Free The Shadow Walker by Michael Walters Page B

statue of the eponymous revolutionary hero. It was perhaps not one of the world’s great squares, he thought, but impressive enough. Here, Soviet-style functionality was replaced by something approaching grandeur—the squat white Parliament House, the palatial Government buildings, the imposing bulk of the city Post Office. The square was expansive but busy with people, some standing talking in the morning sun, most striding purposefully to or from the nearby shops and or the open-air Black Market. The majority were dressed in Western clothes although the older ones were often clothed in traditional robes and sashes. A group of young people, dressed in baggy sweatshirts and jeans with familiar designer labels, were gathered at one end of the square, eating ice creams from cardboard cones, outfacing the chill of the late autumn morning.
    At this time of day, the streets were busy but free flowing, the traffic moving slowly without the freneticism of a European capital. There were noisy buses, UAZ trucks and some old stuttering Lada or IZH vehicles, but also some newer looking KoreanDaewoos, Hyundais and Kias. Now and again, Drew caught sight of shiny Western cars—a BMW or Mercedes—indicative of the rising wealth of at least one category of Mongolian citizen.
    â€œAnd our real hero,” Nergui said, still walking. He gestured toward a large hoarding depicting the squat image of Genghis Khan. “He’ll be watching you everywhere you go.”
    Drew had already noticed this. The standard image was everywhere—in pictures in the hotel lobby, painted in large murals on the sides of buildings, inked in tiny faded posters pasted across concrete walls. Here in the city center his ubiquitous image competed incongruously with the lingering emblems of communism and the familiar global logos, neon signs and advertising hoardings that, as capitalism had taken hold, had come to dominate the city skyline.
    â€œI think he still has something of a negative public image in the West, no?” Nergui said over his shoulder. “But not here. And in part perhaps rightly so. He was a ruthless conqueror, but a remarkable man.”
    Drew was feeling too breathless to respond. He had already discovered that it was difficult to keep up with Nergui, both figuratively and literally. He had called Nergui on leaving the embassy that morning, and a car had been sent over with remarkable efficiency to take him to the police HQ.
    He had found Nergui and Doripalam sitting in a small, anonymous office, with a desk full of files and papers in front of them.
    â€œWelcome,” Nergui said. “Please, sit down. How was the ambassador?”
    â€œFine,” Drew said, warily. He was still mulling over the implications of the ambassador’s final words. “He sends you his regards. Oh, and we’re invited to dinner on Thursday. He made a point of inviting you.” Drew looked across at Doripalam with mild embarrassment. “Just Nergui, I’m afraid.”
    Doripalam made a mock grimace of disappointment, then laughed. “I will contain my disappointment,” he said. “Although if you could arrange an invitation for my wife she might appreciate it.”
    Nergui smiled at him. “It is the British way, of course. There is no situation so bad that it cannot be remedied with a good dinner. But I am invited only because he hopes for some gossip from the Ministry.”
    â€œSo long as it
is
a good dinner,” Drew said. “I have my standards.”
    â€œThe ambassador will not let you down,” Nergui smiled. “Not with regard to dinner, anyway.”
    Nergui had carefully prepared all the files, and Drew was impressed by the Mongolian’s detailed familiarity with all aspects of the case. The three men worked painstakingly through all the material, Nergui translating as necessary, highlighting any points which seemed significant or interesting. Despite their scrutiny, the