The Reluctant Hero

by Michael Dobbs

  ‘No, I didn’t know—’ but the words were wasted, she cut straight across him.

  ‘He thought such things – education, ambition – were wasted on a woman. A Neanderthal who believed women were meant for other duties.’ The words came spitting out, like bullets from behind a barricade. ‘Then there was that pathetic excuse for a husband, who tried to insist my life’s mission was to stay at home to look after his poodles. So don’t patronize me, Harry, don’t you dare. I’ve had it all my fucking life!’

  ‘That was never my intention.’

  ‘But that’s what you’re doing!’ The skin on her neck flushed with emotion.

  ‘You don’t even know Zac.’

  ‘You haven’t known him either, for Chrissake, not for years.’ She had to struggle to step back from the edge of anger on which she was standing, suppress the anger that had bubbled up, and to lower her voice. ‘Anyway, you’ve got no bloody choice in the matter.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘You can’t do anything without me.’

  ‘What, you’re going to help me smash down the prison door?’ he said, incredulous.

  ‘No, you idiot. But if you’re determined to make yourself a complete pain in the butt on this trip, you’re going to need some help.’

  ‘With what?’

  ‘Let’s start right here, shall we? You can’t even get out of this room without being spotted, not without help. You need to distract the Wicked Witch of the East out there.’

  ‘And why would I need to get out of the room unnoticed?’

  She brought her face very close to his. ‘You need help. Local help. You don’t even know for sure Zac’s here, or where he is! You need to make contact with those who might know. The opposition, right? And while you’re doing that I can give you cover from the bad guys. Scramble their thoughts. Distract them just a little.’

  He had to give it to her, she was excellent at doing that. Even the trivial act of borrowing a hairdryer had thrown Sydykov’s plans into confusion.

  ‘I suppose with your Boys’ Own background you know how to break a man’s neck,’ she continued. ‘Well, I’m a woman. I do things differently. I break their attention span.’

  When he looked up, he noticed she was pouting, almost mocking, claiming victory.

  ‘Martha, don’t underestimate what we’re up against.’

  ‘A hormonal New England feminist and an unreconstructed male chauvinist. Why, sounds like one hell of a team to me.’

  While Martha distracted the old woman with questions about the hot-water supply, and the woman tried yet again to explain that she didn’t understand a word of English, Harry slipped unnoticed from his room. He couldn’t risk being spotted leaving through the foyer, so he used a side door and stepped out into the night. It was still snowing, and Harry gave thanks; it would give him cover, and hide his tracks, but he shivered, he wasn’t dressed for this. The snow also made it more difficult for him to find his way, and in any case he only had a small tourist map he’d bought from Stanfords in Covent Garden, but Ashkek was a small city built on a typical Soviet grid and he quickly found his bearings. He headed for the Marriott Hotel about half a mile away; it felt further as he slipped along on the ice. By the time he saw the lights of the hotel in the near distance, the damp had wormed its way through the welts of his shoes and he was feeling distinctly uncomfortable. He hated being unprepared, but this whole saga stank of the makeshift and for what must have been the hundredth time Harry scolded himself for ever having started. To set out without a plan was folly; to set out without the right boots was straightforward madness.

  It was heading for midnight and the hotel wasn’t busy. A solitary taxi waited in the rank. Its driver had his head arched back, as though sleeping. Harry pulled open the back door and climbed in, trailing snow. The driver started at the interruption and turned to examine his prospective passenger with irritation and a glow of suspicion; it was clear from the cut of Harry’s coat that he wasn’t a local.

  ‘Dobryi vecher! Ya britanckyi politic,’ Harry announced in his rehearsed but clumsy Russian. From his pocket he produced his parliamentary pass, complete with portcullis and washed-out photograph.

  The driver stared sullenly.

  ‘Ya khochu pogovorit s Vsadniki.’ I want to talk to the Horsemen. He pushed the parliamentary pass into the driver’s hand so that he could examine it.

