The Reluctant Hero

by Michael Dobbs

  He met his team at the rough shelter beside the railway station. Just three of them. The man with the moustache, who turned out to be called Aibeck, the young gorilla who had thumped him, named Mourat, and Bektour. None of them appeared as confident as the night before. They looked at him nervously, in silence. No greeting. Harry went round them all and took their hands, one by one, reassuring them, and their faces slowly relaxed.

  ‘Is everything ready?’ Harry asked.

  Bektour nodded, but Harry insisted on inspecting each item. The equipment had been gathered from sheds and car-body shops, the clothing from wherever they’d been able to scrounge it. None of it as new, some of it was ancient, but it would have to do. There wasn’t time to change it.

  ‘And no weapons,’ Harry demanded. ‘Remember, this is silent-in, silent-out. Otherwise we’re dog meat.’

  ‘Mourat and I aren’t gangsters, Mr Jones, we’re geeks,’ Bektour replied in soft reprimand. ‘We hate any noise that hasn’t come through an amplifier. And Aibeck here drives a taxi, not a tank. He’s not even very good at that. Weapons? I doubt he could operate the cigarette lighter.’

  Harry couldn’t resist a smile; he liked this kid. Bektour had his spectacles taped to his head and his long hair tied back in a knot, just as Harry had told him to. Ninja geek.

  ‘You all up for this?’

  ‘I think we should get on with this before my glasses start misting up and Mourat’s manhood freezes,’ Bektour replied.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’d win prizes as the prettiest regiment in the world,’ Harry said, his words leaving clouds of vapour condensing in the stiff night air, ‘but you’ll do. So let’s start the party.’

  They clapped their hands, to summon up the blood, to keep warm. Aibeck led the way to a dilapidated Datsun truck with canvas sides, the type of vehicle that could be found anywhere in Central Asia, the threadbare camels of the new Silk Road. While he climbed up to the driver’s cab, Harry, Bektour and Mourat hauled themselves into the back. As they settled down on the bare boards the engine spluttered into reluctant life, drenching them in a cloud of oily smoke, and Harry began changing his clothes, swapping his overcoat for a dark sweater, throwing aside his unrealistic hand-stitched leather shoes and squeezing into a pair of old trainers. The trainers were too tight, pinched his toes, which would soon blister. He used to tramp all over Wales with much worse, although that had been twenty years earlier . . .

  The truck jolted forward, its gearbox groaning wearily, slowly leaving the stench of overcooked engine oil behind as it made its way through the city, keeping to the lesser streets, as they headed towards the Castle.

  Sidney Proffit was a man not only of legendary whiskers but also of long experience, which had left him with a variety of talents. He knew how to drink, was a master of the art of bullshit, and even understood a smattering of Russian from his university days, which had been spent soaking up all sorts of radical passions at the start of the Cold War. These talents were proving useful as, with the assistance of the second bottle of vodka, he engaged the attentions of the two guards. Theirs wasn’t much of a conversation, Sid’s Russian creaked more than his joints and the guards themselves weren’t accomplished raconteurs, but the 80-proof spirit filled the gaps. The three of them squatted on the thin carpet of the hotel corridor, their faces flushed, their tongues thick. They had toasted many things: first, the revolution, then their mothers, each one by name, and after that international solidarity, the manufacturers of Ferrari racing cars and almost the entire first-team squad of Manchester United – they had even raised their glasses to Britney Spears, which had caused one of the guards to chuckle until he choked. The Englishman knew he was winning when he was able to push plastic flowers from the hallway vase into the breast pockets of their uniforms, where they protruded and drooped like an ageing vicar’s lust.

  Martha had long since retreated to Harry’s room, now far more modest, hugging her gown around her. Sid waved vaguely in the direction of the door. ‘Stick it up the enemy!’ he cried in schoolboy Russian, and made a crude copulative gesture. The guards roared in approval, and levered themselves onto elbows while holding out their glasses for refills. They didn’t notice that Sid had stopped drinking some while ago.

