Samarkand Hijack

by David Monnery

  ‘No,’ he said automatically.

  ‘No?’ she echoed, astonished. Why would the kidnappers of the Foreign Minister’s daughter not be in contact with the British government?

  ‘You are holding Sarah Holcroft?’ she asked.

  Nasruddin almost dropped the phone. He had known all along that Sarah Jones’s face was familiar, and now he knew why.

  ‘Are you intending to ask a ransom?’ Annabel asked. The man at the other end sounded educated enough, but he didn’t seem to have much idea of what he was doing.

  Nasruddin put the phone down, and instinctively took it off the hook. The motion reminded him of that evening years before, when the phone calls had poured in after his mother’s death, half of them offering sympathy, half expressing regret that the whole family hadn’t burned with her.

  ‘What is it?’ Talib asked.

  ‘It’s…’ Nasruddin’s mind was racing ahead. This changed everything. ‘The women hostages, the younger blonde girl,’ he said. ‘You remember her?’

  Talib nodded.

  ‘She is the daughter of the British Foreign Minister…’

  Talib looked astonished. ‘But how?’

  ‘She’s travelling under a different name. The girl’s famous in Britain, or at least she used to be.’

  ‘Why didn’t you recognize her?’

  ‘I don’t know. I did think I’d seen her face before but…well, she has a reputation for drugs and promiscuity, and this girl didn’t seem like that.’ Nasruddin ran a hand through his hair. ‘I still find it hard to believe.’

  ‘It explains a lot,’ Talib said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Why they have been so accommodating. The British have been leaning on our government.’

  Nasruddin thought about it. ‘Or bribing them,’ he suggested.

  ‘Probably both. The question is, what do we do with this new knowledge?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The two men looked at each other, each knowing what the other was thinking. It was Talib who voiced it. ‘We can ask for anything,’ he said.

  It was four minutes to eleven when Nurhan and the two SAS men saw the helicopter, and almost two minutes later before they heard the asthmatic scrape of its rotor blades echoing up the valley. The craft flew almost directly in front of them, before climbing to a hovering position above the improvised landing site in front of the lodge. Then slowly it settled to the ground.

  The watchers waited for the hostages to be led out.

  One minute passed, and another, and suddenly the door opened and what looked like a group of four males was hurried across the space and into the helicopter. The watchers’ eyes returned to the door, expecting the next batch, but before anyone else could emerge the craft was lifting off and climbing rapidly into the sky.

  ‘What the fuck?’ Stoneham said quietly.

  ‘What indeed,’ Brierley agreed, just as a call came in on Nurhan’s radio. They watched her eyes narrow and her lips purse as she listened, and knew the news wasn’t good.

  ‘That was my boss,’ she explained. ‘The bastards have reneged on the deal. They’re releasing the four Muslim hostages, but not the others. Apparently they’ve found out that one of the women is the daughter of the British Foreign Minister. I take it you already knew that.’

  ‘Yes, but…’

  ‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘It doesn’t take a genius to work out why your government didn’t want anyone to know.’

  ‘Did they say anything else?’ Brierley asked.

  ‘No. Only that they’ll present a new set of demands sometime later.’

  ‘They probably still can’t believe their luck,’ Stoneham said.

  ‘Probably. Anyway, we’re back to square one,’ Brierley said. ‘And while we’re waiting for Chummy and his friends to work out what they want, I think we might as well start making some plans. Under your authority, of course, Major.’

  ‘Of course,’ she agreed drily. ‘Exactly what do you have in mind?’

  Bakhtar Muratov’s conversation with Nasruddin had been not much longer than Nurhan’s précis suggested. The terrorist leader had begun by announcing he was cancelling the prisoners-for-hostages exchange. He had been deceived, he said, as to the true identity of one of their captives. Nevertheless he would release four of them, along with the ‘illegally imprisoned’ four Islamic leaders.

  When Muratov had expressed ignorance as to the deception, Nasruddin had not believed him. ‘If you did not know the girl was the British Foreign Minister’s daughter, then why did you accept our demands so easily?’ he asked scornfully.