  It was Pyotr, the old Russian, who had told him, over their second coffee. Ta’argistan was a concept that was not yet fulfilled, a mixture of Ta’argis, Kazakhs, Uzbeks and Russians, with even a few Ukrainians, Tatars, Tajiks, Dungans and Uighurs thrown in for good measure. Over the centuries many different peoples had come, and they had passed on, leaving some of their number behind to engage in a timeless struggle for supremacy. Karabayev, a Kazakh, had taken control of the country one hot, sultry summer’s night when his predecessor, an ethnic Ta’argi, had died in his sleep. The former President’s passing was as sudden as it was unexpected, and few believed it was unassisted, but no one was going to argue with the huge number of armed police and militia that had suddenly appeared on the streets. Ta’argistan woke to discover their world had turned and Karabayev, the Vice-President, was in control. To some outsiders this might have given an impression of harmony and peaceful transition, but in truth Ta’argistan was no tribal melting pot but a cauldron, perched over a slow and blistering heat.

  There were religious differences, too. During Soviet times the authorities had trodden hard upon organized religion, but as soon as the Soviet tanks had withdrawn behind the mountains the priests, mullahs and monks had emerged once more to fill the spiritual space. Their efforts had helped to rekindle a sense of separate identity amongst many, and to erect frontiers inside the state. So the Ta’argis were farmers, the Uzbeks and Kazakhs traders, and the Russians were, amongst other things, taxi drivers. ‘You want to get hold of the Opposition,’ Pyotr had said, wiping foam from his thick moustache, ‘you ask a taxi driver to meet the Horsemen, that’s what they call themselves. Whether the driver will take you, of course, is another matter. If he thinks you’re setting him up, you’ll find yourself out with the rest of the rubbish in a frozen ditch on the other side of the airport . . .’

  ‘Horsemen,’ Harry repeated.

  The light inside the taxi had gone out, leaving Harry in darkness that was interrupted by the occasional glow of the driver’s cigarette. Outside the Marriott the snow continued to fall, trickling down the windscreen in slow, meandering rivulets.

  ‘British politician. Friend,’ Harry insisted.

  The driver muttered something – a curse, judging by its rough edges, an invitation for him to fuck off – and took another slow, uninterested drag of his cigarette. Yet suddenly he was alert, his eyes gleaming. Harry, with the skill of a magician, had produced a hundred-dollar bill and was thrusting it at the other man. In a country where most people’s annual income was less than three thousand, it was bound to get some response, and the driver’s face flooded with a mixture of both greed and suspicion. This wasn’t any innocent enquiry, not with that amount of money on offer, there was danger here, for them both. Yet Harry was undoubtedly a foreigner, and the note was new, crisp, freshly printed, not the sort that normally circulated in the black markets of Ashkek. Where this one came from, there might be many more. In one move, the driver snatched the bill and slammed the car into gear. They took off into the night, the tyres scrabbling for purchase on the ice.

  Much to Harry’s relief, they weren’t headed for the far side of the airport. Instead, they arrived outside the railway station, a relatively elderly and relaxed building that someone had decided to spruce up by painting it in garish shades of green, pink and white, like an Italian ice cream. Beside it stood an even older building, a hotel, one that had been in the process of reconstruction when the recession struck and the money dried up. Now it stood abandoned, its empty windows staring out lifeless into the night. There was little sign of activity at the station, either. The
driver drew to a halt, managing to clip the kerb as he did so, stopping beside a ramshackle shelter made of pieces of wood and corrugated iron. He disappeared inside and Harry followed. The shelter was cramped and stuffy, with only a tiny twenty-watt bulb for light and heated by a foul-smelling stove that stood in the centre. Huddled around the stove Harry found not only his driver but two other men, one of whom was glaring angrily at the driver, his face full of suspicion. The driver was jabbering and pointing towards Harry.

  ‘Do you speak English?’ Harry demanded, anxious to take control of the situation.

  ‘Ingliz?’ the angry man repeated from beneath an enormous nicotine-stained moustache. Then he nodded.

  ‘I want to meet the Horsemen.’

  ‘Why?’ The voice was deep, the accent thick.

  ‘I want to help. I am a British politician,’ Harry explained yet again. Once more he produced his pass, allowing the man to examine it closely. ‘And I want your help, too.’

  ‘What help?’