  The moonlight had become more intense. It didn’t help. To get inside the prison, Harry and the others planned to steal their way into the sewers, and the only practical access point was in a modest square tucked up beneath the Castle walls. Miserably for the fulfilment of their plans, it was overlooked by the guardhouse at the side gate. They desperately needed distraction, yet Martha was otherwise engaged, so as the truck crept into the square, crashing through its gearbox, it gave a chassis-rattling shudder and came coasting to a halt as the engine died. No amount of abuse poured on the starter motor would persuade it to cough back into life. Wearily Aibeck climbed from his cab, slamming the door shut in irritation, and unhooked the engine cowling. Its worn hinges groaned in despair. He gazed mournfully at the engine, then began testing components with his fingers, twiddling here, tugging there, before wiping his hands on an old rag and kicking the tyre to vent his frustration. He returned to his cab and retrieved his tool box. Soon he could be seen, and heard, leaning over the engine compartment, cursing.

  The game went on for several minutes. No one came to investigate. A truck had broken down – so what? Big deal. The situation was a good fifty metres from the Castle walls, and the weather was cold enough to freeze camel spit. It was no one’s problem but the poor bastard who had his butt poking out at the moon. So the guards in their warm guardhouse failed to spot Harry and the others dropping from beneath the canvas on the far side of the truck and levering open the manhole cover that lay directly beneath their feet. As they struggled with cold fingers, it slipped, fell with a clatter; Aibeck began hammering heartily on the engine. It was Harry who went down first, followed by Bektour. Mourat took the rear, dragging the heavy metal plate back into place above them. Not until they heard the clunk of the cover locking into position did they switch on the LED camping lights that were strapped around their heads.

  The stench was gut-wrenching, left them reeling. While the Castle was built on the highest point of Ashkek and gravity dealt with the contents of the sewer, the prison facility didn’t use much water, there wasn’t much washing, and the passage of the shit through the sewer was slow. Human and other waste was left to fester, and the resulting process of decomposition released gases that attacked Harry and the others with the ferocity of an artillery barrage. They had brought scarves with them and they tied these across their mouths and nostrils; it didn’t make much difference. Even the rats knew better, fleeing in search of safer ground as the three men approached, the light from their lamps glancing off all manner of dark vileness. Crystals were growing down the walls, stalactites dangled from the roof like witches’ fingers. The effluent formed a foul, sluggish stream about two feet across and half as deep at the lowest point, and they tried to find footholds on the slippery walls either side of it all. The sewer had been built with bricks, now well past their prime and crumbling in many places, and the height was about five feet, which forced them to stoop. They made their way cautiously along the tunnel, feeling uncertainly for every step, their hands and elbows knocking lumps of dark, sweating slime from the walls. Then Harry stumbled. He lost his footing on a section of broken brick and went tumbling, head first. He managed to keep his face out of it, but as he spun like a cat to protect himself he was covered from shoulder to shin in the stuff. He couldn’t even curse, not daring to risk any unnecessary mouthful, but inside he exploded with disgust, and he spat, trying to rid himself of the awful bitter-sweet taste in his mouth. As quickly as he could, he hauled himself to his feet. That was when the narrow beam of his torch picked out the glistening bars that were blocking their way.

  The bars were of steel, and ran from top to bottom of the tunnel. They were designed to be wide enough for sewage, but not a man. The intention was clear; there wa
s to be no repeat of the previous escape. And that is why Mourat had brought a hydraulic spreader with them, nearly forty pounds of it, slung across his broad shoulders, the type of equipment used to bend broken car frames back into shape and repair accident damage. Useful kit on the roads of Ta’argistan, and which, with Mourat’s muscle behind it, was capable of concentrating four tons of pressure through its jaws. Yet it was hard work in the stench and darkness, with everything covered in slime. For a moment, as the jaws slipped on the bars for the third time, Harry thought they might not make it, but Mourat was not only strong but also persevering. The steel was poor quality, and once he found a grip on the two longest bars, they bent, then burst from their mountings, showering ancient brick dust in every direction.

  When the dust settled, they could see. They were through.

  It had taken some time for Sydykov to get hold of Amir Beg on the telephone. He had to go through the security services’ control room, and late at night there were always delays and incompetence – and outright obstruction, of course. No one wanted to bear the responsibility for disturbing him; men had been known to disappear for less.

