The Reluctant Hero

by Michael Dobbs

  A little further away he found one of the soldiers. He had been blown clear of the fire, was relatively undamaged. Harry stripped him down to his shorts, and dressed himself in the winter kit the soldier had been wearing.

  The last thing he tried on was the boots. The boots! Even in the stolen socks they slipped on remarkably easily. His feet were still screaming, but this time in relief. He sat in the snow, tied up the laces, stood, stamped, jumped, tested them.

  Then, in those boots, Harry walked all the way to Afghanistan.

  PART THREE

  The Avenger

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  It took Harry almost three weeks to find his way home. The journey wasn’t without incident, much of Afghanistan was still a place of hazard for any Westerner, but nothing compared to what had gone before. The world around him seemed to have changed as he travelled in from Heathrow Airport; people with their heads down, eyes fixed on the ground, making sure their feet were still there, their jobs and homes, too. The middle of an economic meltdown wasn’t the best time to fuss with other people’s problems. But he’d changed, too. He was a different man from the one who had left with Roddy Bowles, and Sid Proffit, Malik, and Martha. He felt as though he was viewing everything at a distance; nothing was quite in focus. Harry hadn’t known what he’d find when at last he arrived back in London; he’d hardly expected marching bands, but on all sides he was met with a damp blanket of indifference and incredulity.

  There were his friends, of course, but like everyone else they were distracted, many assuming he had been away on a protracted holiday. Some even expressed envy, until they saw him and caught sight of his face. A Harley Street plastic surgeon had tidied it up and was even talking about growing him a new ear on the back of some genetically modified mouse, but in the meantime he changed his hair style to hide the worst effects. He had also lost weight, too much and too quickly, and there were shadows around his eyes that spoke of turmoil and made people feel uncomfortable. In any event they had other, more pressing distractions than events that had taken place in a country they had never heard of; the month of January had been the wettest on record, many rivers were flooding once again, despite last year’s assurances, and Big Ben had suddenly stopped. No more chimes. It was taken as an omen. Harry spent two days on his return, hitting his phone, digging up apathy, getting nowhere. Yet it was the Establishment, rather than any individuals, that upset him most. It seemed as if no one in a position of authority wanted to know, as though they had better things to do. When he tried to report Martha’s death to the office of the Westminster coroner, it was made clear that they weren’t about to become involved in a problem on the darker side of the planet when there wasn’t even a body. They suggested the police. So Harry phoned Scotland Yard, spent a considerable time on the phone explaining the situation, and they sent an inspector, but he was clearly sceptical and kept insisting that the Yard couldn’t sort out political problems. He also repeatedly failed to spell Ta’argistan correctly as he sat taking notes.

  ‘Strange, sir, but the authorities in –’ he searched for the name yet again – ‘that country say they know nothing about the matter,’ he declared, closing his notebook in a decisive gesture. ‘But rest assured, we’ll look into it.’

  Harry did not rest assured. The Chief Whip wasn’t around, away burying his mother amidst claims that the local hospital was riddled with a super-bug, so Harry tried to phone the Foreign Secretary, but his call was returned by one of the junior ministers. ‘Of course I’ll put a few ferrets down the rabbit hole, Harry,’ the minister said, ‘as soon as I get back from my next junket. A week of sweating my way up the Zambezi, can you believe it? Those buggers Stanley and Livingstone have got a lot to answer for.’

  Harry grew increasingly exasperated. He was work-ing on too short a fuse, he would be the first to admit it; he was a long way off recovering from his ordeal, even physically, let alone with what was tearing at him inside. Yet the Establishment seemed concerned with little more than ticking boxes on lists, not taking him seriously. So his spirits lifted when, one afternoon, there was a knock on the door of his parliamentary office in Portcullis House and a man introduced himself as Superintendent Ron Richards. He was not in uniform but it seemed, at last, that the Yard was giving the matter more weight.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind me saying, Mr Jones, but I’ve been an admirer of yours since you were a minister in the Home Office. I was only a sergeant then.’

