They woke to a still, brilliant morning and breakfasted with the windows open so that they could relish the freshness of the rain-rinsed air. The telephone rang while they were eating. Nigel’s father answered it, listened for a while and said “I think that should be possible. Hold on a moment.”
He cupped his hand over the mouthpiece and said “It’s the President’s secretary. Apparently this is only a break in the storm but there would be time for us to fly up to the hunting-lodge now and then stay an extra night so that you can see the fish-owls tomorrow. Back by mid-day Monday. OK with you two? Great.… Hello. Sorry to keep you. Yes we can certainly do that. It’s very generous of the President to suggest it … Right, we’ll be ready. Good bye … Well, we’re going to have to get a wiggle on. There isn’t much of a window. A car will be coming to fetch us in three quarters of an hour.”
Three helicopters were waiting side by side in the rain-washed courtyard of the palace. The two smaller ones were painted purple, green and gold, the colours of the Dirzhani flag. In the glittering sunlight they looked like expensive toys compared to the big drab military chopper beyond them. The President, with Taeela at his side, was waiting in front of them. Two lines of uniformed soldiers were drawn up to one side. Some of them were women.
“All very formal, by the looks of it,” muttered Nigel’s father as the car slowed. “I’ll go first and hand you out, Lou, and introduce you to the President. You just tag along, Niggles.”
It all went smoothly. Taeela curtseyed neatly but shyly to Nigel’s mother when they were introduced. Then they separated into the helicopters strictly by gender, Nigel’s mother and Taeela and three woman soldiers in one of the smaller ones, Nigel with his father and the President and three of the men in the other, and the rest of the guards in the big chopper.
Nigel had been in helicopters before, but never as luxurious as this. There was a big comfortable seat either side of the aisle in the front two rows of the cabin and more normal seats for the three soldiers behind. The President and Nigel’s father took the first two and Nigel settled into the one behind his father and put on his padded headphones. The engine woke with a roar, the rotor doubled the clatter and the palace floated away beneath them. He found a station playing an odd sort of ethno-rap and cocooned himself in solitariness. Soon he could see on his right the last of last night’s storm as a dramatic layer of darkness, edged with brilliant silver, blotting out the northern mountains. On the other side the next instalment was already massing on the horizon.
For a while he watched the landscape sliding away beneath them. They were following the line of the river valley, almost due west to judge by the position of the sun. A guard came round with drinks and Dirzhani-style nibbles. He was hesitating over the drinks when the President twisted in his chair and pointed at a flask. The yellow-green fluid was cold, oily, and sweetish, with a dry aftertaste that made you want to sip again. Good choice, he thought. Typical. He doesn’t miss anything.
Dazed with the luxurious comfort and the steady drub of the rotor and the remains of jet-lag he wasn’t aware of falling asleep, but then woke with a start to find that the sun had moved dramatically and was now almost directly behind them, which meant the river must have swung north-west. This looked as if it was just as well. At this new angle he could see that if they had continued along the previous line it wouldn’t have been long before they’d run into the advancing storm. Even as it was, it seemed to be coming surprisingly fast.
It was difficult to look away. In the seat across the aisle from the President he could see his father watching it too. The music in the headphones was replaced by the President’s voice asking a question, and one of the pilots answering. The President gave orders and switched to English.
“There has been a forecasting error. The storm system appears to have changed course. It is now too late to turn back. Our best course is to descend into the comparative shelter of the gorge a little way ahead, where we could travel faster, but at the risk of encountering unpredictable gusts. If we continue as we are we will not reach the landing pad before the full force of the storm is on us. Going by the gorge we have a better chance, and if we fail to make it we should at least be over the lake, where we can ditch in …”
The rest of the sentence was lost as the helicopter gave a violent lurch and the roar of the rotor rose to a bellow, almost deafening despite the ear-muffs. As it died away he continued.
