The Reluctant Hero (2 page)

The Right Honourable Henry Marmaduke Maltravers-Jones, M.P., P.C., G.C. and Guest
, the formal invitation had said. The Guest, in the decorative form of Bernice, a sports marketing consultant, now sat beside him as the taxi drew close to their destination. Winfield House was the official residence of the US Ambassador to London, set in a dozen acres of parkland in the heart of the capital. It had been built by Barbara Hutton, that elegant yet troubled heiress to the Woolworths empire who had been in search of a retreat far away from the pressures of home; a dozen acres of land on the other side of the Atlantic that were patrolled by the Royal Parks Constabulary seemed to offer an ideal solution. The house hadn’t had an easy birth; the officials of the Crown Estate wanted Ms Hutton to use grey brick, she had insisted on red. Solid British bureaucracy versus the mobile might of American money. The dollar won, of course, and in 1937 Winfield House had risen, in defiant blushing tones, from the rich earth of Regent’s Park and was greeted by everyone as a splendid addition. The dream was not to last. Eight years, two failed marriages and a whole world war later, Ms Hutton had grown distracted, her mind and heart elsewhere, so she had offered the house to the US government. The lease
changed hands for the sum of one dollar. The way the London housing market was headed, it might not fetch much more even now.

The taxi drew to a halt at the entrance gates. A US Marine resplendent in his high-collared dress blues bent to inspect the invitation card that was handed through the window. The interior light glittered off the eagle and anchor insignia of his cap badge. ‘Welcome, Mr Maltravers-Jones,’ the young marine said, as a colleague in the sentry box confirmed Harry’s name on a guest list. ‘Happy New Year, sir!’

Harry winced. ‘Yeah, you too,’ he replied as the taxi passed into the tree-lined driveway that led to the main entrance.

‘Why, Harry, darling, I knew you were quite a mouthful, but not a Maltravers-Jones,’ Bernice said, giggling.

‘Henry Marmaduke Maltravers-Jones,’ he sighed in explanation. ‘Hardly the last thing you want voters to see before they place their mark on a ballot paper, is it? Not when I’m supposed to be a man of the people.’

‘It seems I scarcely know you,’ she said coquettishly, trying to brush aside his dark mood. She stood six foot tall in her heels and was delightful company, both in and out of his bed, where she had visited frequently and increasingly regularly in the past four months, but even as she laughed in his ear and squeezed his thigh, Harry knew their relationship was over. He was still having difficulty explaining that one to himself, and
only God knew how he’d manage to explain it to her. He couldn’t find fault; Bernice had freckles, and fingers that could squeeze the most breathless sounds from a violin. She did much the same with Harry, too, yet inevitably she wanted more. Most women in their mid-thirties did. She wanted more than his bed, she wanted the man himself, and Harry was wealthy, exceptionally well connected, a soldier turned politician, with so many letters after his name she still hadn’t worked out what they all meant, a man with grey eyes and a body that was remarkably well toned for someone in his forties. And, if it also carried a considerable number of searingly outspoken scars, it only added to his allure in her eyes. Oh, and he was unattached. The perfect package. She snuggled closer.

As they climbed from the taxi, waiting on the steps that led to the large double doors of the ambassador’s residence was a short, stocky man dressed in livery with not a hair to be found on his polished black head. ‘Evening, Mr Jones,’ he declared, his words condensing in the cold air. His hand reached out. Most guests simply handed across their coats, Harry shook it warmly.

‘How are things, Jimmy?’

‘Can’t complain,’ the other man responded in a husky voice that carried an easy Southern lilt. ‘Still got a job. Times like these, that’s sure a blessing. And one that gets me to see all the fine ladies first. Evening, miss.’

‘Take care, Bernice,’ Harry warned as they were ushered inside, ‘former Master Sergeant Jimmy Jackson was US Airborne.’

‘Which means?’

‘Not a man to mess with. Or take for granted.’

‘And there was me thinking you liked me only ‘cos I

know how to mix a drink, Mr Jones.’

‘I guess there is that, too,’ Harry smiled, before turning back to Bernice. ‘Jimmy and I first met – what, twenty years ago? In the desert. I’d just dragged an Iraqi intelligence colonel from his bed, but it turned out he had lots of friends who took an instant dislike to me. Jimmy here took care of them. Came all the way to the outskirts of Baghdad to do it.’