  Because we were bribed to do so, Muratov thought, but didn’t say so out loud. No wonder the British government had been so keen to abandon its own principles.

  Nasruddin had moved on to practicalities. ‘Our new demands will be addressed to both the Uzbek and British governments,’ he said. ‘I will talk to both you and the British Ambassador on this line at six o’clock this evening.’

  And that had been that. Bakalev was not going to be pleased, Muratov thought, as he strolled the short distance that separated his flat from the President’s office.

  He was right. Bakalev’s face grew harder and harder as Muratov told him what had happened, until the NSS boss had visions of it cracking under the stress. In actuality, the President uttered one explosive ‘fuck!’ and slumped back down into his Swedish desk chair.

  There followed several moments of uncomfortable silence.

  ‘How did they find out?’ Bakalev asked eventually.

  ‘We don’t know.’

  ‘Fuck,’ the President said again, more quietly this time. ‘So we print their ludicrous programme…Have you got any reports yet on how it was received?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘I want to see them as soon as you get them.’ He slumped even further into the seat, and massaged his chin. ‘It certainly explains why the British were so generous,’ he said sarcastically. ‘A ransom for a princess,’ he muttered.

  Muratov said nothing.

  ‘You say they’re busy dreaming up new demands. What else can they ask for? How many more zealots do we have in prison?’

  ‘Maybe two hundred. But none worth feeding. We can give them all away without losing any sleep.’

  ‘OK,’ Bakalev agreed. ‘What else?’

  Muratov shrugged. ‘Money. More manifestos. A TV show. Your resignation…’

  Bakalev grunted. ‘When I quit it’ll be because I want to.’ He looked at Muratov. ‘And anyway, I think we’ve offered these bastards more than enough already.’

  ‘The English may offer us more.’

  ‘It wouldn’t be worth it. There’s a limit to how much damage you can cover up with money.’

  He was probably right, Muratov thought. Any more concessions and it would be hard to avoid getting stuck with a fatal reputation for weakness. ‘They’ll have demands on themselves to think about,’ he said. ‘And I can’t see them being able to concede very much given their stated policy on terrorism.’

  ‘You mean, up until now they could let us do all the conceding?’

  ‘Of course. But now it may well be different. If the new demands can be met in private, then that’s one thing. But if they’re the sort which involves publicity then they’ll have to live up to their own principles…’

  ‘Are the terrorists still saying they don’t want publicity?’ Bakalev interjected.

  ‘They didn’t say one way or the other. They may not have made up their minds yet. It’s hard to say…’

  ‘Cut them off,’ Bakalev decided abruptly. ‘Tell them the line’s down, or someone acted without authority. Just keep a two-way line open between us and them. Whatever. And get hold of the British Ambassador. Be nice to him. I don’t want the British to think we’re being anything less than completely co-operative. Give their two military experts a free hand. If it becomes necessary for us to go in, I want the British in there with us, whether they like it or not. If there’s
a fuck-up they can take the blame, at least as far as the world is concerned. Maybe we can even get them to believe it.’

  ‘It might put the trade deal in jeopardy.’

  ‘I know, but that’s too bad. I still want it, but not if it’s going to cost me the country.’

  Back at the NSS HQ Marat found a message on his desk. He left the building again and drove a few hundred metres down Tamerlane Prospekt to the telephone exchange. In a small basement room he found the two-man unit whose job it was to monitor the hijackers’ phone line.

  ‘Listen to this, boss,’ one of the men said, and flicked a switch on the reel-to-reel tape recorder.

  ‘Yes?’ asked a voice, which Marat instantly recognized as the terrorist leader’s.

  ‘Hello, who is that?’ an unfamiliar woman’s voice asked in English.

  ‘Who are you?’ Nasruddin Salih answered in the same language.

  ‘My name is Silcott. I’m a journalist…’

  Marat listened to the rest of the conversation, noting the shock in Nasruddin’s voice when he learnt of the female hostage’s real identity. Then he phoned the NSS operations room and asked them to check the journalist’s name against the hotel register.

  She had been staying at the Hotel Samarkand for two nights.