“We must prepare for a forced landing. Ambassador, please signal to me whether you both know the emergency posture … Good. Your life jacket is inside your left armrest. There is a small-size one for Nigel. Put them on but do not inflate them. A guard will come round with a waterproof bag for each of you. Put in it anything that might spoil in water, and give it back to the guard with anything that might impede your exit. Keep your seat fully erect and your seatbelt close fastened.
“Please do not worry about Mrs Ridgwell. She and my daughter are in no greater danger than we are. My guards are an elite squad, the women especially. I will keep you informed of any further developments.”
By now seriously scared, Nigel found his life-jacket, put it on and laced it firm, then sorted out stuff to give to the guard and tucked it into his back-pack. The helicopter lurched again and put its nose down. Nigel readied himself for the safety drill, but it levelled and fought its way on, though now barely above the tops of the dense-packed trees on either side of the river. A shaft of lightning glared close by, forcing his eyes shut, and all other noises were drowned by the bellow of its thunder. By the time he could see again they were well below the tree-tops.
He was moving into a crouch, ready for a landing in the river when he realised that it wasn’t that they were still descending but that the trees were now growing from fissured yellow-grey cliffs that rose sheer from the water. The helicopter was bouncing like a 4 x 4 riding rough ground. With his heart pounding and his palms slippery he watched the cliffs stagger past, with the tumbling water spuming along below.
Leaning forward he could see his father gnawing his knuckles as he stared out at the cliff. That makes two of us, he thought. Then something seemed to seize hold of the helicopter, tilt it to the left and at the same time fling it towards the right hand cliff. He huddled into the emergency posture. The racket of the rotor arms rose to a battering roar. Instinct closed his eyes against the flying splinters of impact.
It didn’t happen. He forced them open and watched the cliff recede as the tilt of the machine clawed it clear. Lightning blinked and blinked again. He sat back up shuddering with relief. Never in his life had he been this scared. Across the aisle his father leaned out round the back of his chair with a stiff grin on his face and raised a thumb. Nigel signalled back no more convincingly. Time passed, unbelievably slowly, until the President’s voice, as calm as ever, came through the headphones again.
“I have been in touch with the other two machines. They have had to drop back clear of our turbulence, but are making good progress. In about ten minutes we will be over the lake.”
The helicopter bounced on. Any moment he’d be needing a sick-bag. Just in time, the ride eased. The cliffs either side receded and they were over open water. Out of the right-hand windows, across the aisle, he could see the shoreline, a narrow band of tumbled boulders and above that a forested slope rising to a craggy ridge, and way beyond that mountains, with the massed clouds of the earlier storm piling against their peaks, and the sluicing rain below.
He turned the other way and saw that the gusts that had been buffeting them to and fro were only the outriders of the next instalment of the storm. That had almost reached the shoreline, a heavy cloud-mass riddled with lightning blinks and bearing below it an impenetrable curtain of rain. In the brief lull before its onset the helicopters were racing for the landing place.
The President was talking to the pilots again. He switched to English. “We are unlikely to arrive at the pad before the rain reaches us, and in any case a dry-ground landing in this win
d would be extremely dangerous in fully laden machines. There is a sheltered wharf a few hundred metres below the pad. You can both swim …? We will jump from the helicopter as near to the wharf as we can safely hover. Two soldiers will go first to help us ashore, then you, Nigel, you, ambassador, and myself. The remaining soldier will follow. The pilots will endeavour to land the helicopter at the pad, and if they judge it too dangerous will return and ditch and then swim ashore. Take nothing with you that will impede your exit. If the machine is forced to ditch we will salvage it later. Do not inflate your lifebelt until you are standing at the door and ready to jump.”
