries—equality, freedom, democracy—and yet it was this mundane criminality, the underbelly of capitalism, that would end up on top of the pile.
    So here he was again, dabbling in things that he should have left far behind. If he’d been in Doripalam’s shoes, he’d probably have told them precisely where to stick their inquiry. But that was why Doripalam was good in this role. Because he only fought the battles that mattered. Because, much as he might resent Nergui’s repeated intrusions, he also recognized that the older man’s experience and knowledge could be useful. Maybe, in the end, it was Doripalam who was exploiting Nergui. At least, Nergui hoped that was the case.
    His musing was interrupted by the telephone on the desk in front of him. The sound was startling. Nergui didn’t think that anyone yet had this contact number. The Minister would call him on his cell—probably several times a day once he realized that Nergui wasn’t immediately on hand to respond to whatever minor crises were brewing—as would any of his Ministry colleagues. Nergui liked the cell, partly because he could switch it off when he chose.
    He cautiously picked up the receiver. “Nergui?”
    â€œSir. I’m sorry to disturb you. I have a visitor down at the reception. She’s here to report a crime—a threat of physical assault.”
    Nergui shook his head, wondering if the call had been transferred to the wrong extension. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I think you want someone else.”
    â€œNo, sir. I’m sorry, but she was keen to speak to you.”
    â€œTo me? Why should she want to talk to me? Just send her over to the police station.”
    â€œWell, yes, sir, that’s what I told her. But she says she knows you. She’s a judge.”
    â€œA
judge
?” The dialogue seemed to be drifting into the realms of the surreal. Nergui had become acquainted with a number of judges in the course of his professional life, but he couldn’t think of any who might actively seek him out for the purposes of reporting a crime.
    â€œYes, sir. She says she’s been threatened.”
    Nergui leaned back in his chair. Through the window, between the angles of the surrounding buildings, he could see a rectangle of pure blue sky. “Threatened?”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    It sounded like some kind of lunatic. Someone claiming she was a judge, that she’d been threatened, that she knew Nergui. How did she even know he was here? He sighed gently. “And what’s your name, son?”
    There was a pause at the other end of the line. “Sangajav, sir.”
    â€œWell, Sangajav, I suppose you’d better bring her up. But I hope you’re not wasting my time.”
    There was a second, longer pause. “I’m sorry, sir, but she does claim she knows you.”
    â€œBring her up.” Nergui slowly replaced the receiver. He pulled himself upright and