  ‘Sir, I apologize for troubling you.’

  ‘What is it?’ Beg muttered, shaking the sleep from his voice, not yet annoyed. Sydykov was a sound man, not prone to panic or excessive enthusiasm. There would be a reason.

  ‘I have learned something I thought I should report. The British SAS. That’s—’

  ‘Yes, yes, get on with it.’

  ‘Sir, Mr Jones was once a senior member. An officer. I thought you ought to know.’

  ‘We should have known sooner.’

  For a moment Sydykov thought his boss might be accepting some of the responsibility for this lapse, but quickly put such thoughts aside. Sydykov would have to accept the blame himself, or shove it further down the line. ‘It seems Jones has a reputation for trouble. I don’t think we can afford to trust him.’

  ‘Trust him? I’d sooner trust a Turkish whore.’

  ‘He’s sick, I know, but even so. I thought . . .’

  ‘You thought right, Major. We should take nothing for granted, not even his indisposition. I think we’ll check on Mr Jones, make sure he’s tucked up safely in his bed, right where he’s supposed to be. Nailed to it, if necessary.’

  ‘Should I—’

  ‘No. Leave him to me.’ He jabbed a carefully manicured finger at the phone, closing the connection, and immediately started redialling.

  They came up through a manhole in the floor of the kitchens, pushing aside the thick wooden lid, scrambling out of the sewer, on the point of retching. All three lay on the cold, uneven flagstones, gasping as they filled their lungs with fresh air. Only slowly did Harry appreciate how disgusting his condition had become, covered in sewage that clung stubbornly to him and soaked through his clothes, and beneath them. He had to fight the temptation to vomit as he scraped himself down as best he could with a wooden spatula he found on a counter.

  It was close to midnight. In some distant part of the building a door slammed, but other sounds were hidden by the thick walls of the fortress. All seemed quiet, except for the rasp of their own breathing and the ancient refrigerator that kicked into life in a corner.

  ‘So far, so very unpleasant,’ Bektour muttered as he inspected Harry’s condition and pulled a face. ‘Perhaps you should wait for it to harden, then peel it off like an eggshell.’

  ‘Thanks for the advice,’ Harry replied, not meaning it.

  But Bektour had been of enormous help. He was a young man of quiet yet irrepressible enthusiasm that managed to fill the holes left by Harry’s own misgivings. From a pocket that was now damp with soil, Harry brought out the map they had prepared the night before and spread it on the stones of the kitchen floor, tracing their path with a filthcovered finger. Bektour knelt beside him, studying it in the pool of light thrown by his lamp.

  ‘If I’d known this way was going to smell so bloody awful, I’d have knocked on the door,’ Harry said.

  ‘Don’t worry, Mr Jones,’ Bektour encouraged, ‘I think there’s enough shit waiting ahead of us that you’ll soon feel right at home.’

  The party in the hotel corridor was proceeding under the indulgent and increasingly watery eye of Lord Proffit when the guards’ radio spluttered into life. It was as though a live grenade had been rolled into their midst. One moment the guards were in a state of inebriation, the next they were transported to a condition of intense if ill-focused alert. Proffit had enough Russian to follow what was going on. They were being instructed to check that Harry was in his room. Dear God, something was up, someone was growing suspicious. It was only the soporific effect of his own intake of alcohol that prevented the peer from falling into a panic.

  The guards began to stir, levering themselves to their feet, stretching their arms, swimming through their sea of confusion, but Proffit, even with his old bones, was ahead of them.

  ‘You can’t go in there!’ he cried in a profound bass voice that stretched not only as far as Harry’s door but, he fervently hoped, also beyond it. ‘Eadi otsuda! Not go in! Not while those two are – do I have to spell it out for you blithering heathens? – engaged in a little horizontal electioneering? A bit of Boris and Brenda?’ He didn’t attempt the translation, which in any event would have been beyond him. Instead, he burst into merriment as he grabbed his crotch and began gesticulating towards the door.

