Chapters (58)
- Cover
- Also by Oliver Harris
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- THIRTY-NINE
- FORTY
- FORTY-ONE
- FORTY-TWO
- FORTY-THREE
- FORTY-FOUR
- FORTY-FIVE
- FORTY-SIX
- FORTY-SEVEN
- FORTY-EIGHT
- FORTY-NINE
- FIFTY
- FIFTY-ONE
- FIFTY-TWO
- FIFTY-THREE
- FIFTY-FOUR
- FIFTY-FIVE
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
We arrived back at the militias. One thing they had in common, it occurred to me: all had been fighting Russia or Russian proxies in the last few years. I wondered about the Credit Bank of Moscow’s involvement. Last year, a show of photo-journalism in Berlin got taken down when it turned out to be put together by the Kremlin.
‘Going to write about this?’ I asked.
‘Maybe.’
‘I’ve always wanted to find some young Kazakh writers, people writing about now. Can you recommend any?’
‘Of course.’ She recommended a writer and said she knew her personally. I repeated the writer’s name to memorise it. Aliya’s friends were wrapping up for the cold, eyeing the outside in a way that made me think of sniper fire. Craig Bryant drifted into view on the far side of the room. He saw me, lifted a glass. I saw him consider approaching.
‘You should get back to your friends,’ I said.
‘Yes.’
‘It’s been a pleasure to meet you.’ We shook hands again. I began to move away, then stopped. ‘Aliya?’ She turned. ‘I’m fairly new to this place. Would you possibly meet me again? Chat some more?’
She pulled a face, as if this was distasteful, or awkward.
‘Perhaps,’ she said. ‘I’m very busy.’
‘Of course. I understand. No obligation.’ She made a final appraisal of me, then gave me her number.
‘It’s been a pleasure, Aliya,’ I said. She nodded, and was gone by the time Bryant made it over.
‘Get lucky?’
‘It’s nice to meet some locals.’
‘I can find you more. What are you up to tonight?’ Bryant asked. ‘There’s a bar just opened in Yesil district called Insomnia.’
I might have ended up accompanying him to Insomnia if my phone hadn’t buzzed with a text: a landline to call.
Lieutenant Shomko answered.
‘The woman you are looking for,’ he said. ‘I’ve got something.’
THIRTY-THREE
We agreed on the sauna.
‘Room 303,’ the woman said when I got there.
‘Security cameras—’
‘Already off.’
The room was dimly lit; candles, a bowl of condoms. He was standing beside the window. He had a laptop and a flash drive. He stank of cigarettes. A TV showing a music channel, on mute: Russian hip-hop, silent pool parties. I put the sound on.
‘I can’t do any more for you after this,’ he said.
‘What have you got?’
‘I need money.’
‘I’ll give you money.’
‘Now.’