Still, even Hastings could probably put two and two together. Kennedy had no direct evidence that the bus had been hijacked, but the circumstantial facts – the disappearance, the security police interest, the cars which left with the bus – seemed conclusive enough. He told Janice as much when he finally managed to get through to Tashkent from the Shakhrisabz post office. Five minutes later she was walking through to see Pearson-Jones in the adjoining room. He listened, sighed, and asked her to connect him with London once more.
There were only three men gathered around the table in the Cabinet Office – the Prime Minister, Alan Holcroft and Sir Christopher Hanson. All three looked decidedly bleary-eyed. The last-named had just finished briefing his political masters on what had happened over the previous eighteen hours, beginning with Brenda Walker’s failure to check in and ending with Kennedy’s report from Shakhrisabz. He stressed that most of what they knew was educated guesswork, but added that in his opinion they were dealing with a real hijack.
‘All right,’ the Prime Minister said quietly, ‘the first question has to be: why have the Uzbek authorities not contacted us?’
‘Two possibilities,’ Hanson said precisely. ‘One, they don’t yet know about the hijack. Two, they have reasons of their own for keeping silent. The first seems possible but unlikely. I don’t know of any reason they might have for keeping silent.’
‘I do,’ Holcroft said. ‘The trade deal is due to be signed this weekend. They may think this counts as bad publicity.’
‘Really?’ the Prime Minister said, as if he found it hard to believe. ‘All right, assuming that is the case, what are we to do with our knowledge?’
‘There is another question,’ Hanson interjected. ‘Why have the hijackers not publicized the abduction?’
‘Perhaps the Uzbek government is keeping a tight lid on all the channels of information,’ Holcroft suggested. It felt strange talking so logically about the problem when his own daughter was involved. For most of a sleepless night his brain had assaulted him with pictures of Sarah at every conceivable stage of her childhood and youth.
‘Perhaps,’ Hanson agreed, ‘but usually hijackers work this sort of thing out in advance. The last thing they want is to pull off a stunt like this and have no one know about it.’
‘So what is the answer?’ the PM asked petulantly.
Hanson shrugged. ‘I don’t know. The third question, of course, is whether they know that one of their captives is the Foreign Minister’s daughter.’
‘You think it’s possible that they don’t?’ Holcroft exclaimed in surprise. It had to be better if they didn’t know, he thought. And then again…she would have more value as his daughter, and therefore be less likely to be harmed. If one hostage was selected for killing, he thought, remembering the Achille Lauro, then they would be less likely to choose her if they knew who she was.
‘It does seem unlikely,’ Hanson was saying, ‘and something of a coincidence, but until we know for certain…’
‘So what are we to do?’ the PM asked Hanson.
‘Well, the first thing we need to know is what the hijackers want and whom they want it from. If, for example, they do know that they have the Foreign Minister’s daughter, then their demands will almost certainly be levelled at us rather than the government of Uzbekistan. If they don’t know, then it’s a different matter.’
‘But what if the demands are levelled at us, but the Uzbeks are not passing them on?’ Holcroft asked, thoroughly alarmed.
‘A good question,’ Hanson agreed.
‘We have to inform the Uzbek government that we are aware of the situation,’ Holcroft said, trying to keep a pleading tone out of his voice.
‘Knowing that we know may reduce their anxiety,’ Hanson agreed. And prevent them from charging in with guns blazing, he thought to himself.
‘All right,’ the PM agreed. ‘I had better talk to President What’s-his-name.’ He picked up the nearest internal phone and asked his private secretary to get hold of an interpreter and the relevant number.
The ensuing silence was broken by Holcroft. ‘Prime Minister,’ he said formally, ‘we could offer the Uzbeks help in dealing with a hostage situation. We do have the best people in the world in that department.’
‘We’ll see, Alan,’ the PM said coolly. ‘Let’s wait until we know more about the situation.’
