The Adversary by Michael Walters

that was the case, why hadn’t they just snatched him while he was unconscious? They could have taken him where they liked and then waited for him to wake up.
    Because they were playing with him. That was why they’d left the file here. That was why they were letting him wait. Because they knew what he’d be thinking. They knew what he’d be thinking about. They knew—because it was now here in front of him—that he’d read Muunokhoi’s file.
    And that was it. He knew—and they knew he knew—what Muunokhoi was capable of. He couldn’t just sit here and wait for it.
    He pulled himself to his feet and stumbled over to the window, standing carefully to one side so that he wouldn’t be seen from outside. He blinked at the sunlight, noting from the position of the sun that it really was still morning.
    The bedroom window gave a view of the main street below. It was certainly nothing impressive. Depressing Soviet-style apartment blocks—just like this one—lined both sides of the street, preventing the sun from penetrating except in the very middle of the day. The occasional puttering car went by, mostly clapped out old Ladas, the only kind of vehicle that could be afforded by the people who lived in these endless anonymous blocks. Tunjin peered out, his eyes flicking across the gray-stained concrete.
    There was a figure standing, motionless, a hundred or so meters up the street.
    Tunjin pulled back, hoping that no movement had been visible. The figure had been casually dressed—some sort of sweatshirt and loose pants, a shaved head, cigarette in hand. But watching, definitely watching.
    Tunjin shook his head hard, trying to clear the confusion that was gathering there. He needed to think clearly. He needed to concentrate. He needed—he needed a drink, but, no, that was the last thing he needed.
    What he really needed was to get out of there.
    He looked down at his stained clothes. He couldn’t go far dressed like this. He needed to plan this carefully, as carefully as a severely hung over man could.
    He moved away from the window, and stepped back over to the built-in closet on the adjoining wall. He slid back the door and looked inside, his expectations very low. To his mild surprise, there were a couple of clean T-shirts hanging up, and at least onepair of the large, elastic pants that were the only kind suited to his gut. The presence of these clothes was, he suspected, nothing more than proof that he had actually been wearing his current ones for several days.
    He quickly pulled off his T-shirt and pants and tossed them casually into a corner, where they joined several others. After a pause, he pulled off his enormous Y-fronts and threw them in the same direction. There was a pile of apparently clean underwear on the floor of the closet.
    He pulled on the new Y-fronts, then quickly donned the new black T-shirt and pants. Both were perhaps slightly too small and stretched across his fat body, but—he thought, as he caught sight of himself in the mirror—it was a definite improvement on his previous appearance. He thrust his feet into his only pair of boots, kicking off some of the dried mud, and then grabbed his anorak from behind the bedroom door.
    Right, he thought, ready for action. The only question now was what he ought to do.
    He walked slowly back through into the living room, taking care not to approach the windows. He reached the front door, carefully turned the catch and silently pulled open the door. This was make or break, he thought. If they were watching out in the corridor, this was the end. But he’d bargained on the fact that they wouldn’t have left anyone inside the building. Too conspicuous, he thought. Some of his busybody neighbors would have challenged any intruder within moments.
    The corridor appeared deserted. He glanced back atthe clock. Eight-forty now. Most of his neighbors would have gone off to work, other than the