Free The Outcast by Michael Walters Page A

mousey man with a constant air of grievance, wore an expression that suggested he had been unreasonably interrupted in some duty of far greater significance.
    â€œA bomb?” Doripalam repeated.
    â€œWell, we don’t know for sure, but all the signs—”
    â€œWhere? I know you told me before, but tell me again. I’m not sure I’m taking this in.”
    â€œA hotel, sir. On the south side of the city. Not one of the big tourist places.”
    â€œWell, that’s something,” Doripalam said and immediately regretted the words. That was the way things were going, he thought. His first instinct, faced with something like this, was to worry how it would play in the media, how it would affect his own position. “Are there any casualties?” he asked, conscious now that the question sounded like an after-thought.
    â€œWe’re still trying to get in there.” The officer stopped, as if he had run out of breath. “The army team have just arrived. We’re trying to find out if it’s safe to go in.”
    Doripalam nodded. He was listening to someone in mild shock, he thought. There were no precedents for this, no guidelines abouthow it should be handled. “Okay,” he said. “I’m on my way.”
    He ended the call and looked back up at Batzorig and the pathologist, who were staring at him quizzically. The pathologist was thrusting forward the pile of bulky files, with the air of a child trying impatiently to conclude the formalities of delivering a birthday present so he could get on with enjoying the party.
    Doripalam stared down at the files. “Is there anything useful in there?”
    The pathologist looked startled, as though he had been asked some unexpected and wholly unfair question. “Well, you know we can never be definitive, and there’s even less to go on here than—”
    â€œNothing, then?”
    The pathologist glared at him. “There’s a lot of detail—”
    â€œI’m sure there is.” For a moment, Doripalam gazed back at the hunched figure, wondering whether there was anything to be gained from this conversation. “We’re very grateful for your hard work. And thank you for taking the trouble to bring it over.”
    â€œYes, but—”
    â€œYou’ll appreciate,” Doripalam said, waving his cell phone gently in the other man’s face, “that it’s not really the priority just at the moment.”

CHAPTER SIX
    There was smoke and dust everywhere. It was difficult to distinguish between the two, but the smoke caught suddenly in the back of the lungs, acrid and choking. It hit Gundalai unexpectedly, as he stumbled blindly down the corridor, his eyes still unaccustomed to the dull glimmer of the emergency lighting.
    This was how people died, he thought. Not from the blast or the flames, but quietly, when they thought the worst was past. Their brains ceased to function, and they succumbed to a threat they hadn’t even known was there.
    He thrust out his hand against a doorway, trying to work out where he was. He didn’t think he’d come far. Although it was difficult to be sure. He recalled the blast, the sudden glare, the extraordinary noise, as if the whole place was collapsing in upon them. The screaming …
    And then what?
    There was a period of time he couldn’t grasp, that had somehow slipped beyond his memory. He had no idea how he came to be in this gloomy smoke-filled corridor. And he had no idea how long it had taken.
    He took another step forward, his head still bowed, unseeing, uncaring about his direction but just trying to keep moving. To keep breathing. To keep alive.
    And then his hand touched something cold and smooth, but noticeably a different texture to the plaster wall he had stumbled against before. Wood, he thought. A wooden door.
    He pushed it hard with both hands, and then nearly fell back in despair as it failed to move. His