The Reluctant Hero (21 page)

The streets of Ashkek were dark and almost deserted as they headed for the suburbs. The crumbling monumental extravagance of the city centre soon gave way to more blatant poverty. Decaying houses were interspersed with hovels, the landscape held together with little more than corrugated iron and stray sheets of wooden panelling. Nothing was meant to last. Only dogs prowled the broken streets.

Eventually they turned off the highway and drove into the parking area of a truck-repair shop, out of sight
of the road. An empty taxi was waiting. With only a fleeting farewell to the faithful Aibeck they started off again, with Bektour driving, until they approached a complex of tall buildings that stood out against the night sky like the trees of a dead forest. These were apartment blocks, towering above everything else that stood around. In Soviet times these had been Moscow’s answer to the housing shortage, a micro-city, for worker ants. It had been built to a blueprint devised almost two thousand miles away in the Soviet capital that had handed down inflexible prescriptions for the most elementary details of the design, every leaking tap, every loose door knob, every faltering light switch, every corner of crumbling concrete. By order. Nothing seemed to have escaped the imagination of the bureaucrats, except how people could live in these conditions. Those who slept here were almost grateful for the work that required them to be elsewhere six days of every week. As the taxi drove past the dilapidated store sheds and garages that cowered in the shadow of these behemoths, plumes of rubbish leapt up behind them, dancing in the air before giving up the struggle and falling back to the frozen earth. Dogs barked at the disturbance. The taxi heaved as it fell down yet another pot hole. That’s where Bektour stopped.

They had drawn up outside Block 11-C. If that sounded like a factory complex, the comparison was not misplaced. The entrance door was dimly lit, its glass fractured. The stairwell that led from it was dampand smelled of cabbage. There was no lift, and as they climbed to the second floor, they found Bektour’s mother was waiting for them at an open door. She offered no word of greeting, nothing but a scowl, stepping back with a show of unblemished reluctance to allow them inside. Her apartment was no more than a single main room, with the barest of kitchens in one corner, bookshelves against one wall, a sofa bed against another and one solitary window that stared out into the darkness beyond. As they helped Zac inside, Benazir grew more distressed, as if at any moment she expected armed men to come charging up the stairs. She began an argument with Bektour, one they had clearly rehearsed before, and he brought it to a rapid end. She bit her tongue and stepped away, her face set and sullen.

They stripped Zac. Then Bektour and Mourat helped him into the miserable bathroom and attacked him with a hand-held shower, reviving him as they cleansed him, washing away the signs of their own immersion in the sewer while they were about it. They sat him on a stool, trimmed his hair, then he was shaved. Just as they finished, a gentle knock on the door announced the arrival of a doctor. He was elderly, a little stooped, seemed nervous, as though he wanted to be away. He made a rapid examination of Zac, who still had difficulty in standing and could do little more than mumble. The marks on Zac’s body further distressed the doctor, who muttered to himself.

Zac was chronically dehydrated. The doctor produced a hypodermic, filled it with a yellowy fluid, and stuck the needle in Zac’s arm; Zac didn’t flinch, he barely seemed to notice.

‘This man needs to be in hospital,’ the doctor said. ‘I don’t suppose . . .? No, well, give him as much to drink as he can take,’ he instructed, quickly repacking his bag. ‘Then give him some more.’ He made a final inspection of Zac’s pupils and pulse; the patient already seemed to be reviving. It was all he could do in the circumstances. With a quick word to Benazir, he disappeared the way he had come.

The doctor had injected glucagon, which poured glucose into the bloodstream, and after they had given Zac a drink of hot, sweet black tea, he began to show signs of improvement. Within a few minutes he was able to stand and give them a little help as they dressed him in a new set of clothes. Meanwhile, Benazir stationed herself at the window, repeatedly pulling back the curtain and glancing down anxiously at the street below. Mourat searched the apartment for signs of their presence – Zac’s stained clothes, his hair clippings, even the towels used to rub him down – and threw the lot into a plastic bag for burning. They stood Zac up for inspection. He had become a different man, not one likely to pass muster on the streets of Michigan but who, in the half-light of Central Asia, might just fade unnoticed into the margins.

