Free The Outcast by Michael Walters Page B

fingers slid across the smooth surface of the door, searching for a handle, some form of purchase. There was a raised rectangle at head height—a window. His hands moved down, fumbling to the left and right until he found the cold stainless-steel doorknob.
    Grasping it in both hands he turned it frantically. For a moment there was no movement and panic threatened to overwhelm him. Then he twisted it around once more and felt the door open in front of him.
    Cool, clean air struck him in the face, and the dense grey fog was replaced by a battery of dazzling lights. He staggered out, retching, his throat and eyes raw from the rasp of the smoke. Almost immediately, overwhelmed by the glare and his own confusion, he lost his footing, slipping on the smooth tiled floor. He rolled, striking his shoulder painfully on the hard ground, and lay for a moment, trying to regain his breath and his bearings.
    As his coughing subsided, he opened his eyes and stared up at the high ceiling above him. He was back in the hotel lobby, only metres from the room where the meeting had taken place. Apart from his own coughing and the internally exaggerated sound of his own breathing and heartbeat, there was an odd, unexpected silence. He had envisaged a mêlée of screaming and shouting and police sirens. Instead, it was as if there was a breathless audience out there waiting patiently for the next development.
    He twisted his head, trying to work out what was happening. The frontage of the lobby was a series of large plate-glass windows, stretching across the façade of the hotel, facing out on to the street. The glass had been shattered by the blast, and innumerable glittering shards lay scattered across the polished tiles. Outside, there was darkness and the temperate air of the summer’s evening.
    And then, from his low vantage point on the floor of the lobby, he saw them.
    Ranged across the deserted street, a line of blank-faced, uniformed officers and an array of unwavering rifle barrels.
    Beyond the window, the pale glow of the streetlights was faintly echoed by the scattering of stars in the clear summer sky. Nergui glanced at his watch. Ten thirty. There were still a few people wandering through Sukh Bataar Square, mostly students and tourists enjoying the end of the warm evening.
    From this high vantage point, Nergui could see most of the square. At the far end, flood-lit, was the newly constructed memorial to Genghis Khan. Another symbol of the 800-year anniversary. Another symbol of the state of this country.
    The project had been vastly behind schedule. There had been serious doubt about whether it would be completed in time for the country’s national day, the date of the memorial’s official launch. Another embarrassment for the government, although only of the kind that most people expected these days. Nergui had observed the minor scandal with equanimity, his own minister was not involved. The security minister was, indeed, likely to benefit from any political fall-out, as he witnessed yet another of his rivals overwhelmed by the irresistible force of events. The minister had, to date, been a lucky politician. As Nergui was only too aware, this was a kind of skill in itself, but one that tended not to last forever. And now Nergui wondered whether the minister’s luck was finally running out.
    In another mood, Nergui might have enjoyed the irony. Bakei had never been one to let the facts stand in the way of a career opportunity. He took every chance to talk up the terrorist threat, astutely applying phrases such as “homeland security” to ensure that any proposed response sat squarely within his remit.
    It was a smart enough tactic. You create a perceived threat, and then make sure that you’re the only one with the capability to deal with it. Your colleagues defer to you because they don’t want to risk being proved wrong. And they’re quite happy for you to face the consequences if you