‘Hell, when we first got that shout I thought it was just a pizza delivery,’ Jimmy responded.

‘That particularly deep voice he has, the one so many women find irresistible, is in fact the consequence of a bullet in the neck that Jimmy took that night. It was meant for me. Got himself a Purple Heart and a Silver Star for his troubles.’

‘Seem to remember you got yourself a few scratches, too.’

‘Did I?’

They were jousting, swapping shared memories, while Bernice was slowly beginning to understand the significance of some of the scars she had discovered on his body. ‘But . . .’ she began to stammer in surprise. ‘It sounds dreadful.’

‘You try delivering pizza in downtown Miami. It ain’t so very different,’ Jimmy said, taking her coat.

The two men laughed, in the manner of old friends, but Bernice’s mind was still back in the desert, under fire. ‘It never leaves you, does it, the times you soldiermen have together?’

‘No, miss. And I’m sure glad of it. Why, what’d we have to think back on in our old age if we’d been – I don’t know. Bankers?’

She moved closer to Harry, squeezed his arm. ‘Harry Jones, there’s so much I don’t seem to know about you,’ she said softly. She made it sound like a challenge, one she was more than willing to take up. She didn’t see the flicker in his eye.

Jimmy Jackson was more than merely a doorman, he was the ambassador’s personal valet and knew how to deal with many kinds of situations, those that stretched from amusing an ageing duchess to diverting aggressive drunks, and that ability also enabled him to know when the time had come to extract himself. This was one of those moments. ‘You folks have a fine evening. I’ll see y’all later. Fix you that drink,’ he said, turning for the cloakroom.

‘You better,’ Harry replied. ‘Feeling I’m going to need it.’

The bolt slid back uneasily in its track. As the door swung open, Prisoner 7217, Extreme Punishment Wing, stirred, rubbing his eyes, struggling to focus. He rolled
from his straw mattress, the only furniture in his stinking cell. It had been gnawed yet again by rats, but he took no notice. He had been here too long to care. He clambered to his knees.

It was many moments before he realized what was happening. It took time for everything nowadays, but that didn’t matter. Time was the only thing he had, yet it meant nothing. How long had he been here on the Punishment Wing? He had tried, in the early days, to keep track with scratchings on the mould-infested walls, but he’d been overcome by confusion after a couple of months as the mould grew back, so he had stopped. After that, he lost his grip on most things.

A voice penetrated the fog of confusion. ‘Mr Mayor,’ it greeted, almost jovially.

That was right, he remembered now. He was the mayor, from one of the towns twenty miles south of the capital. How considerate of the visitor to remember. This voice, this new man, stood beneath the single bare bulb that lit the cell, and the yellow light seemed to strip him of all humanity, making his appearance pale and ethereal, like – an angel. Or a ghost, perhaps. He’d called him Mr Mayor, not 7217. The prisoner remembered his number more clearly than his name. So much had been lost along the way.

The angel seemed to have read his thoughts. ‘Mr Mayor,’ it repeated, ‘I wanted you to know that I am a man of my word.’

Had he met this pale-faced apparition before? the
prisoner wondered. He couldn’t decide, every thought led to confusion. From the corner of his eye the prisoner saw something move, something dark, elusive, a rat, fleeing the disturbance. In the early days he had tried to block the holes in the damp stone walls with straw from the mattress and handfuls of hardened filth, but it had been pointless. There were too many holes, and just too many rats.

‘You remember? The promise I gave you, Mr Mayor?’ the angel continued.

Prisoner 7217 nodded fitfully, not meaning it. It had become his default response to anything they said.

‘I said you had no need to worry, that we would never execute a mayor.’

He looked up from all fours and nodded again, this time more purposefully. A memory came back, confirming what the angel had said. It was what had kept him going all this time.

The angel slowly pulled back the sleeve of his grey serge uniform and consulted his wristwatch. He smiled. ‘But in a few minutes, your term of office will be over. You will no longer be mayor.’

Yet again Prisoner 7217 nodded, his head drooping as he struggled with the weight of this new thought.

‘Happy New Year,’ the angel whispered. Then he turned and left.

In the great hallway of Winfield House, beneath crystal chandeliers that were reflected in huge gilt mirrors
hanging on three sides, the ambassador waited with his wife to greet their guests.

