In London the Prime Minister was watching Sir Christopher Hanson eat an early take-away breakfast of croissants and coffee, and trying in vain to prepare himself mentally for the days that lay ahead. The prospect of an extended hostage crisis, with Her Majesty’s Government a distant and largely impotent bystander, was bad enough in itself. The news that the hijackers intended publicizing Britain’s attempt to buy them off for Sarah Holcroft’s sake was nothing short of catastrophic. The newspapers, the opposition, the goddam BBC – they would all have a field day. Except that it would go on for weeks. His chances of surviving it all were virtually nonexistent.
In the mobile incident room in Akhunbabaeva Street Brierley and Marat were trying to work out the likely location of the six terrorists they suspected were inside the Gur Emir. It had been seven, but the appearance of fly-posters around the city announcing the terrorists’ demands suggested that at least one of the original seven had flown the coop immediately after their early-morning arrival.
Brierley and Marat didn’t have much solid information to go on – the layout of the mausoleum complex made visual sightings hard to come by, and the thick walls of its construction had defeated the thermal image intensifiers. Basically, the two men were building their suppositions on educated guesswork, the little information offered by the two listening devices, and common sense.
Their partners of the last couple of days had both been given a few hours to catch up on their sleep, Nurhan at home, Stoneham in the British Ambassador’s suite at the Hotel Samarkand. Both had gone out like lights the moment their heads hit the pillow.
In the mausoleum crypt the ten hostages were slowly adjusting to the sudden turn of events. All four couples were still feeling the relief of reunion, but the drastic down-turn in their living conditions, and the definite feeling that the stakes had been dramatically raised, made for an increase in stress levels which each individual expressed in his or her own way. There wasn’t much talking as the afternoon wore on, and the little that there was was mostly confined between partners. Neither the knowledge of what lay above them, nor the tombs which filled their prison, were conducive to optimism.
The doctored tape was brought to Muratov’s temporary office in the NSS building soon after three in the afternoon. He sent down for a cassette recorder and sat there wondering about the ethics of what they were about to do. There weren’t any, he decided. The situation in Central Asia had gone beyond ethics: now it was a simple choice between Us and Them, between a difficult future and a swift regression to the Middle Ages. These men had to be defeated, and quickly. If that defeat also involved the death of the British hostages it was unfortunate, but not much more.
The recorder arrived. He inserted the tape, listened to the footfalls of the courier recede down the stairs, and pressed the play button.
It began with the voice of the man named Nasruddin, whom Muratov assumed to be the terrorists’ leader. ‘And what if they are just playing for time?’ he asked.
‘We have already decided what to do in that situation,’ another man said. The voice was deeper, the accent probably that of a Tajik.
‘Of course,’ a third, rougher voice said. ‘If our demands are not met by the day after tomorrow we will kill the hostages.’
‘What else can we do?’ the second voice agreed.
That was all there was. Muratov played it through again. It was an excellent piece of work – even though he was listening for the joins he couldn’t tell where they were.
Of course it was too short, but he supposed this was only the centrepiece. More could be added to pad it out.
It wouldn’t stand proper testing, but that didn’t matter. There would be no court of law involved, only the press. After a couple of people had heard it then the tape could get conveniently lost or destroyed. Or even stolen by Islamic zealots in an attempt to save the reputations of the dead terrorists.
He reached for the phone.
It rang three times before the President answered it himself, sounding decidedly sleepy. Muratov explained what had been done, and then played the tape to Bakalev over the phone.
‘It’s brilliant,’ was the President’s response.
Muratov said nothing. He wanted instructions, not a blind Presidential eye.
‘What’s the situation like in the city?’ Bakalev asked instead.
Muratov told him about the fly-posters which had begun to appear all over the old city. ‘And there’s a big crowd around the area we cordoned off,’ he added.
‘An angry crowd?’
‘Not particularly. I’d say it was one of those crowds which doesn’t really know its own mind yet. It could turn nasty, could turn into a street party.’
