Three men emerged through the broken panel, a short, stout officer in a smart parade uniform with three stars on his shoulder tabs, another with only one, and a younger man with two bars.
“Colonel Sesslizh!” hissed Taeela. “Why, Nigel? Why? My father … Oh, it is horrible! I will …”
A single dull thud broke the silence. On the screen the soldier who had been trying to open the desk reeled back and fell. The three officers staggered into each other but kept their feet, stared for a moment at the desk, flung up arms to protect mouths and nostrils, and rushed off screen. The soldier rose to his knees and started to crawl away, but then collapsed and lay still.
“They are such fools!” snarled Taeela. “Of course there is a trap!”
Nigel stared at the empty room. The soldier lay where he had fallen, not moving. Some kind of gas, he guessed. They wouldn’t be trying to get through this way, then, not for a bit. And what with that other trap in the passage above, they were going to be jumpy about trying to break through anywhere. That meant there might be time to wait till darkness, get out somehow, sneak back to the Embassy … Or perhaps his father could fix something. For him, anyway. What about Taeela? What would his father …?
“Can we see what’s happening in the Great Hall?” he whispered.
Taeela started as if he’d woken her from a trance and pressed a couple of keys. A menu list in Dirzhani came up. More keys, and there was the Great Hall, seen looking down the stairs towards the entrance. A camera crew was on the dais photographing the President’s body sprawled in his blood, his arm still reaching out in that final gesture, telling Taeela to go. This was almost the angle from which she must have seen it happen.
Her face was set, her mouth a hard slit.
“I will have their blood!” she muttered. “I will have their blood!”
She reached for the keyboard.
“No, please!” he said. “Can we see …?”
“Lucy and Nick? Look, they are there. I think they are not hurt.”
She worked the mouse and brought up the view across the Great Hall. The audience were still in their chairs, watched by a line of soldiers, their guns held ready to use. Nigel’s father was sitting stiffly upright, staring in front of him as if he were doing his best to ignore a foul smell. His left arm was round Nigel’s mother, who was slumped against his shoulder with her head bowed so that only her dark frizz showed. Nigel ached to reach to her, to whisper somehow in her mind that he was not far away, watching, safe.
There was a commotion in the row behind them, where a couple of soldiers had forced their way between the seats and were trying to drag a man out, and he was resisting. From the gaps in the rows it looked as if he wasn’t the first. At the end of the row stood an officer and a civilian. The civilian studied the list in his hand and pointed. This time the victim rose and came without a struggle, and a soldier led him away.
“Who’s that chap with the list?” said Nigel.
“I do not know him. The man they take away is Mattu Mandli. He is mayor in Dara. You see the girl next where he sits. His
daughter, Jannah. In my school.… You see enough, Nigel?”
“I suppose so. I wonder what’s really happening … There must be someone in charge of it all.”
“I look.”
The monitor flickered through a series of scenes, different views of the Great Hall, one with soldiers guarding the men they’d extracted from the audience and some of the chiefs who’d come to declare their tributes; a room full of soldiers, weaponless, looking angry and dejected, sitting in rows on the floor, guarded by other soldiers, armed; palace servants standing around, frightened or excited or both; four men having what was clearly a serious argument … This might be it. One was the colonel with the hissy name who they’d seen in Taeela’s living room, one was a tall, smooth-faced soldier, also with three stars on his shoulder-tabs, one was the angry-looking chieftain who’d brought a tree as his tribute, still in his black and orange robes, and the fourth was Mr Dikhtar. The argument was between the chieftain and the two soldiers. Mr Dikhtar was desperately trying to keep the peace. The other three ignored him until the chieftain turned on his heel and strode away, with Mr Dikhtar scuttling behind him. The two soldiers followed, making no attempt to catch up.
“That’s the colonel again, isn’t it?” said Nigel. “And Dikhtar, of course. Any idea who the other two are?”
