The Shadow Walker (38 page)

But nothing happened. And finally his eyes cleared, and he was able to look across the vast factory floor to what lay at the far end of the room.

The knife rose, the silver blade glinting in the bright overhead lights, then came down sharply. Drew's screams were still echoing around the vast empty room as the blade struck, the blade snagging hard against the tight cords.

Drew gasped, all the breath expelled from his body, his mind dazed, his terror now beyond even screaming. He felt, momentarily, the icy steel against his neck, then nothing more. It took him a moment to realize that he felt no pain, and several seconds more to accept that he remained unharmed, except for a mild tingling on his neck where the blade had grazed him.

He twisted his head, trying to see what was happening, and found that, for the first time since he had awakened in this place, his head was free. The stroke of the knife had, with consummate skill, sliced neatly through the cords that held him while barely touching his skin.

His captor was standing calmly, a few feet away, watching as Drew twisted his body to see. Behind the woolen helmet, his eyes were unblinking.

Drew's body was aching and stiff from the lengthy period of captivity, and at first he was barely able to take advantage of his new freedom. He was held now only by the handcuffs which, as he looked around him, were attached to a ring embedded in a large piece of concrete. He pulled hard on the handcuffs and the block shifted slightly on the floor. It would have been possible to move it, but only with considerable effort. His captor must be
considerably stronger than Drew himself, accustomed to moving heavy loads.

His muscles in agony, Drew pulled himself into a sitting position. His captor still stood watching, motionless, with the air of a scientist observing an experiment. Drew looked around him. As he had surmised this was some kind of disused factory building. The room they were in was a storeroom of some kind, with empty metal shelves stretching around the walls. Here and there were abandoned items—a paint pot, some rusty-looking tools, a few pieces of wood and metal. Drew himself had been lying on a wooden workbench, set in the middle of the concrete floor.

The room was a relatively large one—maybe ten meters square—but through the door behind his captor Drew could see a further, much larger area. Probably the original factory floor, he thought.

It was as if, once his body had been freed, Drew had come to life again, returned from his state of suspended animation. During his captivity, he had been largely unaware of pain or other bodily needs. Now, suddenly, he was aware, not only of the stiffness and aches arising from the discomfort of his imprisonment, but also of other pains—the bruises and grazes he had sustained while being attacked and kidnapped. But more immediately, he was acutely aware of a need to urinate.

He stared at his captor. “Who are you?” he said. “What do you want from me?” He was conscious that even if his captor was prepared to engage in dialogue with him, he was unlikely to speak English.

There was no direct response. His captor continued to stare at him. Drew pushed himself down from the bench and put his feet on the floor. His legs shook from the effort, but he forced himself to stand upright. “Why have you brought me here?” he said, in a last effort to make himself understood. He tried to move forward toward his captor, stretching himself away from the handcuffs as far as he could.

The other man still did not move. He was standing several feet beyond Drew's reach. As Drew tried to stretch toward him, he continued to watch, apparently with mild curiosity.

Finally, the man took a step back, still watching Drew. He turned suddenly and began to walk toward the open doorway. At the door, he paused momentarily, and looked back over his shoulder. “Come,” he said in English. “This way.”

Drew stared at him for a moment in astonishment. The words had been in English. The accent had sounded American, or at least the accent of someone who had learned English in the US. Drew watched as the man disappeared into the far room. Then, slowly and painfully, he tried to follow, dragging the heavy concrete block behind him.

He moved a meter or so along. Then he stopped and, with feelings mixed between relief and a sense of futile rebellion, he unzipped his flies with his free hand and began to urinate copiously across the concrete floor. It was only when he was finished and the liquid was running in rivulets across the empty room that he recommenced his slow progress toward the open door.

Nergui's sight cleared slowly, and he stared across the room through a haze of colors.

This was the old factory floor. It was a vast room, with a high vaulted ceiling crossed by metal roof beams. Large windows stretched along each wall, although the majority of these were broken or boarded up. It was clear that the room had once contained some form of production machinery, but now, apart from a few discarded pieces of rusty metal, the large space was empty.