There was another pause, and Muratov could almost hear the wheels going round in Bakalev’s mind. The revelations due out the next day, the sense of a populace slowly focusing its anger, the chance to end it all.
‘Order your people in,’ Bakalev said.
‘This moment?’
‘Use your discretion. But before dawn tomorrow. I will talk to the British Prime Minister, and tell him we have no choice. And send me a copy of the full tape the moment it’s finished. With any luck we won’t need to use it.’
Muratov listened to the click of disconnection, and turned off the recording instrument attached to his phone. He wondered how Major Ismatulayeva would like her new orders.
‘Good morning, Mr President,’ the Prime Minister responded dully. In London it was shortly after eleven in the morning, one of his teeth had just started aching, and another call from the President of Uzbekistan was the last thing he felt in need of. He wished he’d never heard of the damn place.
‘Mr Prime Minister, we have received information which suggests that the hostages are in imminent danger. Of course, I would not take such a crucial decision without consulting you, but from what we now know I feel certain that decisive action must be taken within the next twelve hours. Such action will involve an element of risk for the hostages, but we feel that doing nothing involves a much greater risk.’
‘What is the nature of this information, Mr President?’ the PM asked, hope rising in his throat. Could this be the miracle he had been praying for?
‘As you probably know from your people here, the terrorists are under audio-surveillance. We have a tape of them saying that they intend to kill at least some of the hostages tomorrow if their demands are not met.’
There has to be a God, the PM thought. The matter was being taken out of his hands, and the blame for any subsequent disaster would stick to someone else.
‘The experience of your men will help to minimize the risk,’ Bakalev was saying.
This brought the PM back to earth, but only for a moment. He couldn’t be held responsible for the proficiency of the SAS, and in any case the SAS themselves could hardly be blamed for any failure if they were operating under overall Uzbek control. They were all off the hook. ‘I understand, Mr President,’ he said. ‘If, in your judgement, immediate action represents our best hope of saving lives, then we must take such action.’
‘I am glad we see eye to eye,’ Bakalev said. ‘I would be grateful if you could immediately inform your people in Samarkand of your decision. I will inform mine. Let us hope for a happy outcome.’
‘I agree, and thank you.’ The PM put the phone down and, conscious of Hanson’s eyes on him, managed to repress a smile of triumph. ‘They want to go in,’ he said shortly.
‘Why? When?’
‘Within the next twelve hours. As to why – they have found out that the terrorists intend killing hostages from tomorrow.’
‘Found out? How?’ Hanson asked suspiciously.
‘Audio-surveillance. They have a tape.’
I bet they do, Hanson thought. He hadn’t spent most of his life fighting the KGB without knowing what they were capable of. And MI6 had manufactured a few fake tapes of its own down the years.
‘I think my toothache’s gone,’ the PM said suddenly.
The name Simon Kennedy flickered across Hanson’s mind, and he found himself hoping that the SAS had sent better men to Uzbekistan than he had.
Muratov and Pearson-Jones arrived at the mobile incident room together, shortly after four-thirty in the afternoon. They found Nurhan, Marat and the two Englishmen considering the aftermath of a simulated rescue bid, with black, blue and red pieces of folded card representing the hijackers, hostages and rescuers. None of the black pieces were still upright, but neither were four of the blue ones.
‘Comrades,’ Muratov began, inadvertently slipping into historic usage, ‘our governments have taken a decision. You will mount a rescue operation tonight.’
Eight eyes opened wide with surprise. Nurhan was the first to react vocally. ‘What!? Why? I don’t understand. Every expert in the world agrees that such situations should be played long.’ She looked at Muratov, more bewildered than angry.
‘Those are your orders, Major,’ Muratov said lightly. ‘The whys are in the political realm.’
That was not what she wanted to hear. ‘If you think…’ she began.
Brierley cut her off in the same language. ‘These are British lives at stake,’ he told Pearson-Jones. ‘Does London really support this?’