As they left, Benazir stood framed in her doorway. Tears trickled down her cheeks. Bektour turned from the stairwell in reproach, but could only wave forlornly. She was not a coward, she had taken her own share of risks over the years, but this was different. This was Bektour. Her only child. Everything she had. And she found it impossible to accept that he was in the line of fire, even more so because the man with him was a foreigner, a stranger who would disappear, never to be seen again, while her son was left behind to face whatever consequences might follow. Her head might listen to his words but her heart cried out for survival – her own, for she was afraid, but above all for the survival of her child. Her determination in that matter would never fail. And she would never forgive those who had put him in jeopardy.

Yet now, at last, they were gone. Mourat crept away in the direction of his own home, where he would incinerate the clothes and destroy any trace of the night. Meanwhile Bektour and Zac climbed into the taxi and drove off. They headed for the hotel. It was 4.05 a.m. They were late. The plane left in less than two hours.

Martha had come to the conclusion that the worst part of this enterprise was to be forced to wait. She was a woman who was used to speaking her mind, giving ‘em hell and getting on with things; instead, she was reduced to staring at suitcases. It was a task for which she was spectacularly ill-equipped. It was like being stranded at home, waiting for a man to return, and suspecting the bastard wouldn’t.

In the early hours she had gone back to her own room. As she crossed the corridor one of the guards, still slumped against the wall, had opened an eye. She had smiled, he had gone back to sleep. Once inside her room she had showered and changed her clothes, finished her packing, found herself checking every drawer and cupboard corner a third time, and grown ever more nervous. She couldn’t escape the feeling that something had gone horribly wrong, a woman’s instinct, it rarely let her down. It brought back memories of her husband, away, allegedly on business, which he wasn’t, promising he would return, which he didn’t, leaving her to imagine the worst. And after years of sleeping in a cold, deserted bed, Martha had developed a formidable imagination.

Shortly after four she called down to the reception desk for help with her suitcases; as they had arranged, at almost the same moment, Sid Proffit did the same. Shortly afterwards, and much to the consternation of the stupefied guards, the corridor suddenly filled with activity as doors opened and luggage trolleys came wheeling in and out of every room. Bodies dashed back and forth, while Proffit descended on the guards to shake their hands and shout his thanks in their faces. Almost before they could wipe the fog from their eyes, the guards found the guests were on their way down. So they relaxed once more. They had done their duty, the foreigners were gone, the rooms empty. They would particularly miss Martha.

There was no need to sign bills, which were being taken care of by their hosts, even the bottles of vodka, and with Sid Proffit still providing as much distraction as possible, they were soon on the forecourt watching their bags being loaded into a taxi.

It was fortunate that Harry and the peer had travelled light; even so, it was only with considerable difficulty that their bags were squeezed in the boot of the taxi alongside Martha’s. She was forced to carry the smaller one on her lap. The staff rolled their weary eyes in despair as they were sent scuttling back and forth on yet another errand. Early morning confusion took hold as doors opened and closed, with the passengers climbing in, then out again, as Proffit began arguing about his luggage before finally settling in his seat up front. No one took much notice of the third passenger in the taxi, sitting in the darkness of the back seat. Three rooms, three lots of luggage, three passengers. It all made sense as the taxi pulled away.

No one spoke until the hotel had disappeared from sight behind them. Then Martha turned. ‘Mr Kravitz?’ she asked.

The figure beside her turned his head, stiffly, his features lit sporadically by the passing light of the street lamps, but he said nothing.

‘Is everything OK?’ she persisted.

‘Mr Jones. He didn’t make it,’ Bektour whispered from the driver’s seat.

‘What?’

‘He’s still inside the prison.’ ‘That can’t be . . .’

Her voice faded in despair. Harry was supposed to be heading west, that’s what the plan said, towards that porous line on the map that passed for a frontier. Within a few hours he was meant to be across and out of reach.

‘He said you have to do exactly what he told you to do,’ Bektour continued, his voice tight.

‘How—’

‘He says you must take Mr Kravitz on the plane.’

‘But what the hell is Harry going to do?’ she gasped.

‘I don’t know,’ Bektour replied mournfully as their car rolled over the bumps of the dual carriageway taking them towards the airport.