At the far end of the room, a man stood. It was the figure Nergui had seen in the darkness, dressed in a long black overcoat, with a hood over his head. Even in the bright light of the numerous fluorescent tubes, Nergui could barely make out the man's face in the hood's shadow, though it was clear he was a Mongolian.

“Badzar?” Nergui said.

“You know who I am,” Badzar said. It was a statement, rather than a question. “I saw my brother,” he added.

Nergui took a cautious step forward. It was not evident that Badzar was armed, but Nergui had already taken too many chances. “It's not too late to stop all this,” he said.

Badzar shook his head. “I think it is too late,” he said. “Not for me, but for others.”

“Where's McLeish?” Nergui said. “The British policeman. You said you had him. Where is he?”

“He is not here,” Badzar said. “It is not true that I have him. Not quite true.” He held up his hand as Nergui started to speak. “But I know where he is. He is close by. He is, as far as I know, safe for the moment.”

“As far as you know? What do you mean?” Nergui felt a small tremor of relief. He did not understand Badzar's responses, but they were bizarre enough to suggest that they could be true, that McLeish might after all still be alive. “Where is he?”

“Close by,” Badzar said. He shrugged. “I am happy to take you there, though I do not know what will happen after that. I want an end to all this. It is not what I expected.”

Nergui gently shook his head, trying to make sense of what he was hearing. Maybe it was simply that Badzar was insane, beyond all reason, disconnected from the enormity of what he had done, the crimes he had committed. But it did not feel like that. It felt, as it had to Nergui all along, as though something was emerging here, something he could not yet begin to grasp.

“It's easy for you to put an end to this, if that's what you want,” he said. “Take me to McLeish. Hand him over. We can deal with things from there.”

“It is not that simple,” Badzar said. “It cannot be that simple again. There have been so many crimes and this is just the start.”

Nergui took some more steps forward. Badzar did not appear to react to his approach, his hands hanging limply by his side. Nergui's hand was in his pocket, clutching his pistol.

“What do you mean,” Nergui said, “just the start?”

Badzar shook his head. His face was visible to Nergui now, caught in the fluorescent lights. He was staring ahead, his eyes
blank, his face expressionless. He did not look like a driven man, he did not look like a threat. He looked like a man who was lost, who had somehow traveled too far, too quickly, and now had no idea where he was. Nergui realized that Badzar was not staring at him as he had assumed, but was looking through him, beyond him, as if at something in the far distance. Nergui glanced behind him, wondering if this wasn't after all some kind of trap. But then it became clear to him that whatever Badzar might be staring at, it was not anything in this room. It was not anything that was visible to the human eye.

“What is it?” Nergui said. “What are you talking about? Where's McLeish? Take me to him.”

Badzar blinked, and his eyes focused on Nergui, as if seeing him for the first time. “I'll take you to him,” he said. “I want to take you to him. I think he is safe. At the moment.”

“Quickly, then,” Nergui said. He did not begin to understand what Badzar was saying, but it sounded as if, for whatever reason, McLeish's safety was far from guaranteed. “Take me to him.”

Badzar stared at Nergui. His eyes were no longer staring into nothingness, but were now fixed on Nergui. The effect was no less disconcerting. “It was him, you see,” Badzar said, as though responding to Nergui's instruction. “He was the one. He told me to do it. He helped me.” He paused, his eyes pleading. “I would not have done it without him. Not in the same way. Not so much. Not so many.”

“Who told you to do it?” Nergui said.

“He did. He led me into this. He told me it was the only way. And then we just went on. There was no way out. No way back.”

“Who do you mean? Who are you talking about?”

“Him. He told me.” Badzar was shaking his head now, repeatedly, obsessively. His eyes were still blank. “He told me.”