A long ten minutes went by before the interpreter arrived from elsewhere in the Whitehall labyrinth. The private secretary then started the laborious task of linking them, through Moscow, with Tashkent.
The call from London reached President Bakalev’s office just as he returned from his meeting with Bakhtar Muratov. The moment he was told the British Prime Minister wished to talk with him the President realized the cat was out of the bag. While the interpreters wished each other good morning he congratulated himself on allowing Muratov to talk him out of ordering the air strike.
Then he picked up the waiting receiver. ‘Mr Prime Minister,’ he said, realizing he had forgotten the man’s name.
‘Mr President,’ came the eventual reply. Probably the Englishman had forgotten his too. ‘We have reason to believe,’ Balalev’s translator passed on, ‘that a group of our British citizens has been the subject of a terrorist kidnapping in your country. In Samarkand, to be precise.’
‘That is correct,’ Bakalev agreed. ‘We have only just been informed of this ourselves,’ he lied. How the hell had the English already found out? he wondered. And what would they want now they knew?
‘Do you have a list of those taken hostage?’ the Prime Minister asked.
‘No, only the numbers of men and women…’ He was about to add ‘and their nationality’, but thought better of it. Maybe no one else knew that Americans were involved.
In London, the PM, Holcroft and Hanson shared glances. It seemed that the Uzbeks were unaware of Sarah Holcroft’s presence among the hostages. ‘We can supply you with a list,’ the PM told Bakalev.
‘Thank you.’
‘Do you know who these terrorists are?’
‘They call themselves The Trumpet of God. They are religious fanatics.’
‘Have they told you what they want in exchange for the hostages’ release?’
‘We received their demands half an hour ago. They wish to have their programme printed in our state newspaper, and they are demanding the release of four other zealots from prison.’
There was a slight pause as the Prime Minister sought out the most sensitive phrasing. ‘This is clearly an internal matter for the government of Uzbekistan,’ he said eventually, ‘but I am sure you will understand, Mr President, that the safety of British citizens is a matter of great importance to us, wherever they may be in the world.’
‘Of course,’ Bakalev agreed. ‘But I am fully aware of British policy as regards such situations – “no surrender to terrorism”. Were those not the words of your illustrious predecessor?’
‘Yes, yes, they were,’ the PM agreed. ‘And as a general rule we hold to that policy very firmly. But there can be exceptions, special circumstances to consider…It is not for the British to dictate the government of Uzbekistan’s response. I can only say that the British government would consider it a most friendly act, and I would consider it a personal favour, if the government of Uzbekistan could do its best to secure the peaceful release of these hostages.’
The translation of this last sentence ushered in a lengthy silence. In London, Holcroft gave the PM a grateful glance. In Tashkent, President Bakalev wondered if he had really heard what he thought he had heard.
‘I would naturally like to help,’ he began cautiously, ‘but conceding these demands could be very costly for my country. As you must be aware, a semblance of political stability has been hard to achieve for many of the newly independent states in this region, and to be seen to give ground to the Islamic fundamentalists would be profoundly destabilizing. And an increase in political problems will of course exacerbate our existing economic d
ifficulties. As I said, I personally would be happy to offer assistance, but I must think first of my country and the people who elected me.’
Hanson rolled his eyes at the ceiling. Holcroft found he was clenching his fist. The PM bit the bullet. ‘I realize that no price can be put on such things,’ he began, ‘but I think it would be possible for the British government to offer compensation for any problems which arose as a result of this situation.’
Bakalev smiled to himself. ‘I think $200 million would be a reasonable sum.’
‘I will need to discuss such an arrangement with my colleagues,’ the PM said.
‘Of course.’
‘If we can keep this line open then I will talk to you again in fifteen minutes.’
‘Very well.’
The PM signalled his secretary to cut off the extensions, and looked round at Holcroft and Hanson.
‘It’s a lot less per person than we paid out for the Falkland Islanders,’ Hanson said drily.
