‘How would I get Zac out?’ he muttered, taking care as he sat down once more that the gorilla wasn’t behind him. ‘I’m not entirely sure. It depends a little on you.’
‘I keep telling you,’ the mother spat, ‘we are not the Taliban!’ But already her tone had changed. She was no longer leading the discussion but was staring at Bektour in the manner of an old lioness who had lost her position in the pride. She was hurt, and more than a little afraid.
‘That’s the point,’ Harry said, ‘we don’t need the Taliban or any army. If there’s any commotion, let alone any shooting, it’s over.’
The gorilla returned, but this time only to place a fresh glass of beer in front of him. Harry accepted it as an offer of conciliation and took a sip. It tasted as if it had passed through a goat.
‘It’s not just a matter of getting him out of the prison, you see, we’ve also got to get him out of the country,’ Harry continued. ‘He doesn’t stand a chance if the security forces are put on alert. Everything has to be done quietly. No explosions. No guns. No violence. We’re not trying to do a remake of The Dirty Dozen.’ A fresh spasm of pain surged through his stomach. It didn’t seem to appreciate the beer, either.
‘So where would we come in?’ Bektour asked, pulling his hair back from his face, his eyes alert, expectant.
‘You have people on the inside.’
‘How do you know that?’ the mother hissed in suspicion.
‘You knew I was there this morning, with Sydykov. You must have friends working there.’
Bektour took a sip from his own glass and replaced it very carefully on his beer mat, lining up other beer mats in a row beside it, everything very neat. It seemed to be his way. ‘And what if we did?’
‘We need local knowledge. Intelligence – information, as you put it. Look, I know I was shown only a small part of the prison this morning. Useful, but not enough. I need to know precisely where Zac is, and how to get to him, what sort of security system they have, details of the inspections, that sort of thing. The Castle isn’t Guantánamo Bay, it’s old, decrepit, not up to date. From what I saw they have very old-fashioned locks, only a very small CCTV system, and the guards all seemed to be the kind who are a bit dozy by the middle of the night. Timing will be everything.’
‘You could have all the time in the world and it wouldn’t serve any purpose,’ the mother said. ‘Your friend is in the Extreme Punishment Wing – in the basement. You talk about locks, but you don’t even know where the door is.’
‘We may be in luck.’ Harry reached into a pocket and pushed his mobile phone across the table to Bektour. ‘Can you read the photos on this?’
‘But of course,’ the young man said. Within moments he had produced a laptop, into which he plugged the phone with its camera, and soon they were viewing the images Harry had surreptitiously captured that morning in the governor’s office.
‘Zoom in – right there!’ Harry instructed, jabbing a finger at the screen.
The wall chart from the governor’s office came into ever-closer focus. Staring out at them was a detailed plan of every floor of the prison.
‘You expect just to walk in and out?’ the mother said, incredulous, cutting through the shimmer of excitement.
‘Easier than tunnelling, I suppose.’
‘Nobody has escaped from the Castle in four years,’ she protested. ‘The last man to try was caught less than five hours later, wetting himself in the back of his mother’s wardrobe. He was never seen again. This is a small country, Mr Jones. It’s not easy to find a place to hide.’
‘I can get him out of the country if you’ll help me get him out of the prison. How did the last man do it?’
‘Through the sewers. In that part of the town they are old, large, almost the height of a man,’ the man with the moustache said. The others were listening, too.
‘But now they are blocked with bars,’ the mother interrupted. ‘No one can get out that way again!’
‘We won’t be breaking out, not at first. We’ll be breaking in. They won’t be expecting that,’ Harry replied.
The mother – one of the men called her Benazir – sat chewing the inside of her cheek with exasperation, yet for the moment she seemed to have run out of further objections.
‘If we can get him out,’ Harry continued, ‘we’ll have shown that Karabayev and his gang are vulnerable. And also that they are liars. Through Zac we’ll be able to show the world what they’re up to. The biggest propaganda victory you’ve ever had. Think about that!’ His finger was pounding the table in emphasis. ‘They’ll lose every friend in the West, put all the aid they rely on at risk. They’ll come under enormous pressure. I’m in a position to arrange that. It might just change the whole deal here in Ta’argistan.’