“The chieftain, he is Adzhar Taerzha,” Taeela growled. “He wants his son to marry me. Then he will be Khan. He is West Dirzh. The other soldier is Colonel Madzhalid. He is East Dirzh. Sesslizh too. Of course they fight him. I tell you, they are such fools! Let bad things happen to them! All of them! I curse them! I will drink their blood!”
She stared at the retreating backs, her chest heaving as the deep breaths came and went. She gave a violent shudder and turned to him.
“Nigel, I am hungry.”
He looked at his watch. Twenty past one. Barely an hour since he’d watched Taeela start down the stairway. He shouldn’t have been able to swallow a mouthful after what had happened, but he was famished.
“Is there anything to eat?”
“Of course. I will leave the screen on so you can you see what happens with Lucy and Nick.”
There was a shelf of canned food in the cupboard, another with plates and mugs and cutlery, and a small fridge. While he carried their meal to the table and opened the cans she took some clothes out of a drawer and retired behind the curtain in the corner. Fohdrahko seemed to be peacefully asleep, on his back, with his lips parted, and snoring gently.
Taeela returned, now dressed in the sort of clothes Nigel had seen Lisa and Natalie wearing, and they settled cornerwise at the table, where he could watch the screen and she didn’t have to, but close enough to whisper.
“What happens now?” he said. “Is there a way out?”
“Fofo will show us. He knows all these hidden ways. They are the secret of the eunuchs. They kill any other person they find here. If they bring a man in here they cover his eyes. The men who put the computer in this room, and all the other things, Fofo brought them here with their eyes covered.
“He is the last of the eunuchs. There will be no more. He makes new rules. He didn’t cover my eyes, and he teaches me the secret ways. He drew the animals for me to keep me safe when I was small.”
“He can’t take us much further, can he? He looks pretty well done for.”
“I will give him food when we have finished. He will not eat while we eat. Then he must sleep again. When it is dark we will go to your embassy.”
“Trouble is, that’s where they’ll be expecting us to head for. Is there anywhere else we could go? Have you got any friends …”
“No friends … no friends …”
Her voice was as bleak as a sunless planet.
“People I know, a few,” she went on. “They will be so afraid. I do not know what they will do … Nigel, I think it is best I stay here. I will hide with Fofo. He will not leave the palace. You must go alone. If they find you they will not hurt you. You are son of the British ambassador.”
He wasn’t even tempted.
“Not on your life,” he said. “Besides, these guys—suppose they do pick me up, they’re not going to tell anyone. They’ll just beat me up till I’ve told them where you are and then chuck me in the river, like as not. Do you think it would be crazy to try and call the embassy on my mobile? It should work from here, and I’ve got a number that’s safe that end.”
“Not your mobile,” she said. “My father tells me, use only this telephone. I’ll show you.”
“Hang on. Something’s happening … Looks like they’re taking your dad away. Do you want to …?”
She was already hurrying over to the console. He joined her and she slid her hand into his and gripped it tight. They watched a couple of soldiers spread a stretcher out on the dais, dump the body on it and carry it away, Another couple of men spread a bit of canvas over the blotch of blood
where it had lain and weighted it in place with what looked like account books.
“It is the last time I see him,” said Taeela.
For a long while she stood there, weeping silently. He himself could hardly see for tears. Then, not letting go of his hand, she wiped her eyes with her other sleeve, closed the picture, clicked on an icon and keyed in a code. A panel opened in the surface of the console, bringing a telephone up with it. He watched which keys she used as she restored the scene in the Great Hall on the monitor and returned to her meal.
He fetched the list of numbers out of his shoulder bag and checked the country code for the UK, keyed it in, followed by Hastings, end of World War One and Battle of Britain, all backwards, pausing between each date to make sure he’d got the next one right. Silence. UK ring-tone. Clicks and whistles. Dirzhani ring-tone. At last, a known voice.
“British Embassy.”
Nigel pitched his own voice high, and a bit giggly.
“Uncle Roger?”
Brief silence.
“Himself. To which of my innumerable nieces have I the honour of speaking?”
“Gina, Uncle Roger. Is it OK to call now?”
“Seems like it, Nigel. What on earth’s up? Where’s your father? I thought it’d be him calling.”