‘But we can’t just leave him.’

‘He says you must. Otherwise we’ll all end up –’ Bektour paused; he wouldn’t repeat the colourful expression Harry had used, not to a woman – ‘in very deep trouble.’

‘The poor bastard,’ Proffit sighed from the front seat. ‘Poor bloody Harry.’

‘We’ve got to do something,’ Martha pleaded.

The peer turned to face her, his voice hoarse with pain. ‘Nothing we can do, old love. It’s Harry’s choice. All of it. Harry’s choice.’ He looked across at Zac. ‘I do hope you’re worth it, Mr Kravitz.’

Through all of this Zac had been silent, gnawing at a bar of chocolate, instant energy. He swallowed stiffly; his lips parted, but even after several attempts, no words came. He went back to his chocolate.

A small group was waiting for them at the airport, courtesy of the distant Sydykov. When the taxi drew up, four men descended on them, three to take care of their luggage while the other, wearing a suit as a mark of his higher status, guided them through the concourse to the VIP suite. It was a small airport, not busy at this early time of morning, and their progress was rapid. Their guide chatted as they went, enquiring about their stay, their comfort, asking if Mr Jones was feeling better, declaring his regret that their visit should be ended so soon. Every time he began to pay attention to Zac, Proffit manoeuvred himself into the conversation, his voice bellowing, his tongue thick, his speech faltering just enough to suggest an over-indulged halfwit.

And soon they were at the door of the VIP lounge. Back where they had started, a lifetime ago.

Once inside, the guide continued to fuss, asking for their passports, explaining they had arrived a little later than expected, they hadn’t much time. Martha, in her role as group leader, scrabbled in her handbag and handed across all three. He hastened away, leaving them on their own.

‘Oh, bollocks, I need a drink, I really do,’ whispered a suddenly sober Proffit.

Otherwise, no one spoke. They all knew this was the most critical time. It would take only one curious official to notice that Harry’s passport was being used by a man with different-coloured eyes and a broken nose, a man who could scarcely speak and who had surprising difficulty walking, even for a sick man. If that happened, they were lost. Here, in the VIP lounge, they had nowhere to run. Yet it was the lounge itself that kept them away from such curiosity; with luck, it was to be their route through the system. But luck had been a poor friend this night.

The guide returned; he was alone, no guards stampeding behind him. He had a courteous smile and was clutching three passports. Their exit visas were stamped and their boarding passes enclosed.

‘I wonder,’ Martha said, descending on him to take back the documents, ‘whether there’s a chance of a cup of tea.’

‘Tea?’ Proffit declared in the astonished manner of a motorist who had returned to his car to discover a parking ticket on his windscreen, ‘we’ll have no bloody tea. What about a little vodka, eh?’

He offered up a little prayer to the mother of God, wondering how much longer they could continue with this act, but it was working. The guide gazed round in confusion. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he began, ‘but . . . I fear there is no time. You must go straight to your plane. Please.’

He indicated the door on the far side of the room, near which Zac was sitting quietly, pale, brown eyes down. Even as the Ta’argi spoke, it opened and an airport official, a broad, middle-aged woman in an overly tight uniform, stood on the other side waiting to escort them.

Proffit made a grab for their guide’s hand, wringing it overlong until it hurt. ‘Shame about the vodka, but it’s a damned fine reason to come again one day. Yes, already looking forward to the return match. Your hos-pitality’s been like nothing I’ve ever experienced, take my word for it. Goodbye!’

And they were gone.

No one talked as they made their way, slowly because of Zac, to the aircraft, skirting all the remaining formalities. No further passport checks, no inspection of their hand luggage, no prying eyes. It was only a short walk, and their female guide spoke no English.

‘
Spasibo. Do svidanya
,’ Proffit declared as she delivered them directly to the cabin door. The other passengers had already taken their seats.

The moment she set foot on the plane, Martha asked to speak to the captain. The prissy flight attendant would have none of it; the captain was busy with his pre-flight checks and couldn’t possibly be disturbed. The escalation that ensued was swift and short lived, Martha versus an unsuspecting attendant was simply no match. She was shown through to the cockpit.