‘It’s a drop in the bucket,’ the PM said. ‘And in any case, as long as it’s tied to development deals this country won’t be any the poorer. The only problem will be hiding the transaction in the public accounts.’
‘There’s always a way,’ Hanson said cynically. ‘And in any case, who could object to expenditure aimed at saving lives?’
‘The people who say we should never give in to terrorism?’ Holcroft asked wearily.
‘Nobody cares who runs Uzbekistan,’ Hanson insisted. ‘It could just as well be the Muslim loonies in government, the communists doing the hijackings. We worry too much about these small countries. They’re basically irrelevant to how we do in the world.’
‘Maybe,’ the PM said. ‘But in any case, no one has made any demands of the British government, so there’s no way we can be giving in to terrorism.’ He looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘But just in case – I think your earlier suggestion was a good one, Alan.’ He nodded, as if agreeing with himself.
In Tashkent, President Bakalev had been smoking a cigarette, unable to believe his luck. Perhaps next time, he thought ironically, his own people could do the kidnapping and cut out the middlemen.
He wondered why the British government was so concerned about the fate of these fourteen hostages. Maybe there was an election coming up – after what had happened to Jimmy Carter in the USA no one wanted to face one with a hostage crisis under way.
Bakalev sighed with satisfaction, blowing smoke at the fan spinning round above his head. ‘They’re on again,’ an aide called to him from the open door.
The Prime Minister wasted no time. ‘The sum you suggested is acceptable,’ he began. ‘It will of course be in the form of development grants, with half the sum tied to the purchase of British products.’
Bakalev grimaced, but concurred. ‘And the deal already agreed will be signed here this weekend, as arranged?’
‘Yes. But there are two further conditions. First, we expect to be consulted at all levels throughout the duration of the hostage crisis. After we two have finished speaking I would like your operational commander to get in touch with our embassy, so that a British liaison officer can be attached to his team.’
‘Is this really necessary?’ Bakalev asked. ‘The situation should be resolved by this time tomorrow, and the hostages on their way home.’
‘I hope you are right,’ the PM agreed. ‘But there is no way we can be sure. The second condition is that you accept help from us in dealing with the hostage situation. I intend no disrespect to your country, Mr President, when I say that the British Army has more experience of dealing with such situations than anyone…’
‘How many men?’ Bakalev asked bluntly.
‘Two,’ the PM said, picking a figure out of the air. ‘They will serve only in a consultative capacity, of course.’
‘Of course,’ Bakalev said, wrinkling his nose. After all, what difference could it make? By the end of the week these two soldiers and all the hostages would be back in England, leaving behind a richer Uzbekistan and a more popular President.
‘Are these two conditions acceptable?’ the Englishman was asking.
‘They are,’ Bakalev said.
8
On his way to see the President, Muratov realized how relieved he was that the English had suddenly intervened. The idea of taking out the hostages and hijackers in one explosive swoop had certainly had an appealing simplicity to it, but over the years experience had taught him that such schemes had a habit of rebounding on their architects. And, he had to admit, while fourteen innocent deaths might represent no more than an average week’s murder toll in a large American city, it still seemed an excessively large burden to put on one’s conscience.
Muratov wondered whether he was succumbing to the new religious mania. This is where seventy years of enforced secularism leads a culture, he thought. Right down the throats of the hungry mullahs.
He found the President smoking a cigarette and gazing happily out of the large picture window at the opera house across the square. Bakalev lost no time in filling him in on all the delightful details.
‘Two hundred million dollars, plus the trade deal,’ he gushed, ‘and all for letting a few madmen out of prison and printing some idiotic religious drivel. If the whole business gets out we can say we conceded to the demands on humanitarian grounds, and because the British asked us to.’
‘What interests me is why they asked us to,’ Muratov said, mostly to himself.