“They’ve shot the President. On the stairs. In front of everyone. They’re holding them all captive in the Great Hall. Mum and Dad are there too. I can see them on CCTV.”
“Good God!… Where are you?”
“Hiding. With my friend. We didn’t see who shot him. Look, I’m desperate to tell Mum I’m OK. If there’s anything you can do … Don’t tell her anything else. Just I’m OK. We’re going to try and get out when it’s dark. Can we come to the embassy?”
“Better stay clear for the moment. The military have just shown up, front and back, not letting anyone in or out. For our own safety, they say, because of some kind of disturbance. I take it some of them are behind this.”
“Lots of them. We saw a guy called Colonel Sess something …”
“Sesslizh?”
“That’s right. We’ve just seen him on CCTV with another guy called General Madzh something having a row with a chieftain called Adzhar Taerzha … something like that—they’re different sorts of Dirzh and they don’t get on—anyway, he was in it too, and Avron Dikhtar—he was one of the President’s secretaries …”
He ran out of steam.
“Right,” said Roger. “That’s all very helpful. Look, we’d better cut this short, so I can call the FO back home. It seems to me the sooner this gets out into the world the more chance there is these thugs will behave themselves, and decide they’d better let your parents go. Meanwhile I’d strongly advise you to lie low for a bit, if you think you’re safe where you are. There’ll likely be rioting when the word gets out. The old boy was a Varak. There are a lot of Varaki in Dara, around the market area. They won’t like this at all. It’s going to be pretty hairy out there for a while. There’ll be a curfew as soon as it’s dark. Streets full of soldiers. Anyway, give it a couple of hours and call again if you can. All right?”
“I suppose so.”
“Good luck then. Bye.”
CHAPTER 12
Nigel put the telephone down and stood staring blankly at the screen. Nothing much seemed to be happening, though soldiers bustled to and fro like ants round a nest—no way of knowing what their scurryings meant. The captive bigwigs fidgeted in their chairs.
He went back to the table. His food was still on his plate. He didn’t want it. Without thinking he reached across the table and Taeela took his hand.
“I am wrong, Nigel,” she whispered. “I have four friends. Two are in this room. Two are there.”
She nodded towards the screen.
“Who did you talk to, Nigel?”
“Roger, at the embassy. He says we’re better off staying here. We can’t go to the embassy—they’re watching it. Besides, there’ll be a curfew, soldiers everywhere. And he thinks there’ll be rioting as soon as it gets around what’s happened. Shooting and tear gas and that sort of stuff. I don’t know. The longer we give them the more chance they’ll have to get organised and find us.”
“We ask Fofo. Soon I will wake him. Eat, Nigel. You must be strong.”
“If you say so.”
He began to pick listlessly at his food with his free hand, watching the monitor screen while he chewed. He had almost emptied his plate when Mr Dikhtar showed up and spoke to Nigel’s father and mother, and then worked along the front row of the audience, doing the same. He gestured to them and they rose and followed him sideways across the Great Hall and out of sight.
Reluctant to bother Taeela, Nigel went to the console and keyed in the CCTV Index code she had used. He worked through it and found his parents sitting with the other chosen bigwigs while Mr Dikhtar introduced Adzhar Taerzha and the smooth-faced colonel, who both made speeches while Mr Dikhtar translated.
It was desperately frustrating to watch. The only time anything happened that Nigel understood was when his father asked a question, his mother came suddenly alert, and the colonel answered, making soothing gestures with his hands as he spoke. They were doing their best to find Nigel (true). They’d make sure he wasn’t hurt (maybe). When they’d finished talking the colonel and Adzhar Taerzha shook hands, pretending to like each other fine, and left. Time passed. Nothing new happened.
Restless, he gave up watching and explored the room. The rest of the cupboard contained clothes, packages, boxes, files, a tool-set and so on, The curtain in the corner hid a seat with a hole in it, leading down to a dark shaft from which rose a faint whiff of river-water. Through the window he could see army vehicles moving along the embankment road on the other side of the river. Tanks guarded that end of the bridges either side of the palace.