  ‘Then you have grown, Superintendent, while I . . .’ Harry spread his hands and indicated his room with an expression of mock despair. His ministerial office had been ten times the size.

  ‘Why bother with an office, when you have the entire world.’

  ‘Thank you. Will you have tea, coffee?’

  ‘Something stronger, perhaps? This is an informal visit, Mr Jones, off the record, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Then you’d better sit down, Ron, and call me Harry,’ he said, reaching for the Scotch.

  They sank the first mouthful, then the policeman chewed his lip. ‘It’s like this. The Ta’argis aren’t being very helpful. So far as they are concerned, nothing happened, and if it did, it must be down to you.’

  Harry sighed, sensing where this was going. His ear began to throb once more.

  ‘It’s a delicate one. You can understand that, can’t you, Mr Jones?’

  ‘Harry,’ he insisted, but the superintendent was clearly feeling ill at ease.

  ‘It seems some journalists are trying to stand up a story that there might have been . . .’ Richards cleared his throat. ‘A lovers’ quarrel. Forgive me, but you and Mrs Riley, were you . . . close?’

  ‘She died in my fucking arms!’ He found it difficult to contain his anger at the implication.

  ‘OK, but do you have any proof of your allegations?’

  ‘Apart from a couple of broken ribs, multiple lacerations and no bloody ear, you mean?’

  ‘Yes, apart from that,’ Richards responded, holding his ground.

  ‘I can’t believe this. You’re doubting my word? Accusing me?’

  The superintendent leaned forward in his chair, making the distance between them less formal. ‘I’m trying to show you what you’re up against, Harry.’

  Harry closed his eyes, fighting to suppress the surge of outrage that was swamping him. ‘She was murdered, for pity’s sake. You trying to tell me that doesn’t matter?’

  ‘What I’m trying to tell you is that it’s a swine of a job investigating an alleged offence in a country on another continent when there’s not a shred of physical evidence. Not even a body.’ The superintendent sipped his whisky. ‘The Ta’argis have sent me a copy of her visa. It’s fully stamped. Date and time in, same on the way out. They say she left the country, voluntarily and in fine shape.’

  ‘Then ask Sid Proffit, for God’s sake.’

  ‘Oh, I intend to.’

  But, of course, Sid would be able to prove nothing, either, merely that he saw Martha leaving the plane. ‘Look, I’ve got her credit cards and IDs,’ Harry said, diving into the drawer of his desk. ‘How am I sup-posed to have got hold of those?’

  ‘How, indeed. They prove only that you were with her, Harry, not the Ta’argis. Just digs you in deeper.’

  ‘Damn it, Ron, what the hell am I supposed to do?’ Harry demanded, thumping the desk in exasperation.

  ‘Wait till something else turns up. There’s not enough here to go on.’

  ‘Martha Riley won’t be turning up!’ His head was pounding, his heart, too.

  ‘Harry, take it from me, nothing’s going to happen here in a hurry.’

  ‘So what the hell happened to justice?’

  The superintendent stared, warning him. He fought back.

  ‘I won’t let it rest, Ron. This isn’t just some parking ticket I can write off and forget!’

  ‘That’s what I thought. And that’s why I’m here, man to man. To make sure you don’t raise your expectations of what we can do. A
nd to advise you not to get your-self in too deep, not to take things into your own hands. It can only cause you trouble.’ He stood up and finished off his drink. ‘I’m sorry.’ He sounded as if he meant it. The policeman placed the empty glass down on the desk and walked from the room without another word. Harry was left, staring at a closed door. He picked up the phone and furiously began punching buttons, thinking of calling a couple of editors, but the time wasn’t right for the whimsies of the press and probably never would be. He jammed the phone into its cradle, then picked up the entire piece of equipment and hurled it into the wall. It ended on the floor, imitating a disemboweled octopus.

  Everywhere Harry looked, it was the same. It was more than indifference, it was as though he had become an embarrassment. No one wanted to know, they preferred to pass by on the other side, to look away, waiting for the grass to grow and cover everything up.