“Where is he? Is he with McLeish?” Nergui looked around him at the empty, brightly lit room. He could not follow Badzar into his apparent descent into madness. Was there really some third party? Or was this just some bizarre symptom of Badzar's insanity?
If so, there was no guarantee that McLeish was still alive, no guarantee that McLeish was here at all.

“He told me to call you. To bring you to him.”

The words stopped Nergui, chills running down his spine. “He told you to call me? To bring me here?”

Badzar shook his head, looking impatient. “No, not to bring you here. That's just it. He told me to bring you to him. He doesn't know we are here yet.”

“Where is he, then?”

“He's—nearby. I said I would bring you to him. But I wanted to talk. To tell you. That it was him.” “What was him?”

“Everything was him. Everything. He told me to do it. All of it. And he—was responsible.”

“Who is he?” Nergui said again.

“He is nearby.” Badzar stopped and looked at his watch. “We have no time. We have to go to him. Otherwise—”

“Otherwise what?”

“We have to go. Now. But I wanted to tell you.”

“Take me to McLeish.” Nergui pulled the pistol from his pocket. “Take me now.”

Badzar looked down at the gun, but barely seemed to register its existence. “I need to take you now,” he said again.

He turned and began to walk slowly toward the rear of the factory. There were large double doors there, clearly designed to provide access for large machinery. To the right of the doors, there was a smaller entrance for everyday access. Badzar reached it, Nergui following close behind, and pulled open the door.

Nergui followed him out into a dark narrow alleyway. It was unlit, but Nergui could see both ways along its full length. Another factory building loomed over them.

“I will take you to him,” Badzar said. He began to walk slowly along the alley, staring at the ground. Nergui followed behind, his pistol clutched in one hand, the flashlight in the other.

The alley opened into another open yard area, with a cluster
of factory and warehouse buildings around it. The yard was covered with frozen snow, apparently undisturbed since it had fallen. Above them, the sky remained clear and star filled.

Badzar walked slowly across the yard, leaving a trail of footprints in the virgin snow. By now, Nergui had no idea what to expect. It was clear only that Badzar was beyond any reason.

There was another, wider alleyway at the far side of the yard. Badzar started to walk down it, but almost immediately stopped and turned to his left. “Here,” he said. “Here it is.” He gestured toward the wall of the adjacent building. Nergui followed close behind and saw that there was a narrow doorway, that had been left ajar. “In here,” Badzar said.

Nergui waved the pistol at him. “You first,” he said.

Badzar nodded, and slowly pushed open the door and stepped inside. He walked a few steps forward, and Nergui followed carefully, still suspecting a trap.

Beyond the doorway, there was a short unlit passageway. At the far end were more double doors. They were closed, but around them shone a thin line of light.

“In there,” Badzar said. “He is in there.”

“McLeish?”

“Yes, McLeish is there. And he is there. I hope we are not too late.”

“I hope so too,” Nergui said. “You go in first.”

He still had no idea what to expect, how to gauge Badzar's sanity. His greatest fear was that McLeish's corpse lay beyond this door. It was not clear what else might be waiting.

Badzar stepped forward and pushed open the door. Light flooded through the opening. Nergui paused, allowing his eyes to grow accustomed to the new brightness. He did not want to be caught out again.

Badzar stood, holding the door for him in a parody of conventional politeness. Nergui stepped forward slowly, holding the pistol in front of him, and entered the room.

It was another large abandoned space, this one probably an old
warehouse, as the walls were covered in racks and shelving. As he walked forward in the brightly lit room, Nergui wondered irrelevantly how it was that these deserted buildings still had access to electricity.

Then he stopped. Badzar had paused a few feet in front of him, his arms limply at his sides as before.

The room was not empty. Drew was here, as Badzar had promised, and he was not yet the corpse that Nergui had feared. He looked, though, as if death might not be far away. He was sitting huddled on the floor at the far end of the room, his face pale and drawn, his eyes haunted. He was hunched forward, dressed in the clothes he had been wearing when he left the embassy. One of his arms was handcuffed to a post, the kind of device that one might use for tethering a dog or a horse.