They flew joltingly on over the churning water until the rain hit them. It was as if the helicopter had flown into something solid. A clattering crash, a violent sideways slam, a stammer in the steady rotor-racket, a roar from the engines, a sense of falling …
Nigel crouched into emergency again and waited for the impact of splashdown, but the helicopter staggered on, its nose tilted downward. It couldn’t last. He remembered how frail it had looked compared to the hulking Sikorsky. Surely no machine ever built could take such a battering for long …
The movement changed, with the fuselage roughly level, but swaying erratically left and right. A soldier clawed his way past him. Then another. Me next, he thought. He straightened, felt for the belt-buckle and waited for the signal. The first soldier fiddled with a panel in the door and passed it to the second one, who slotted it into the seat across the aisle from Nigel. Inside the compartment it had covered was a large black rubbery package. The first soldier unfastened straps and heaved it clear for the other one to open the door. Rain sluiced in and a spume-laden gust buffeted round the cabin. The soldiers dragged the package to the doorway and tugged at a couple of toggles either side of it. It was already inflating as they shoved it through the opening.
The first soldier stepped into the doorway, paused for a moment judging the drop, and stepped out. The second one followed. Nigel unbuckled his seatbelt and rose as the remaining soldier brushed past him. The man reached the doorway, glanced out and down, and beckoned him forward. His father gave him a thumbs-up as he passed, and rose to follow. The nose of the helicopter bucked like a leaping salmon, flinging him backwards. A hand grabbed his elbow and stopped him falling.
“Thanks,” he gasped idiotically as the President hauled him up, not letting go till the soldier by the door had got hold of his other elbow and dragged him to the doorway. He copied what the first two men had done, gripping the doorposts either side and poising himself in the entrance with the rain swirling over him in the downdraught from the rotor.
Now that it was all happening the brainless terror seemed to leave him. He leaned out into the deluge. The inflated life-raft was a dark patch in the foaming turmoil below, with the soldiers either side of it holding it clear of the area where he’d fall. He drew a deep breath, checked the position of the toggle on the life-jacket and stepped firmly out, grabbing the toggle as he fell and yanking on it as he went under.
He rose gasping and shaking his head, trying to clear the water out of his eyes. He was already swimming when one of the soldiers reached him.
“I’m OK,” he shouted, before the man could start life-saving him. He struck out for the life-raft and grabbed one of the handholds around its side. When he looked up the President was already falling. The last soldier paused in the doorway holding a big pistol-shaped object which he raised above his head and fired. He tucked it in under his jacket and stepped out. The helicopter lifted away and the flare the soldier had fired glowed above them in the downpour just as Nigel’s father reached the life-raft.
“Well done, Niggles,” he gasped. “All right?”
“So far.”
The President joined them and waited to get his breath back, then spoke, not shouting but loud enough to be heard above the clamour of wind and water.
“Will you now swim for the shore. The wharf is a few tens of metres away downwind. One of the men will lead the way, another will stay with you in case you need help. A large inflatable is on its way out to pick up Mrs Ridgwell and my daughter. I will stay here with the remaining man and wait for them.”
Led by the soldier they started to swim. It was hard work, and impossible to tell whether they were making any progress at all. From time to time he lost sight of the others but then the wave swept past and they were there again. Something loomed through the murk, a dark shape on the water. The soldier ahead stopped swimming to wave his arms, yelling at the top of his voice. The shape veered aside and bucketed past, a fair-sized inflatable with a crew of four.
They swam on. Another dark thing loomed, too large for any kind of boat, and steady in the storm. A few more strokes and Nigel could see the waves foaming along the foot of a stone wall. No possible landing on that, though there were figures on top of it, pointing and shouting as they saw the swimmers. The soldier led the way to the right, round the end of the pier and into calmer water. Several men were lined up against the stonework on the timber steps that ran up the side of the wall, the lowest waist deep in the water. The soldier moved aside, and waved Nigel on.