‘It could end with a massive clampdown and our heads nailed to Karabayev’s door,’ Benazir retaliated.
It was Bektour who spoke next, his words slow, delivered with remarkable restraint for a man so young. ‘The Berlin Wall, the Soviet empire itself, was pulled down not by bombs and missiles but by people. Ordinary men and women who decided they’d had enough. Many of them were no younger than me. Isn’t that what Father told me, just before they took him? He always said there had to be a better way, one worth taking risks for.’
‘I lost your father, Bektour, I will not lose you!’ It was a cry of anguish, and she looked round at them all, her eyes beseeching support, but no one spoke.
‘Give me one man on the inside, and we could handle it,’ Harry said softly.
‘We can give you two,’ Bektour whispered. ‘Isn’t that right, Mother?’
But her eyes were closed, her head hanging in defeat.
‘You’ll need more than simply a couple of doors opening on the inside, Mr Jones. If he’s spent any time in the Punishment Wing, your friend will be dead weight. You won’t be able to manage him on your own,’ Bektour said.
Benazir moaned softly.
‘I shall be with you,’ her son continued.
‘No!’ she gasped.
‘Me, too,’ the gorilla said.
‘Thank you,’ Harry replied, then he paused. ‘There’s one other thing . . .’
‘Yes?’ Bektour asked.
‘I said that timing was crucial. I’m sorry, but it has to be done tomorrow night.’
‘Tomorrow?’ Even Bektour spluttered in surprise. ‘God help us.’
‘My delegation leaves in two days. I can’t stay longer.’
‘You clearly don’t want us dying of boredom, do you?’ the young man replied, tugging at his hair.
His mother looked up. There were tears on her cheeks. Her eyes were filled with pain for her son, yet as they settled upon Harry, he saw nothing but pure, liquid hate.
CHAPTER SIX
They spent the night crowded round the table, the limp beer replaced by dark coffee, trying to construct a plan. They were joined by others, summoned by telephone, while the man with the moustache disappeared for more than an hour and returned with two men who, judging from their raw eyes, had been dragged from their beds. Prison officers, their friends within the Castle who had spotted Harry on his earlier visit.
For Harry to have any chance of success he needed equipment, information and a whole load of luck, yet the most vital ingredient of all was time, and of that he had almost none. They pored over the governor’s floor plans, ordered more coffee, scratched out diagrams across paper napkins and on spare envelopes, while Harry tried to devise a way in, and a way out. All the while Benazir, the mother, hovered miserably in the background.
The officers from the prison had the toughest time. Harry took one to another alcove and grilled him. When he had finished complaining about his interrupted sleep Harry interrogated him about alarm systems, about locks and inspections, and in particular about the timings of the guards’ patrols, along with all their comings, goings, shortcuts and idle habits. Then he did it all over again with the other guard, looking for inconsistencies. He had to gain a
picture of the Castle, one that he was able to fit alongside what he had seen that morning.
As the hours raced by, Harry built a plan, revised it, reconsidered it, then came back to where he had started. It couldn’t be much of a plan, not in the circumstances, but it was based on one crucial piece of information: the sewer. It was the only access point that might not be guarded. When he put it to the prison officers, they merely sucked on their cigarettes and shrugged. Perhaps.
Harry also needed a team, men with muscle, but when Bektour tried to persuade the officers to be their guides through the labyrinth, neither was willing to take the risk. Perhaps his mother’s reluctance was proving infectious. It wasn’t just their jobs at stake, they explained, but their necks, and those of their families, too, and their attitudes made it clear they thought the plan belonged where it started, in the sewer. Yet despite this setback, hour by hour, man by man, a team was built. Equipment was identified, men sent out into the night to forage, to beg and borrow, to steal if necessary, but the one thing they couldn’t find was more time. Harry had to be back in the hotel; if he was missed, it would be over. They hadn’t finished their preparations, was still little more than fragments, but it would have to be enough.