  He was there five minutes later, asking the receptionist if she was in. The man looked vaguely worried by the question, but his answer was definite enough. She had gone out.

  ‘Any idea where?’

  ‘No. Maybe she went to meet the Englishman,’ he added, half-consciously trying to divert attention away from himself.

  ‘Which Englishman?’ Marat asked patiently.

  ‘Mr Kennedy.’ The receptionist managed a leer. ‘They got quite friendly last night,’ he offered by way of explanation.

  Great, Marat thought. The man really was as big a fool as he looked. And since he was up in the mountains with Nurhan the journalist could hardly be with him. So where the fuck was she? And who else was she busy telling?

  After putting down the phone Annabel Silcott had been momentarily appalled by what she had done. But there was no way to take it back, and no use in crying over spilt secrets. And in any case, the whole business was ridiculous. She should never have been able to pick up a phone and ring a terrorist group holding hostages – the authorities needed their heads examining for letting something like that happen.

  She sat down on a convenient bench, and watched the morning traffic go by. It all seemed so ordinary, so mundane.

  What was she to do? This was the biggest story that had ever come her way, and there must be some way for her to make use of it. But how? She could ring the story in to any of the British dailies on the phone right in front of her, but that wouldn’t do much for her reputation. Samarkand would instantly fill up with competing journalists from all over the place, and she would be just one more of them, dutifully taking down whatever the official spokesman chose to tell them.

  There had to be some way of keeping the story to herself. Maybe she should wait, keep in touch with what was happening through Kennedy. If the authorities managed to keep the lid on right up to the end, then that would be the time for her to produce her investigative masterwork. Blow the whole thing wide open without risking any lives.

  That was the way to go. Feeling pleased with herself, and even vaguely proud of letting her better nature win out over the demands of instant gratification, she walked briskly back to the hotel, hoping that Kennedy had returned.

  She was crossing the lobby when a man blocked her way.

  ‘You will come with me,’ Marat said, showing her his ID.

  ‘But…’

  ‘You are under arrest.’

  To say it had been a disappointment was definitely an understatement, Docherty thought to himself. They had been informed in writing by Nasruddin of an unspecified deceit on the part of the authorities, and The Trumpet of God’s consequent decision to release only the four Muslim prisoners. The four Zahids had been understandably relieved, but also unmistakably embarrassed by their good fortune. Ali said he would pray for them, and Nawaz promised to bombard the British government with demands for action. The two teenagers earnestly shook hands with those they were leaving behind, and Javid offered to leave them his Wisden.

  That had been nearly three hours ago, Docherty thought, looking at his watch. For most of that time he, Mike Copley, Sam Jennings and Charles Ogley had been immersed in their own gloomy thoughts. Somehow, there didn’t seem much worth saying.

  It was the not knowing that was hardest. Not knowing what was happening out there, not only as regards their own situation, but in the world at large. Docherty had never been addicted to news, and in fact enjoyed few things more than isolating himself in some beautiful spot – the Hebrides came to mind, or Chiapas in Mexico – and just letting time flow by. By choice, that was. What a difference it made when someone did the choosing for you. Then being cut off began to seem…well, like the prison it was. You were trapped inside yourself, and being human was about making contact with others…

  Anything could be happening out there. Another Chernobyl, a cure for AIDS. Celtic might have signed a player who lived on the same planet as McStay.

  His reverie was interrupted by the swelling drone of a helicopter. Judging from the noise it was the same one. A big transport chopper. A ‘Hip’ probably, if he remembered his NATO code-names correctly.

  ‘They suddenly realized they left us behind,’ Copley said, but the joke was in the words rather than his tone.

  All four of them were probably hoping the same thing, Docherty thought – that any moment now the door would open and someone would tell them that it was all over, and that they were on their way home.

  But no footsteps sounded, and no one came for them. The sound of the rotors died, ushering back the silence.

  Some three kilometres from the lodge Nurhan and the three Englishmen extricated themselves from the convenient area of shade they had discovered beneath a north-facing overhang and walked back down the path towards the checkpoint on the approach road. On the helicopter’s return a few minutes earlier one of the two pilots had been taken out and pointed in their general direction.