Taeela had cleared away the remains of her lunch and was sitting brooding at the table. Beside her was a mug of water and a bowl with morsels of food chopped small. It didn’t look as if she wanted to talk, so Nigel got out his travelling chess set and experimented with variations of the French defence while he finished eating. Unexpectedly, he found one which actually led somewhere interesting, and lost himself in it for half an hour.
“Now I wake Fofo,” said Taeela.
She picked up the bowl and mug and went over to the cot. The old man woke at a touch, and immediately tried to rise. She helped him to his feet and then over to the curtained corner, waited and brought him back. He tried to protest when she told him to sit on the cot, but gave in and waited, smiling, while she piled pillows and cushions against the headboard, and eased him back on them. He settled down with a sigh and allowed her to feed him morsel by morsel, and to steady the mug for him while he drank.
When he’d cleared the bowl he lay still, his good eye bright and interested while she talked, finishing with a question. He answered slowly. She protested earnestly. He shook his head and answered more briefly, then closed his eyes and fell asleep. She returned to the table, shaking her head.
“Bad?” said Nigel.
“Fofo says we must go, when it is dark, today. He will show me how we do this. These traitors are not ready, not—like you say—organised. They will be very busy everywhere doing other stuff. Perhaps they will not see us, and we will go away from Dara Dahn to Sodalka, where the chieftain is my father’s cousin, Baladzhin. He is an enemy of Adzhar Taerzha. I don’t want this. Baladzhin wants to marry me to his son. I tell … told Fofo we don’t go before he is strong again. He says he will not come. He will stay here and spy on our enemies, but there is a good man who will come with us.
“What do I do, Nigel? I do not wish to leave Fofo. There is no place I can go, so I stay here. If these traitors find me, I kill myself.”
She would, too. He shook his head and took her hand.
“Don’t let’s think that far,” he said. “Let’s get absolutely ready to go, in case we have to get out in a hurry, and then let’s wait and see. The embassy’s ou
t. They’ve got soldiers watching it front and back. And it’s not going to be that easy getting anywhere in Dahn, because it means crossing the river, and they’ve got the bridges guarded, by the look of it. Anyway, Roger told me to call again soon. I’ll ask him if he can think of anywhere to go in Dara.”
They got everything ready they could think of. Fohdrahko woke, obviously stronger, ate a little more, then showed them the entrance to a hidden passage on the other side of the room. They practised leaving, and stacked everything ready in it—a large-pocketed sleeveless military-looking jacket for Taeela, a dahl to go over it, and a small embroidered duffel-bag of the sort Nigel had seen women carrying in Dahn; a dahl for Nigel, plus his shoulder-bag, stuffed to bursting; and a man’s jacket that Fohdrahko insisted on taking.
That done, Nigel called the embassy again, but Roger said he didn’t know anywhere they could safely hide in Dara, and anyway he was still strongly against their leaving the palace unless they had to. Somebody had called from there, he said, and told him that the ambassador and his family were staying there for their own safety because there was a minor disturbance in Dahn; but they would be coming home as soon as it was under control. Nothing about the President being dead, or Nigel missing. When Roger had asked to speak to the ambassador the line had gone dead. Nigel was actually watching his parents on the monitor as he spoke. Food had been brought to the room, but his mother didn’t seem to be eating anything. She had a book with her, of course, and was reading.
Time crept past. Ten minutes seemed a whole hour. And they still couldn’t be sure whether they were staying or going.
Their minds were made up for them as dusk gathered over the roofs of Dahn. Nigel and Taeela were at the window taking turns to use his monocular to watch what was happening at the far end of the bridges. At least whoever had spoken to Roger had told him one bit of the truth. There was a disturbance all right. Three more tanks and a lot of soldiers had arrived to confront a mass of people who had swarmed down from the crooked little streets above the river and were trying to force their way onto the bridges. Beneath them the fishing fleet was heading out for the lake just as if this had been a day like any other day. It was getting too dark to see when footsteps sounded on the floor above.
In the Palace of the Khans Page 15