‘Yes,’ Pearson-Jones said quietly, not looking Brierley in the eye. ‘It has been decided that a speedy end to the crisis will be in everyone’s interest.’
Brierley indicated the fallen blue figures on the table. ‘I don’t think the hostages would agree with you,’ he said coldly.
‘If you want to help them,’ Pearson-Jones said in English, ‘then I suggest you stop worrying about why and start thinking about how.’
Brierley waved an arm angrily, but said nothing more.
Nurhan wasn’t finished. ‘If I’m to lead my men into a situation like this then I think an explanation is in order,’ she said quietly.
‘I can’t give you one,’ Muratov told her. ‘It’s not in my control.’ He was wondering how she and Marat would react if and when the faked tape had to be used. Angrily at first, no doubt. But she would understand the need. They were all on the same side in the end.
She bowed her head. If someone had to lead her unit in, then she would rather it was her.
‘Who dares wins,’ Stoneham muttered.
‘I’ve been in some strange places in my time,’ Docherty observed, ‘but this really takes the biscuit.’
He had an arm round Isabel’s shoulder as they sat against one of the tombs in the dimly lit crypt. It was decidedly cool now, though not at all damp. The other eight hostages were scattered round the room, like children playing hide-and-seek in a graveyard.
He wondered if anyone was coming to find them.
Across the crypt someone was softly crying – Sharon Copley, it sounded like. Docherty could just about hear the murmur of her husband’s voice as he tried to comfort her.
‘I could do with a pint of Guinness,’ Isabel said softly.
‘Aye. With spring-onion-flavoured crisps. Outside on a summer evening. That pub we found on Mull that was miles from anywhere.’
‘Where Marie threw the dart into the German tourist’s leg.’
‘That’s the one.’
She looked up at him with a smile. ‘I want you to know how much I love you,’ she said.
It was rapidly growing dark now, and the dome of the Gur Emir was a deepening silhouette against the western sky. Brierley and Stoneham stood looking at it from the other side of Akhunbabaeva Street, imagining the ten hostages gathered in the crypt below ground level.
‘If we could only find some way to give them advance warning,’ Brierley murmured. ‘It obviously can’t be visual, so it has to be sound of some sort…’
‘Eleven gunshots,’ Stoneham suggested, not very seriously.
‘Brilliant. First off, they’d have no reason for counting them, or at least not until it was too late. Second, they’d have no reason to think it was a message at all, let alone one aimed at them. Third, even if all that’s pure pessimism on my part, and they’re all happily counting up to eleven and saying, “Hey, that means there’s a rescue coming in at eleven o’clock tonight”, what makes you think the hijackers wouldn’t have come to exactly the same conclusion?’
Stoneham grinned at him. ‘No one can rubbish an idea like you can,’ he said with mock admiration.
‘Well, think of a better one. It has to be something they’ll know is aimed at them.’
‘And something they will recognize but the hijackers won’t.’
‘Right,’ Brierley agreed, ‘so what separates them?’
‘They’re foreigners,’ Stoneham said, only half in jest. ‘Different cultural references. I bet none of the hijackers would know who Arthur Daley was…’
‘Or recognize the Coronation Street theme music,’ Brierley mused.
‘Except for Salih,’ Stoneham reminded him. ‘In most ways he’s as British as we are.’
‘Shit, yes.’
The two men stood in silence for a few moments, watching the orange sky turn yellow-green behind the mausoleum.
‘I’ve got an idea,’ Stoneham said eventually.
‘I hope it’s better than the last one.’
Stoneham ignored that. ‘You ever see the film Rio Bravo?’ he asked.
‘Probably.’
‘Well, John Wayne and Dean Martin and the others are holed up in this town with a prisoner, and the prisoner’s brother has the town surrounded, and there’s this slow Mexican music playing in the distance and John Wayne says it’s getting on his nerves and why haven’t they heard from the chief bad guy. And Ricky Nelson looks up at him and says something like “He’s talking to us now.” Turns out the music is some sort of death march, which means no quarter will be given when the time comes.’