The man in the water reached out as he came, took him by the arm and helped him stagger up to the next man, and so on up the steps. Even the ones standing clear of the water were drenched with rain and spray, but they grinned cheerfully at him as they handed him on. His leg muscles were like jelly. Someone at the top tried to help him towards a big Humvee but he shook him off and turned and watched his father climb the steps, looking tired and shaky, and as glad as Nigel had been of the helping hand on his arm.
“Well done, Niggles. All right? Not Lucy’s idea of a good time.”
“How long till she gets here?”
“Not too long. The inflatable will be quicker than we were.”
“Sirs wait in auto?” said one of the men. “Hotting is on.”
“Good idea,” said Nigel’s father. “Come on, Niggles. We’ll perish in this wind.”
Nigel realised that he was shuddering with cold as he stumbled along the wharf. The Humvee’s windows were one-way glass, reflecting the light. The man waiting beside it, as drenched as all the others, helped them out of their life-jackets and saluted smartly as he held the door for them.
“Thanks,” Nigel mumbled, and scrambled into the lovely fug. His father squelched down beside him on the expensive leather, rubbed his sleeve up and down the fogged window and peered out.
“They’ll be all right, Niggles,” he muttered. “These people know what they’re doing. There goes their chopper. Those pilots are brave men. Maybe it’ll be a bit easier with the rest of us out of the machines.
“Wait … there’s Lucy …”
All of a sudden Nigel was weeping. Furious, he dragged his sopping sleeve across his face.
“And the President …” said his father. “Where’s the girl?… Oh, he’s got her. Looking like she did this sort of thing every day of the week … Two, three more women in life-jackets. That’ll be the guards. How many were there in the chopper?”
“Three, I think.”
“That’s it, then. God, that’s a relief!”
From the break in his voice Nigel realised that he was weeping too.
CHAPTER 6
The bath was ready and waiting when Nigel had stumbled into his suite. An anxious old man called Drogo had shown him to the bathroom and told him by signs and a smattering of English to leave his clothes by the door, then nipped in and removed them as soon as Nigel’s body was decently submerged.
He lay in the lovely warmth, listening to the come-and-go battering of rain against the window and the drum-rolls of thunder, and letting the life tingle back into his dead-meat muscles and the shock and panic drift away into the sweet-scented steam, until he heard a knock on the bathroom door.
“Your case is in your room, sir,” said a man’s voice. “The President will be ready to receive you in twenty minutes. I shall come and fetch you.” The man’s English was pretty goo
d but with a strong accent.
“Fine,” called Nigel. “I’ll be ready.”
His bedroom was twice the size of his parents’ room at the embassy, with gleaming panelled walls, paintings of lakes and mountains, a log fire blazing in the grate and a faint odour of scented smoke. He dressed luxuriously in front of it, then watched the storm until he heard a knock on the door.
He had barely looked at the hunting lodge when they’d staggered in from the lake. He’d had an impression of a long, low wooden building, big as several barns, vaguely seen through the downpour, and then a lot of shiny wood inside.
His parents’ room was next to his on a landing at the top of a gleaming stairway. The man who had knocked—dark, stocky, black suit, purple tie, white shirt, white gloves—watched impassively as Nigel ran and hugged his mother, both of them laughing with the final release of tension. He gave them about twenty seconds, then coughed and waited for them to let go of each other.
“The President sends his regrets,” he said. “He has been called away. The Khanazhana will receive you in the luncheon room. Please to follow me.”
Taeela was standing at the window looking out at the swirling veils of rain and the storm-tossed trees. She turned as they entered and curtseyed, much more confidently this time, to Nigel’s mother.
“My father is called out,” she said. “The Sikorski is found at where the lake empties down the gorge. Our men radioed how they see it across the water on some rocks.”
“Good lord!” said Nigel’s mother. “Do they know about the men who were in it?”
“They make signals, but it is hard to see in the rain. My father has gone to see what is to be done. He is sorry to leave you. These are his people. He must look after them. Now we will eat. I hope you are hungry.”
In the Palace of the Khans Page 7