  ‘That is for me to discuss with your leader.’

  From his wallet Harry brought out a printed business card with a portcullis and his personal details on it. He also brought out another crisp hundred-dollar bill. The man took both, examined them, then threw the card into the fire. ‘We know who you are,’ he growled. ‘This is small place.’

  ‘Then you will do as I ask?’

  The bill was first stretched between his thick fingers then folded carefully before disappearing inside an inner pocket. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘I must know. I have very little time. And there could be more money in it for you.’

  The man tugged at his moustache while he examined Harry, as though he would find the truth written on his forehead. ‘We see. You must go.’

  ‘But when will I hear from you?’

  ‘Tomorrow. Tomorrow evening, perhaps. Or never. Now go.’

  ‘I must see him,’ Harry insisted, stepping forward.

  Suddenly, the other man had a knife in his hand. The speed with which he had produced it was more than enough evidence for Harry that he knew how to use it. ‘Go!’ the man repeated, his voice cracking with menace.

  There was no point in haggling, it might even be counterproductive. Harry knew he had overstepped some invisible mark and the matter was now in their hands. He backed off. Outside it was snowing more heavily than ever, and it had grown colder, the snow more fierce, bullets of ice that were beginning to rattle off the roof of the shelter.

  ‘Any chance of a lift back to the hotel?’ Harry asked.

  ‘We busy,’ the man with the moustache muttered, the light of the fire still dancing off the knife in his hand. Then he turned his back and began talking animatedly with the others.

  With a sigh, Harry stepped out into the snow.

  Harry had less than three hours’ sleep that night, and had to fight his way through a wall of numbness before he made it down to breakfast.

  ‘You always look that bad when you spend the night with a girl?’ Martha greeted, offering a smile that was half-welcome, half-amusement as he sat at her table. ‘I hope I was worth it.’

  ‘Remind me never to let you share my bed again.’

  ‘Must be tough being a man of your age. Running out of staying power already.’

  She was about to persecute him a little more when they were interrupted by the sight of the advancing Roddy Bowles. He had clearly adopted a new tactic and was sidling over to their table, wrapped in a conciliatory smile.

  ‘Good morning, you two.’

  ‘Roddy,’ Harry acknowledged, unwilling to commit himself.

  ‘Er, Martha . . .’ Bowles’ lips puckered as though chewing lemon rind. ‘We got off on the wrong foot yesterday. I hope you’ll forgive me. Suffering from a little jet lag, I suspect – you know, arranging these trips can be hell, so many balls in the air. Barely got any sleep these last few nights.’

  Perhaps it wasn’t all bullshit. Harry’s mind wandered back to the woman’s coat that had been cast so casually over the back of the chair.

  ‘That’s why I was put out by all those last-minute changes,’ Bowles continued. ‘Damned snow. You’d have thought in a place like this they’d know how to cope, but . . .’ He shrugged and made a stab at gentle humour. ‘Where do they think this is? Bloody London?’

  Martha made a point of concentrating on her bowl of fruit, digging out the pips.

  ‘Anyway,’ he struggled on, ‘everything’s sorted. Just as you asked. I understand the arrangements have been made for your visit to the central prison . . .’

  It seemed he’d been talking to Sydykov.

  ‘I like to run a tight ship – and keep one happy family,’ Bowles continued, strangling his metaphors. ‘Wouldn’t want any silly stories floating around when we get back home about – what’s the best way of putting it? – how we fell in or out of bed with each other, would we?’

  So, he’d definitely been with Sydykov, who’d had the nightly report from Madame Guillotine. Martha hadn’t stayed in Harry’s room above an hour, but that had been more than enough.

  ‘Thank you, Roddy. You’re something special, really you are,’ Martha replied, not looking up from her bowl.

  ‘Good. Enough said. I’ll leave you in peace, then. Enjoy the morning.’ With a triumphant wobble of his lips, Bowles departed in search of his breakfast.

  ‘Ilex aquifolium,’ she said in the direction of his retreating back.

  ‘What?’ Harry enquired.