  The guards stepped forward, yet their expressions were awash with uncertainty. What precisely was it they were supposed to do? Break down the door? Burst in on two British politicians? Cause a diplomatic incident? Kick the Cold War back to life? The order, when it was given, had sounded simple enough, but with every shake of their heads the matter seemed to be growing increasingly complicated. The only thing they could see for certain was that if it all went pig-shaped, it would be their balls on the block.

  The elderly peer made sure he got to the door first, pressing his ear to the panel, a frown of concentration imprinted on his face. Then, slowly, his expression began to transform to one of wonder, which was followed by lewd gloating. He motioned for the guards to listen; they did so, at first cautious, then increasingly boldly. They began to nod to each other. It seemed the patient was recovering fast. Perhaps it was the vodka – or maybe a little mouth-to-mouth resuscitation? They sniggered, and began to relax. Whatever the cause of the enquiry, they were now in a position to confirm that the foreign visitors were both cosy and accounted for – enjoying themselves, even, loading up on a few precious last-minute memories of their stay in Ta’argistan. Because, from inside the room, the guards could hear the strains of a creaking bed and the unambiguous sound of Martha slowly working her way up to an elemental, earth-moving orgasm.

  With the help of their sources on the inside of the Castle, they knew where Zac was being held. They also had a pretty good understanding of the security system, which was elementary and based mostly around men and metal. Harry had a lifetime of experience with security systems. They had a chronic susceptibility for looking in entirely the wrong direction, a bit like the Maginot Line. Almost every military strategy Harry had ever encountered had focused on winning the last war rather than the next, just as security inside the prison was designed to deal with the last escape rather than what Harry and the others had in mind. That’s why the sewers had been blocked, to stop those trying to get out. No one had paused to consider that someone might try to get in. After all, who’d be insane enough to do that, break into a place like this? As Harry tried to wash the shit from his hands and face, it seemed a perfectly reasonable question.

  The prison kitchen required regular deliveries of supplies, and so it had ready access to the courtyard and the gate through which Harry had first entered. The same went for the governor’s office and other sections of the administration block. There wasn’t much call for tight security there; the system had been concentrated on the prisoners’ quarters. From the kitchen, therefore, there was easy entry not on
ly to the courtyard but also to everything that ran off it.

  That’s what had caught Harry’s attention. There was something else he had seen on the plans, a door from the courtyard that opened into a long basement corridor. ‘What’s that?’ he had enquired as they had made their plans, jabbing his finger at the point where the corridor came to an end.

  There had been a moment of unease between the prison officers, who looked at Bektour.

  ‘Go on, tell him,’ Bektour had whispered.

  ‘It’s the Hanging Room,’ they had told Harry. ‘Where they . . .’ The sentence had been left unfinished. There was no need.

  There had been progress in Ta’argistan, of sorts. Gone were the days when victims were dragged behind horses across the steppes for the passing amusement of ruling lords and the further instruction of the masses. Nowadays the bodies of the executed were taken out quietly, along this corridor, through the door and into the courtyard, to be disposed of along with the rest of the prison’s rubbish. And at its other end, beyond the Hanging Room, lay the Extreme Punishment Wing. That was where they would find Zac.

  There was no formidable security on the route that led from the execution chamber, they had been told. Only corpses came this way. The difficulty, of course, was the courtyard, which was lit, albeit like the rest of Ashkek in a desultory fashion, but well enough for interlopers to be seen. Harry would need to cross the courtyard and a hundred feet away, in full view, were the armed guards at the gate.

  He tapped his watch. ‘The bloody sewer took longer than we bargained for. We haven’t got much time. Come on.’ He moved to the kitchen door that would spill them out onto the courtyard. It wasn’t locked, merely closed, and here they stood, Harry tapping his toe, marking the seconds as he stared intently at the face of his watch. It was no ordinary timepiece but a Rolex Yacht-Master, made from yellow gold, one of two identical watches that Julia had bought and engraved on the back with a simple message. ‘Thank You. J.’ The first she had presented to Zac, the other to Harry. He had worn it ever since, for luck. And, as he had repeatedly told everyone to the point of their witlessness, on this job, timing was everything. So they waited.