The Shadow Walker Read Online Free PDF

And for all their friendship and mutual respect, Doripalam was unlikely to be first in the welcoming committee. He was already fighting an uphill struggle to gain credibility with the longer-serving but much less able officers who were now reporting to him. The enforced return of Nergui at the first sign of difficulty was hardly likely to strengthen Doripalam’s position in the team.
    Nergui couldn’t help feeling some irrational guilt. In his heart, he knew—and he suspected that Doripalam would also know—that this was exactly the development that he’d been quietly fantasizing about throughout the whole of the last six mind-numbing months.
    â€œOkay,” he said at last. “If you say so, Minister. I’ll do my best.”
    The Minister hung up. Nergui stared for a moment at the receiver, wondering why it was that the politician judged it appropriate to dispense with all the standard courtesies in his dealings with others. Then, hesitating only momentarily, he dialed Doripalam’s number.
    â€œIt’s okay,” Doripalam said, before Nergui could launch into anexplanation. “I’ve already been told. At least now I know why you were so keen to meet for coffee.” “Doripalam, that’s not—”
    â€œNo, I know. I was joking. I’m not exactly overjoyed, but I don’t imagine this is your fault. At least I hope not. We have to make the best of it.”
    â€œI’ll try to make it as painless as possible,” Nergui said. “Really.”
    â€œYes,” Doripalam said. “I’m sure you will.”
    An hour later, Nergui stood silently with the young man, examining the desolate spot where the third body had been found. The body itself had been taken away for the post mortem. Nergui had seen it briefly, but it had told him nothing except how disgusting a mutilated human body can look. Which was something he already knew too well.
    They were on the edge of the city, the dark green mountains rising behind them. This was one of the areas where the population still lived largely in the traditional round nomadic tents, rather than in the endless rows of faceless apartments that had grown during the Communist era. The presence of the tents was commonplace, even in this urban environment, but Nergui, after his time in the West, found it jarring.
    It was tradition, of course, a way of life uniquely appropriate to the climate and lifestyle of the country. But it was a strange way to live, he thought, as though the inhabitants were trying to deny the city’s existence, desperate to be up and on the move instead. Or perhaps that was not so odd. In this land, it was the city, the presumption of permanence, that was the aberration. And there was no question that the tents were solid and comfortable enough with their wooden frames and brightly painted doors, the thick felt and canvas of the walls. With the central stove burning, a few glasses of vodka, and the shared body heat of a family, it was possible to repel even the harshest of Mongolian winters. And Nergui had to acknowledge that the clusterings of family groups, the
ails,
offered a sense of community that was different from anything he had ever known.
    But the body had been found outside all of this, dumped in a scrubby knot of fir trees in a small ravine. It was a bleak spot, especially so late in the year when, even at midday, the low sun barely penetrated its shadows. There had been a stream running through here, but the dry autumn had left the ground parched and cracked. The trees and bushes were scattered with garbage, rusting tins and rotting cardboard discarded from the camp above.
    Earlier that morning, an aging guard dog, left prowling by the edge of the camp while its owner sat outside his tent boiling water for tea, had suddenly raced off into the ravine, barking endlessly. By the time the owner had caught up, the dog had been snarling at a bundle dumped in some bushes. Even