Harry was less fortunate. As the adrenalin drained away, the effects of the repeated kickings and brutality made themselves felt, leaving him in considerable pain. He’d also picked up some first-degree burns to his back and shoulder. The doctor who had treated him had kept exclaiming in surprise as he discovered the patchwork of old injuries that covered so much of Harry’s body. ‘It seems you have a remarkable capacity for recovery,’ the doctor had encouraged, running his fingers over old scars. But the truth was that Harry didn’t recover as quickly as he once had. His body was talking to him, telling him it was time to change, to move on to different things. With Terri, perhaps? As he looked below and saw the peaks of the snow-smothered mountains bathed in brilliant moonlight, Harry realized how much was waiting for him at the end of this journey.
Ruari sat on the other side of the narrow cabin. He still called him Mr Jones. Harry had been going to object, suggest he call him Harry, but somehow that didn’t seem right, either. Yes, so much sorting out to do. Harry sat back in the soft executive leather, closed his eyes, couldn’t sleep. The strains of ‘Danny Boy’ kept slipping through his mind.
As soon as they landed at Biggin Hill airport, Harry discovered why the Italian police officer had accompanied them. They taxied to a halt in front of the squat terminal tower; usually it was an orderly and unpretentious area, but now it was lit by television lights and filled with a jostling crowd of newsmen. The Squadra Mobile were already playing the press and had proclaimed a glorious victory. A kidnapped boy delivered from the grasp of his tormentors, success snatched from the jaws of evil – it was a powerful story and the Italian was here to make sure it stayed that way.
And standing out in front of the posse of media men, waiting on the floodlit apron, were J.J. and Terri.
Ruari saw them, could barely hold his excitement, stomped his feet as the cabin door opened and the steps were lowered. Harry watched as he cried with anticipation. ‘Dad! Mummy!’ He seemed to fly down the steps and into their arms.
Harry hesitated, hung back. His presence wouldn’t help the fragile sanity of the media, would raise too many questions that, right at this moment, he didn’t want to answer, and indeed couldn’t answer. He was the last off the plane, and from the bottom of the steps he watched J.J. and Ruari, bound together, hugging each other with a joy that bordered on desperation as they moved to talk to the journalists. J.J. was, after all, a newspaperman as well as a father.
Harry stood in the shadows of the plane, watching from a distance.
‘How do I thank you, Harry?’ a voice whispered at his shoulder. It was Terri.
Thank him? He could think of a million ways. ‘He’s one remarkable kid.’
‘Of course he is. He’s ours.’ Her eyes were filled with pride, and gratitude, and a million other things that were all getting twisted together.
‘What happens next, Terri?’
She didn’t answer at first. Tears began to trickle down her face. Then she whispered, ‘I love you, Harry.’
And Harry knew. Whatever happened, however this finished, was going to cause exquisite and enduring pain. He turned back to where J.J. and Ruari, still arm in arm, stood in a puddle of television lights, telling their story. ‘He thinks J.J.’s the finest father in the world.’
‘He is.’
‘And as a husband?’
She shook her head slowly in bewilderment. ‘What can I say? You know what I feel about you. You’ve got to decide for us, Harry, I can’t do it any longer.’
He took her in his arms, held her tightly, tenderly, stared into her eyes. ‘You’ll sort it out.’
Her lip trembled; she didn’t understand what he was saying.
‘I love you, Terri. Ruari, too. Extraordinary, isn’t it, this father thing? I’m not so very good at it, I guess, it’s all so new, but somehow it’s come to mean everything to me.’
‘You’ll be brilliant at it, Harry.’
‘What? Start being Ruari’s father by destroying his world? If I split up his family he’d never forgive me. And I could never forgive myself.’
‘But you . . .’
‘It’s not about me, is it? It’s him. And he’s a very special young man. He saved my life, you know, I couldn’t be more proud to call him my son, but what he’s become has nothing to do with me. That’s down to you. And J.J. You’ve done an extraordinary job, both of you, created something, someone, who is quite exceptional. I have no right to break that. I owe it to Ruari.’
‘But you and me, Harry . . .’
‘Oh, there may come a time when you can tell Ruari, when we can both tell him, perhaps, but that’s not now and it may never be. You and me, we’re not really what matters in this. It’s Ruari, our son. And whatever happens, we’ll always have him.’
‘And so much more.’
The tears were showing no hesitation any longer, tumbling down her cheeks. He wanted to brush them away, with his fingertips, with his lips, but he daren’t. Yet she wouldn’t let him go.