‘You think we should try scaring this bunch to death?’
‘No, you idiot. I’m saying we should use music. That’s culture-specific, isn’t it?’
‘Not really. You can hear Michael Jackson anywhere.’
‘Make it even more specific then. How old is Docherty? What sort of music does he like?’
‘He’s about forty-five. If he likes rock, then it would probably be the sixties stuff he grew up with…’
‘That would be perfect. Salih is almost twenty years younger, so the chances are he wouldn’t recognize it.’
‘Sounds good. But what sort of song has the word “eleven” in it?’
‘God knows. But…’ Stoneham’s face lit up. ‘I’ve got it. Remember the song “In the Midnight Hour”?’ He sung the first line softly – ‘“Gonna wait till the midnight hour…” We can put the op back an hour.’
‘Maybe,’ Brierley agreed, grinning in spite of himself. ‘But what if Docherty’s an opera freak and Salih’s got a huge collection of American soul records back in Bradford. And how the hell do we find a copy of the record in Samarkand, or are you planning to sing it at the top of your voice?’
‘Don’t quibble,’ Stoneham said. ‘These are all mountable obstacles, as my grandad used to say whenever my grandma let him watch Charlie’s Angels.’
It was early in the afternoon when the call came through to Dave Medwin. He heard the request, and asked for an explanation, but none was forthcoming. Salih’s sister was the best bet, he decided, and reached for the phone.
‘Is there any more news?’ she asked, after he’d identified himself.
‘Not that I know of,’ he told her.
‘Then what…’
‘This may sound like a daft question,’ Medwin said, ‘but can you tell me what Martin’s musical tastes are? And were.’
In Hereford, meanwhile, Barney Davies was phoning round the men who had seen serious service with Docherty. He eventually got what he wanted from Razor Wilkinson.
&n
bsp; The Londoner’s old Platoon Commander was apparently more than a little partial to Motown. ‘You know what Scots are like – if they don’t have a strong beat they lose concentration when they’re dancing, and they fall over,’ Razor told the Regimental CO, before it occurred to him that the original request for information was somewhat unusual. He found it even more upsetting when Barney Davies refused to tell him anything more.
In London, MI6 had dispatched a secretary to Denmark Street in a taxi, and her fifteen-minute search through several shops finally turned up sheet music for both ‘In the Midnight Hour’ and – another Stoneham contribution – Gladys Knight & The Pips’ ‘Midnight Train to Georgia’. These were then faxed via the British Embassy in Tashkent to the NSS building in Samarkand, where a young Uzbek music student was waiting with his tenor saxophone.
Darkness had fallen in the world outside, but to those entombed in the crypt the coming of night showed only on their watches. The single bare light-bulb gave off its meagre glow, aided and abetted by the light filtering down through the open doorway at the top of the steps.
The atmosphere was better than it had been a couple of hours earlier, offering new confirmation of the old adage that, given enough time, it was possible to get used to just about anything. All ten of them had played the alphabet film game, and had followed it up with a biographical Twenty Questions. Alice Jennings had survived her twenty as Amelia Earhart, but Mike Copley’s Tamerlane had just fallen at the third. It was in the middle of Brenda Walker’s ‘dead, female and not English’ that Sharon Copley first noticed the sound of distant music.
Once she had picked it up, the others strained to do the same. Some could, some couldn’t – it was very faint. Docherty suggested they move around the crypt in search of the best reception, and they all did so, feeling rather silly, like adults playing a children’s game.
But it worked. For some strange reason the acoustics were best in the unlikeliest of positions – deep inside the alcove behind the stone steps. It was a single instrument that was being played, a brass instrument of some sort. And the tune was one that Docherty, both Copleys and Elizabeth Ogley recognized immediately: ‘In the Midnight Hour’.
Samarkand Hijack Page 23