It was almost first light, grey fingers of dawn stretching from beyond the mountains, when Harry sneaked his way back in. The old woman was asleep in her chair, steadily snoring. He slipped into his room without disturbing her. He found Martha asleep in his bed, waiting. She was lying half-covered by the rumpled duvet, her dressing gown twisted. If her dress sense was usually a little too brash for Harry’s taste, her sense of undress was from a different world. The skin of her exposed breast was pale, with a cascade of freckles falling gently from her neck. He found it inspiring, even in his exhausted condition. He sat down on the bed beside her. She opened a sleepy eye and yawned.
‘Dirty stop-out,’ she muttered. Then she noticed her exposed breast. ‘I could get you locked up for this.’
‘I’m sure Major Sydykov would be happy to oblige.’
Calmly and without undue haste, she covered herself.
‘Martha, I need a very big favour.’
‘Oh, you dreary, predictable man,’ she said, sitting up in bed and adjusting the pillows. ‘Can’t you come up with something a little more original?’
The adrenalin that had been sustaining him through the night was now rapidly fading and he found himself desperately weary; he hadn’t slept properly for many nights and this past night not at all. ‘I think we can do it,’ he said, ‘but it all rather depends on you. Sydykov and his chums do everything by numbers, you see, they’ve no bloody imagination. And it’s those numbers we’ve got to rely on.’
‘Hang on, Harry, you’re not making much sense.’ She leant across and switched on the bedside radio. ‘Come here and tell me if this big favour you want of me is any more interesting than the one Roddy Bowles suggested.’
They made it down to breakfast, a little late. Malik was sitting in a corner on his own, reading, and there was no sign of Sid Proffit. Roddy Bowles was at a side table with Sydykov, and his eyes followed them like shadows all the way across the room. He smiled, too broadly.
‘Morning, you two.’ He had the knack of making an ordinary greeting sound like an indictment. ‘Glad you’re up.’ That moist wriggle of the lips once more. ‘We’ve got a small change of plan to discuss. Get some breakfast, I’ll join you in a minute.’ He went back to talking with Sydykov.
By the time he sidled over, Martha and Harry had got their food. Her meal was light, like a sparrow, all nuts and berries, while Harry had a plate loaded with calories. He thought he might need them. Uninvited, Bowles drew up a chair.
‘Look, we’ve rejigged things a little,’ he announced. ‘They’ve managed to open up the road to the hydroelectric project and from their point of view it’s an important part of this trip. Just the sort of infrastructure project we ought to be encouraging. So we’re going up there this afternoon. It’ll mean us staying there overnight, but otherwise we keep to the rest of our schedule.’
Tonight? Martha froze. It couldn’t be. What streak of wretched fortune was this? Up in his room, Harry had just spent the best part of the last hour explaining that this was to be the night . . .
Beneath the table, Harry nudged her shin. ‘Sounds like a good idea, Roddy,’ he said, taking control. ‘When do we leave?’
‘Back here for a quick lunch after our morning visits, then pack our bags and off we go.’
‘Fair enough. I’ve wanted to see that plant, and I think by then we’ll have had enough bloody lectures, don’t you?’
‘Excellent. And it’ll keep that old idiot Sid Proffit out of the reach of temptation. Went off on the prowl last night, apparently.’
‘Good lord.’
‘Silly bugger. Said that the beer had given him wind so he needed to find a proper drink. Preferably served by improper women.’
‘What was it, a pole-dancing club?’
‘Without the poles. They don’t encourage such things in these parts.’
‘Sly old dog.’ Harry couldn’t hide a hint of admiration. Seventy-two and still not giving a damn.
‘And now chained to the kennel. If he goes wandering tonight he’ll freeze his bloody balls off, I tell you. And come to mention it, Harry, you’re looking a little grim around the gills – as if you’ve been up all night, too. Weren’t out on the tiles with Sid, were you?’
Bowles leered, suggestively. Harry responded with a sigh and pushed his plate away. ‘Got to admit, I am feeling a little rough. Bit of an upset stomach. Was hoping a good breakfast might fix it, but . . .’ He smiled, wanly. ‘It’s a touch of jet lag, nothing more.’