‘Who knows? Maybe they have an election coming up and don’t want any bad publicity. It’s not as if they’re giving up anything, is it?’
‘Except $200 million.’
Bakalev shrugged. ‘It’s hardly anything to them. I probably should have asked for more.’
You probably should, Muratov thought. ‘So I just tell the hijackers we accept their demands?’ he said.
‘Yes. Arrange the prison releases and the printing of their programme. Ah, I almost forgot – the British did insist on sending two experts in hostage situations to help us. They will arrive early tomorrow. Until then they want one of their embassy staff to liaise with your people.’
‘What’s the point? If we’re giving the hijackers what they want…’
‘That’s what I said. They claim they want people here in case something goes wrong, or the hijackers change their minds. Whatever.’
‘Our people are going to love this.’
Bakalev smiled. ‘And I had an idea,’ he said. ‘That Ismatulayeva woman is in charge of the Anti-Terrorist Unit, right? Her mother was always a pain in the arse. Anyway, put her in charge of this operation, responsible directly to you. If anything does go wrong, then having a woman in charge will be good publicity for us in the West.’
Muratov frowned but said nothing.
‘And I’ve been wondering,’ Bakalev continued, ‘should we contact the Americans? Do you think they would pay another $200 million for their two hostages?’
‘No,’ Muratov said. He still wasn’t at all sure why the British had suddenly become so terrorist-friendly. Until he did understand their reasons – or lack of them – it felt better not to further complicate matters. He told Bakalev so.
The President was in too good a mood to argue with him.
Nurhan and Marat drove back into town from the airport in silence. Her mind was fully engaged with the problems posed for her unit by the terrorists’ location, while his was still recovering from the sudden recognition of the Stinger on the man’s shoulder. The last time he had seen one had been eight years earlier, on a two-helicopter patrol in Afghanistan. A split second after visual identification the missile had been fired, turning one of the helicopters into an instant ball of flame. This explosion had sent Marat’s helicopter into a spin which the pilot was still struggling to right when the ground intervened. Marat had spent one month in a field hospital and several more in a convalescent unit in Tashkent. He had never enjoyed a helicopter flight since.
They arrived back at the NSS HQ f
or the second time that day shortly before noon. The temperature was in the low thirties and still rising, but all the shady parking spaces had been taken. They left the Volga to bake and walked into the cool of the building.
Zhakidov’s office was the only one with an air-conditioner, an ancient machine which, according to the manufacturer’s plate, had been made in Springfield, Massachusetts, and had somehow contrived to spend its working life in the service of the KGB, deep in the heart of Asia. To judge from the noises which emanated from it, that life was almost over. The machine seemed to gulp rather than simply ingest electricity, because every now and then the noise would suddenly rise to a tumult and every light-bulb in the building would momentarily flicker and dim.
The air in the office, though, was almost cold, and Zhakidov was actually wearing his jacket. He gestured them into chairs with a wave of his hand and carried on writing something into some sort of ledger. He looked vaguely pissed off, Marat thought, and wondered if the new young wife was proving more trouble than she was worth.
‘Do you know what that place is?’ Zhakidov asked abruptly.
‘No idea,’ Nurhan answered, assuming he meant the lodge where the terrorists were holed up.
‘It’s Bakalev’s personal hunting lodge. Or at least it was intended to be. It was built a few years ago, for the Party bosses. Gorbachev was going to be the first invited guest to spend a weekend there.’
‘Surprise surprise,’ Marat murmured. Lately he had begun to wonder whether the Party leadership had done anything other than feather its own nest during the final thirty years of Soviet rule.
‘But he was too busy dismantling the country,’ Zhakidov went on. ‘Anyway, it was only used once or twice, and it hasn’t been used at all since the break-up.’
‘Too embarrassing,’ Marat murmured. He wondered if Zhakidov had ever made use of the facilities, and decided to risk asking. They would need a first-hand description of the place from somebody.
Samarkand Hijack Page 11