‘Why, Harry Jones. Welcome back to our little home,’ he exclaimed, his face lighting up. No one but a truly wealthy man could have called Winfield House a little home and got away with it, but David Bracken was one of those few. He was a tall, ascetic man who had made several fortunes in the information-technology sector and spent much of it wisely, some of it on the recent presidential re-election campaign. The post to the Court of St James’s had been his reward. Yet Harry quickly noticed that despite the splendour of the surroundings there was a muted atmosphere to the occasion. In previous years Harry could recall encountering many kinds of entertainments – a soprano from the New York Metropolitan Opera, rooms filled with life-sized Disney characters, an entire wall filled with tropical flowers. But now these flourishes were missing. And it was Californian chardonnay rather than champagne. The ambassador apologized. This was to be a modest affair, he explained, no extravagance, a subdued celebration to match the mood of such tightfisted times. He always carried a little frown of concern around with him and had always been regarded as the serious type, which was considerably more than could be said of his wife. In many people’s view she hadn’t proved to be one of his better investments.

‘Why, Harry,’ Sonia Bracken exclaimed, stretching up to peck his cheek and revealing more than a modest
mound of freckled flesh as her husband concentrated on greeting Bernice. ‘I haven’t seen you for such a long time.’

They both knew Harry had been avoiding her. The last time their paths had crossed, in an overheated seaside hotel during a political conference, she had made it abundantly clear how keen she was to do her bit for the Anglo-American alliance, and how willing she was to be both inventive and discreet about it. She’d muttered something about increasing the size of his majority. When Harry had declined her offer, she had taken umbrage, like any rejected woman, and now her eyes, once filled with lust, were as cold as uncut diamonds. ‘I’ve missed you,’ she lied, ‘but what’s this? Why, Harry,’ she said, carrying out a close inspection, ‘you have put on weight.’

Well, a couple of pounds, maybe, but that was none of her damned business. Anyway, he’d been busy – or, more accurately, distracted these past couple of months by . . . by what he wasn’t entirely sure. There seemed to be an emptiness that had crept into his life and neither his job, nor Bernice and certainly not the overflowing Sonia Bracken could fill it. Harry’s eyes dropped, first to the remarkable creation at her neck that he suspected had come straight from a showcase at Tiffany’s, then beyond, until they were loitering in the pink chasm between her over-sculpted breasts.

‘At least it’s all my own,’ he whispered, moving on.
Two guards dragged him from the cell. He stumbled, wasn’t able to walk properly, couldn’t lift his feet, he hadn’t used his legs in so long. He was confused, and afraid.

As he passed the other cells, Prisoner 7217 forced his head up. Through the narrow bars of the doors he saw the faces of other prisoners, grey, like dirty chalk, their eyes flooded with pity, and with fear, fixed upon him as they watched their own futures being dragged past. Their cracked lips fell open but they uttered not a sound.

He’d heard that men often fouled themselves when they died violently. It was one of many whispers that scuttled around with the rats. He prayed it was not true. He had a deep, almost animalistic desire to stand tall, to make a good death of it, for his family, and particularly for his son, Daniyar. Yet as he stumbled once more he ridiculed his own stupidity. A good death? What total shit! What in God’s name was he thinking of? It wouldn’t make any difference how he died, once he was dead.

As for his family, they would never know. His son was only five, wouldn’t even be able to recall his father’s life, let alone its end, a life that was nothing but a grain of wheat, blown by the passing wind.

Would there be pain? He’d often asked himself. Come to that, would there be anything at all? He wasn’t much of a believer, couldn’t pretend he expected to wake up in Paradise tended by several
dozen virgins, but he could hope, always hope, force back the liquid that was laying siege to his bowels and find something solid to cling to. He stamped his feet on the stone floor in anger until he could feel pain, shouting at them to work. He wasn’t going to be dragged any further. And as he levered himself upwards he gave a half-choked cry of triumph. Yes, it did matter how he died, not to anyone else but for himself. He was going to die as he hoped he had lived, cursing them all, defiant to the last.

He was scrabbling around inside his head, snatching at thoughts, images, grabbing at those things he knew for certain and which might give him something to lean on. He was aware of a long passage that lay ahead. The stones of the old walls were damp, uneven, the ancient light fittings casting lurid shadows that flickered darkly before him as he passed, then were gone, like life itself.