‘You sure?’ Bowles replied, casting an eye on Martha in the hope of discovering signs of some compromising blush.
‘I’ll be fine,’ Harry reassured him.
‘You OK with the new plan, Martha?’ Bowles asked.
‘Last delegation you led, Roddy – to Berlin, wasn’t it?
I understand some of the members spent every single night in dubious clubs. I heard one even ended up needing treatment for flesh wounds. To his buttocks. A hydroelectric plant’s got to be safer.’
‘Good. Well, er . . .’ Bowles muttered, searching for a riposte that eluded him. ‘I’ll see you later.’
They watched his odious figure retreat until he had sat down at his own table once more. ‘Does he know?’ Martha whispered in alarm to Harry.
‘Roddy? No. Not Sydykov, either. He only suspects.’
‘But how?’
‘He’s a policeman. He suspects everyone.’
‘What the hell are we going to do, Harry?’
‘You’re going to look at me in the manner of a concerned mother hen, then put your hand on my brow. Check if I’ve got a fever.’
‘And have you?’
‘Only when I start thinking about you in that dressing gown.’
Harry threw up, right on cue, directly over the wheel of their minibus.
They’d spent the morning with the Minister for Transport and Communications, during which Roddy had shown himself surprisingly well briefed and had grown very enthusiastic, dominating most of the discussion. Nobody objected, certainly not Sid Proffit, who joined them late and sat looking morose. Then it had been Trade. The minister, through a torrent of fractured English and mind-numbing statistics, had explained the plight of the country since the Soviets had left, taking most of their sweetheart trade deals with them.
‘In Soviet time,’ he had declared forlornly, ‘we had many favourable situations. Our munitions factory worked at full capacity, making bullets for Kalashnikovs. Now output is only ten per cent of what it once was. A tragedy. So sad.’
It was as they were leaving that Harry leaned against the bonnet of their vehicle and vomited. He’d been quiet all morning, like a wounded bear, then as the time came for them to leave he had rushed out, put his head down and brought up what little of his breakfast he ha
d been able to eat. No one saw the two fingers down the back of his throat that had forced the issue. Martha ran over to him, full of concern, followed at a more cautious pace by Bowles and Sydykov.
‘I thought you were sickening for something,’ Bowles said.
‘Sorry,’ Harry muttered, wiping his mouth with his handkerchief.
‘It is not the food,’ Sydykov insisted, clearly feeling the need to defend his nation’s honour.
‘No,’ Harry replied, peering up through weeping eyes, ‘I think I picked up a bug. There’s a lot of them doing the rounds in London.’
The Ta’argi seemed relieved. ‘We will get you back to your hotel.’
‘Yes, thanks. Don’t think I’ll be up to travelling this afternoon. Sorry, Roddy.’ His chest heaved again, threatening a repeat performance, and Bowles took a rapid step backwards.
‘I think I’ll stay with him,’ Martha declared, ‘just in case it’s a bug.’
‘I shall get a doctor,’ Sydykov said, staring into Harry’s tearful eyes.
‘No need,’ Harry whispered limply. ‘All I want is a little rest.’
‘Oh, but I insist. I do insist. We can’t take risks with someone like you, Mr Jones,’ Sydykov said, taking Harry’s arm and guiding him into the bus.
Forty minutes later the doctor summoned to the hotel room by Sydykov examined Harry’s grey complexion and bloodshot eyes. This wasn’t a part of the world where health services or medical diagnosis were particularly refined; he wasn’t to know these symptoms were merely the result of exhaustion. He prodded his patient’s stomach, found it undeniably sore, still suffering from the blow of the gorilla’s fist. The doctor prescribed codeine and bed rest. It was also agreed that, unless his condition improved, it would make sense for Harry to get the next flight home, at six the following morning. Sydykov came up with the suggestion himself; in fact, he all but insisted. The pieces, in the haphazard manner of all such things, began to fall into place. Martha said she would stay to monitor Harry’s progress and, if necessary, accompany him home. There was no need for the rest of them to have their plans disrupted.
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