A Spring Betrayal by Tom Callaghan Page B

images of the gun fight in the Kulturny. The wound in my shoulder felt as if I’d been burned, but it had stopped bleeding some hours ago. Saltanat had done her best to clean and bandage it from the first aid box under the spare tire, but she had nothing to give me for the pain. So while she slept beside me, I stared out of the windshield at the sheet of stars above us, and wondered what to do next.
    The dawn crept up over the mountains, a burglar on tiptoe, each movement imperceptible, gradually swelling and filling the sky with the lightest of blues. I looked at Saltanat as she slept, then stared at myself in the mirror. Damaged, bruised, still in mourning, without afuture as far as I could tell. So instead I watched the sun begin to color the snow a deceptive gold . . .
    By noon, we were only a few hours from Jalalabad. Earlier, I’d left Saltanat asleep and went to wash in the Naryn River as it danced and kicked its way downstream. The brutality of the snow-cold water on my face punched me into wakefulness, so I unwound the dressing on my shoulder and looked at Maxim’s handiwork. The flesh around the wound was red and inflamed, and I knew I’d have to get some antibiotics. I could feel the muscle tug, and resisted the temptation to pick at the raised dark-brown scab. I’d probably need stitches, but asking a doctor not to inform the local menti of a gunshot wound would need either a big bribe or a quick getaway.
    Once we’d finished the last of the samsi , we set off on the last leg of our journey. I’d checked Kamchybek’s iPhone, but hadn’t been able to get a signal, not really surprising, given the mountains towering around us.
    “I’ll get my colleague in Jalalabad to see what information he can track down from the cell phone,” Saltanat said. “There’ll be numbers on it that could give us a lead, maybe documents and e-mails.”
    “I’m grateful for you getting me out of Bishkek,” I said, aware of course that I sounded ungrateful. “And believing me about the setup with the child porn. Wanting to help me track down whoever killed Gurminj. But the longer we stay together, the more you’re at risk.”
    Saltanat frowned; I was treading on the toes of the Uzbek security forces.
    “Close to the border, and it’s easier to cross over without drawing attention to ourselves, if we have to,” she said.
    “You’ve got agents there? Safe houses?”
    “Akyl, just trust me on this, okay?” she answered.
    Which was, of course, no answer at all.
    The mountains shrank to mere hills, long flanks of grass and meadows on either side of the road. We were entering the Fergana Valley, some of the most fertile agricultural land in Central Asia, land that’s been squabbled over, seized, and retaken for thousands of years. Oneof the many Silk Road routes ran through here, carrying Chinese silks, spices and sweets from India, and finely crafted Persian silverwork. These days, the trade also includes heroin and krokodil , semiautomatic rifles, and trafficked people. Of course, they’re not being carried by camel anymore. On the other hand, business is a lot more lucrative.
    Jalalabad isn’t a particularly large city, or a bustling one. As Saltanat parked the Lexus on Lenina Street, the main drag that runs through the center, it felt like we’d left Kyrgyzstan behind when we’d driven out of Bishkek. Most of the men were wearing Uzbek skullcaps instead of Kyrgyz kalpaks , while the women wore headscarves and long narrow trousers under their brightly colored dresses. Some young women dared to defy tradition and walked bareheaded, but they were few and far between. We were near the main bazaar, and I wondered if that was where Saltanat intended to meet her “people.”
    “Why don’t you take a walk, maybe pick up some fruit in the bazaar?” she suggested.
    “What about you?” I asked. “You don’t want me to come with you?”
    Saltanat simply shook her head.
    “I’ll see you back here in a couple of