  Even Zac didn’t help. He couldn’t be found. Harry found a message from him on his answering machine, but it was vague, saying he would call back, but he hadn’t. Seemed to have disappeared yet again. Then, late one night, while Harry was at home, very much on his own, the phone rang.

  ‘Harry?’

  ‘Zac!’

  ‘Harry, you marvellous goddamned idiot. They let you out.’

  ‘You know my persuasive talents.’

  ‘How . . . the hell are you?’ The voice was breathless and the words came a little slurred, but Harry sensed it wasn’t the drink.

  ‘I’m in great shape, for one of Amir Beg’s guests. And you?’

  ‘Oh, some medical stuff they’re seeing to. That’s where I am now, surrounded by some good-looking nurses. They’re pouring all sorts of shit into me, just to keep themselves out of harm’s way.’

  So that’s why he was having trouble talking. Harry didn’t much care for what it implied. Zac’s treatment in Ashkek must have been even worse than he’d thought.

  ‘Harry?’

  ‘Yes, Zac.’

  ‘I don’t really know what happened . . .’

  ‘I’ll fill you in one day.’

  ‘I want to come and see you. Soon as I can.’

  ‘You up to the travelling?’

  ‘They’re letting me out of here on parole in a couple of days. Then a plane to London. So we can talk. If you’ve got time.’

  Harry assumed Zac wanted to offer his thanks. ‘There’s no need for that, Zac.’

  Yet there was more in the matter than Harry had realized. There was an edge to Zac’s voice that was insistent and even suggested desperation. ‘Sure there is. There’s nothing but broken bits in my mind, Harry, and I’ve got to know. I need your help putting all them screwy little pieces back together again.’

  ‘Trouble is, Zac, whenever you and I get together, some bastard out there always seems to want to kill us.’

  ‘I’ll see you. Couple of days tops, Harry, I swear. Even if it does kill me.’

  He was as good as his word. Two days later Harry got a message; Zac was in town. They arranged to meet that evening at the Special Forces Club in Knightsbridge, tucked away in a backstreet behind Harrods. It was in a discreet Edwardian red-brick terrace, no nameplate outside its modest black door, its membership traditionally reserved for those who had served in intelligence and special operations communities. It was a place of secrets, whose walls were lined with memorabilia of those who had gone before, some of whom were household names, others whose real names had never been known, somewhere for Harry and Zac to talk without fear of eavesdroppers, and particularly reporters.

  Yet although the club might ban journalists, that didn’t stop their newspapers. It was while Harry was waiting for Zac in the bar that he picked up a copy of the Evening Standard, its late edition. Buried some way inside he found a small item, that Mrs Martha Riley, the MP, was believed to have disappeared walking in the mountains while on a recent visit to Ta’argistan. It was thought she might have had an accident, presumably a fatal one. A Ta’argi consular spokesman was reported as saying that it would inevitably be many weeks before any attempt could be made to locate the body. ‘Spring comes very slowly in Ta’argistan,’ he was quoted as saying. The Standard concluded that a confirmed death would involve a by-election, but that given the economic circumstances and the govern-ment’s crumbling popularity, no one was in any hurry. In the meantime, until the situation became clearer, matters in Martha’s Midlands constituency would be taken care of by a neighbouring MP.

  Harry crushed the paper into a small ball and threw it in a bin. The Establishment had spoken, or rather whispered. He ordered a drink, a stiff one, not bothering to wait for Zac.

  He was standing at the front door of the club, wait-ing, when Zac’s taxi arrived, but it took Harry some time before he realized that it was his friend. The man who prised himself out of the back seat was not the man Harry had known; he looked little better than the tattered figure who had been hauled from the cell. Zac’s once broad, straight back was bent, and he held on to the taxi door for support, then the railings as he hauled himself up the club steps.

  ‘I know, I know, I look like shit,’ he said as Harry took his hand. He stared at Harry’s ear. ‘Don’t look too good yourself.’

  ‘Just come from the consultant, as it happens. They’re going to grow me a new one.’

  ‘Give me his name. I could use him.’