  ‘I have a large bush in my back garden,’ she said. ‘Roddy reminds me of it. Ilex aquifolium.’ Her eyes caught his for a moment, and she smiled. ‘It’s a form of holly,’ she explained. ‘The prickless kind.’

  There was little that was romantic about Ashkek. Decades of being run by bureaucrats in Moscow had pressed a heavy hand upon its culture, squeezing out most things that offered a reminder of the old days. Meandering tracks had been replaced by mindless boulevards, its native style smothered in concrete and stone cladding. Then the Soviets had left, taking their money with them, and for the last twenty years almost nothing new had happened, and most of what was left behind had begun to crumble away. The towering figure of Lenin still stood on his plinth, reaching for the sky, but the marble slabs at his feet were cracking, falling off. Old women sat huddled in the underpasses, squatting on plastic bins, offering pirated DVDs and cheap cigarettes for sale, while rusting cranes hung over abandoned construction sites, marking the spot where dreams had died.

  Yet the Castle was an exception. It was too massive to have been swept aside simply by a little snow or neglect. It had begun life as nothing more than a stopover on the Silk Road, but as the centuries had passed it had grown to be used as an armoury, a barracks, a palace and now a prison that squatted, brooding, beside the road leading west out of the city and into the mountains. It was constructed of massive stonework beneath lowering gables and heavy slate roofs, with high walls many feet thick that over the centuries had withstood both cannon and siege. Yet, as Martha and Harry drew up outside, with Sydykov and a driver for company, it was clear that the Castle’s walls weren’t intended to keep the unwanted out. They were there to keep them in.

  ‘We will use the tradesmen’s entrance,’ Sydykov suggested with gentle humour as their Mercedes drove past the massive main entrance and entered through a much less symbolic gate that opened off one of the many side streets. They parked in a cobbled courtyard. Armed guards saluted; Harry noted that their vehicles were mostly ageing Ladas. Nearby a battered, oil-smeared truck was being loaded with bags of rubbish by prisoners whose every move was watched by still more armed guards. As Harry climbed from the back of the car he counted three floors to the roofline, with an indication of a basement or cellar area, too. On the lower two of those three floors the windows were covered in bars. Everything seemed to have been built of rough, old stone, the walls, the floors, even the staircase they climbed. Sydykov led the way. Harry hadn’t expected refinement and he found none. With every step, the s
tale smell of institutional squalor seemed to set more firmly in his nostrils.

  They were escorted into a large, overheated office on the top floor, in the middle of which, waiting to greet them, stood a serious-faced man of around sixty with a square head and a face that was almost flat.

  ‘Good morning. I am Governor Akmatov,’ he said, in Russian, extending a hand. He indicated they should take seats in front of his ornately carved partner’s desk. For all its size it was surprisingly empty of decoration – a telephone, a desk light, a pen tray, a wooden photo frame. There were no papers of any sort; it didn’t seem to be an office that relied on such things. A bust of the President stood on a wooden column against one wall, and nearby was a noticeboard with what seemed to be some form of illustration of the prison. Harry couldn’t be certain; he stared, cursed silently. He tried squinting. Damn, it didn’t help. He’d been wondering about his eyesight for a few months but had done nothing about it. There came a time for every man to acknowledge his weaknesses, but it was always something for tomorrow. Now, once again, he promised himself he’d arrange an eye test. Soon.

  A tray of tea arrived, Akmatov played host, and ten minutes went by as he ensured they had everything they wanted. The next thirty were spent with him, through the translation of Sydykov, giving a detailed description of the penal code under which he operated and the many human-rights treaties he was required to observe. As he droned on, Martha began to grow restless. She sipped her tea, fiddled with a bracelet, rummaged in her handbag, and began to glance pointedly at her watch until a new noise cut through the litany. It was Harry’s mobile phone, warbling out the music of the Dambusters March. He loved it as a ring-tone. The tune began to reach its crescendo, and he apologized, taking himself off to a far corner of the room while Martha continued to pepper the governor with questions. Harry quickly brought his conversation to an end, mouthing that he would call back later, then fumbled with the buttons. ‘Sorry,’ he offered awkwardly, ‘I’ll switch the thing off. We can do without any more interruptions.’