  They arrived at the checkpoint just as he loomed into view round the bend, walking briskly towards them.

  His news proved neither better nor worse than expected. He and his co-pilot had dropped off their passengers on the other side of the Tajik border, and then one of the hijackers had flown the helicopter back. ‘He watched us all the way on the outward flight,’ the pilot said, ‘and then took the controls himself on the return leg. He had obviously flown helicopters before, but probably nothing as big as an Mi-8.’

  ‘That means they’re mobile,’ Brierley observed. ‘We should think about destroying that helicopter,’ he added.

  ‘They’re keeping my co-pilot on board.’

  ‘Fuck.’

  Shortly afterwards Muratov came through with confirmation of the co-pilot’s whereabouts courtesy of Nasruddin himself. The NSS boss also OK’d the after-dark reconnaissance for which Nurhan had requested permission.

  ‘So how many?’ she asked the SAS men.

  ‘Just the two of us,’ Brierley said, surprised. ‘More than that would only add to the noise.’

  ‘That makes sense,’ she agreed. ‘But this is a joint operation, so one of the two will be me.’

  Brierley and Stoneham looked at each other. ‘We’ve worked together before,’ Brierley said. ‘I don’t want…’

  ‘You don’t want to wonder out loud what a liability a woman might be,’ she said, ‘but you’re thinking it. Well, maybe I won’t live up to your standards. Maybe you won’t match up to mine. But this is my operation. Either I go with one of you two, or I go with one of my own men. I’d rather it was one of you two,’ she added diplomatically, feeling a pang of disloyalty as she did so.

  Brierley and Stoneham shared another look. ‘I’ll toss you for it, boss,’ Stoneham said.
r />   ‘Forget it,’ Brierley said. ‘Privilege of rank.’

  ‘Shit,’ Stoneham said.

  ‘When do you think would be the optimum time?’ Nurhan asked, wondering if she was taking her instructions to be nice too far. ‘Around ten o’clock? There were still some lights burning at that time last night.’

  ‘Earlier,’ Brierley suggested. ‘They won’t be expecting anything soon after dark. And if it looks good we could even give the politicos the option of going in before dawn.’

  They agreed on eight o’clock, and settled down to wait. Over the next few hours they were interrupted only once, by a radio message in Uzbek which first made Nurhan angry and then amused. But despite questioning looks from the three Englishmen she kept the news about Silcott and Kennedy to herself. Muratov was apparently en route from Tashkent to a new operational HQ in the Samarkand NSS building, and bringing the British Ambassador with him. The latter would no doubt be dealing with Kennedy in person.

  Around four o’clock the call came through to say Pearson-Jones had arrived. He wanted to see Kennedy immediately, and requested that Brierley accompany the MI6 man back into town. Having been thrust into the role of negotiating for the British government, the Ambassador thought it wise to avail himself of the expert adviser who had been sent from England. A crash course was duly expected over dinner that evening.

  ‘Looks like I’ll have to fill in for you on the easy job then, boss,’ Stoneham observed casually.

  ‘Yes, I suppose you will, you little fucker,’ Brierley admitted, without a great deal of grace.

  14

  Sabir put the glass of tea down on the polished surface of the long table, and Nasruddin absent-mindedly moved it on to one of the place-mats which depicted Soviet beauty spots. Noticing what he had done, he smiled wryly to himself. It was obviously OK to hijack a bus-load of tourists, but not to leave a ring on Bakalev’s table.

  ‘Where is Talib?’ Akbar asked, almost angrily.

  ‘He’ll be here in a minute.’ The Tajik was obviously feeling the tension, and Nasruddin could understand why. He felt nervous and uncertain himself, unsure of his own judgement. One part of his mind – perhaps the most rational part – was telling him that they had accomplished everything they had intended, and that now was the time to cut and run. Another part, which often seemed no less reasonable, was pointing out how much more they could extract from the situation now that Sarah Holcroft’s identity was known to them. A third, almost incoherent, voice was crying out that here at last was his chance to make the bastards pay for everything.