  Harry looked into Zac’s face. It had a tautness that spoke of intense strain, a sheet of chalk where there should have been a tan, and eyes that were distant, halfway to another world.

  ‘Fuck,’ Harry breathed.

  ‘Yeah, I know.’

  ‘What did that bastard do to you?’

  ‘We talk. Over a drink.’

  ‘You allowed to drink?’

  ‘Harry, those dumb-shit doctors tell me not to drink, not to fly, not to look at nurses’ butts. What’s the point in stopping me? Ain’t gonna make no friggin’ difference.’ He was still holding Harry’s hand; there was a faint trembling, more butterfly wings. ‘Those quacks tell me that I might have a few more months if I behave myself, but I don’t know how, Harry, and I guess I’m too old to learn.’

  Harry stood on the doorstep of the club, his eyes brimming with sorrow. Zac braced his shoulders and threw him a look of scorn. ‘I think this is the point where you’re supposed to ask me what my goddamned poison is. It’s a vodka martini.’ He handed Harry his coat as though he was a cloakroom attendant and walked stiffly to the bar.

  Soon they were seated in a quiet wood-panelled corner, beneath a portrait of a long-tressed French girl who had been a wartime resistance fighter, deceased, Dachau. Two vodka martinis stood in front of them, mixed to Zac’s meticulous instruction.

  ‘To the enemy. Up its arse,’ Zac suggested in toast, raising his glass with great care.

  ‘Which particular enemy?’

  ‘Big C. Eating me away, Harry.’

  ‘And I don’t suppose your stay at the Ashkek Hilton helped you any.’

  ‘That’s partly why I’m here. I don’t remember much, but it seems like you pulled me out of one hell of a hole. I need to say thank you.’

  ‘My pleasure. I was doing no more than returning the favour.’

  ‘That was a long time ago.’

  ‘Makes no difference.’

  ‘So can we stop saving each other and just sit down and drink, like two regular bastards?’

  ‘Well, I guess we can always try.’

  They drank, and ordered more.

  ‘One thing you can tell me, you all-American hero,’ Harry said as the second martini began to take hold, ‘how the hell did you end up in bed with the President’s wife? I know you’ve always displayed a remarkable lack of judgement when it comes to women, but even by your standards that was awesome.’

  ‘That’s the bitch of it all, Harry, I never did. I was set up.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Oh, I met her, sure I did, at some business reception. Cute. With a track record, apparently. And I flirted with
her, of course I did, but no more. I’m not a complete dickhead. You go screwing with a President’s wife in a place like Ashkek and you ain’t gonna come out with any balls. Then a week or so later Papa Karabayev was off on some foreign trip, I was out on the town, pretty loaded, and I get a message that she wants to see me, and a car’s waiting. So I get in and I’m taken to the Presidential Palace outside of town. A back entrance. Taken up some stairs, into a room, hang around admiring the wallpaper, then I get a message that she’s changed her plans, is sick, that’s what I was told. Never saw her. But others saw me, of course. Next day I’m playing a poor game of chess in the park and suddenly I’ve got the muzzles of half the palace guard sticking in places I really don’t want them. By lunchtime I’m making buddies with Amir Beg, and he’s showing me photographs of the presidential missus getting a real going over from some guy who Beg claims is me.’

  ‘But? There has to be something.’

  ‘No, Harry, not guilty. I never had the pleasure, but I sure as hell paid the price.’ He was breathing heavily with the effort of talking, and the memory. ‘I was framed.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You know, old Amir never got round to telling me. Too busy beating the crap out of me.’

  ‘Could it have been to do with your work?’

  Zac shook his head. ‘Can’t think so. I was clean, truly. Oh, there was some funny shit going down at the uranium mines, all sorts of strange whispers, but I never went near any of that. It was like I was picked out in a lottery. They needed a fall guy, and I won first prize.’

  ‘Why you, I wonder.’

  ‘I was available. And American. I got the impression they don’t like Americans.’

  ‘Or Brits.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘There was another American, too, Zac, although she’d lived here a long time, long enough to become an MP. Friend of mine. Name of Martha.’