‘The other night, Harry . . .’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll never regret it.’
‘We’ll always have that,’ he whispered, struggling to smile. ‘And to hell with Paris.’
She stretched up to kiss him, on the lips, sweetly, without a hint of shame, as only lovers can do. Then she walked away one last time to stand by her husband and son.
The media, like a shoal of fish, turned their attention to her, the tearful and overjoyed mother. As the cameras flashed and she tried to field their frantic questions with nothing but a smile, J.J. looked over his shoulder, still refusing to let go of the boy. He saw Harry, held his eye, as he mouthed two words that were as sincere as anything he had ever said in his life. ‘Thank you.’ Then he turned back, and with his wife and son, walked off into the night.
The media scrum broke up. A young woman detached herself from the rest of the press pack and walked over towards Harry. ‘Mr Jones, isn’t it? Bit of a surprise to see you here.’
‘Just a family friend,’ Harry muttered dully.
‘What happened to your face?’
‘Fell off my bike.’ He tried to walk on, but the reporter pursued him.
‘So what do you think about the other news?’
‘What other news?’
‘The appointment this morning of Anne Trowbridge as Foreign Secretary. There’d been rumours you might be offered the job.’
‘I think it’s excellent news all round,’ he responded drily, hoping he had smothered his surprise. ‘I may even be forced to celebrate.’
‘How?’
He sighed. ‘Start with a pint of Guinness, I think. There may be several more to follow.’
They buried Sean in the cemetery of the church in Dundalk where he was christened. It was a few days after Christmas. A small ceremony, a family affair, very private. J.J. had written Harry a long and deeply personal letter in his own hand, spelling out his gratitude and inviting him to the funeral. In similar vein, Harry replied, talking in detail of all the things Sean had done in Trieste, of the admiration he would always hold for him, but in the circumstances declining to attend. He didn’t need to spell out what those circumstances were.
He travelled on his own to Dundalk a couple of days later. It was the same day that the news came through from Zimbabwe. There had been a coup on Christmas Day; the interim President, Moses Chombo, had been ousted and had not been seen since. The new government was headed by a security official of whom the media knew almost nothing. His name was Takere.
It was snowing when Harry reached the graveyard, much like Sean had told him it had been on that Bloody Sunday, when his world had changed. He found the grave without difficulty with its freshly turned soil and flowers. He knelt beside it, ignoring the dampness creeping around his knees, and remained like that for some time. Then, slowly, carefully, he dug a hole in the soft earth with his fingers directly above the point where he thought Sean’s heart would be. From his pocket he pulled his General Service
Medal with its purple and green ribbon, his name etched on the rim and with its clasp that marked his military service in the British army in Northern Ireland. ‘Time to bury many things, old friend,’ he whispered as he placed it in the hole and smoothed the earth over.
Newsday began publishing extracts from the Mandela diaries early in the New Year. They were an instant sensation, not just in Britain but also around the world. Too many famous names were implicated for the diaries to be ignored. The serialization rights earned several fortunes. The newspaper survived. And so did the marriage.
Acknowledgements
Trieste. Why did I choose it? Perhaps because I knew so little about the place. Hadn’t Winston Churchill once mentioned it as marking one end of the Iron Curtain? Perhaps it was that alone, and the fact that I was all too aware of my ignorance, that nudged me into making a few enquiries. Rather like Harry, I had no idea what I was stumbling into.
What a city! Trieste is filled with intrigue, romance, an extraordinary history and many wonderful people. One of the pleasures I’ve encountered in writing Old Enemies is the opportunity it has given me to get to know the city and those who live there, and I can only hope the many new friends I made will be content with my inevitably partial and incomplete description of its many attractions. An old and very cosmopolitan friend, Alexandros Kedros, started the process in his typically expansive style, supported by his lovely niece, Olympia Pappas, and her mother, Isarina. Their stories inspired me as much as their own friends and family who live in Trieste were later able to educate and entertain me – and in formidable style. They introduced me to Giulio Campos, who passed on much of his love of his home city, and in particular they introduced me to the former British consul in the city, John Dodds, who not only has been tireless in answering my questions but made my visit such fun, even when the rain threatened to sweep us off the Carso. John himself introduced me to others, and perhaps the most helpful and inspiring of these was Inspector Manuela de Giorgi, who is currently head of the Border Police Office. I owe her and her colleagues in the Trieste police a huge vote of thanks. Their assistance was as genuine as my entirely fictional character of Inspector D’Amato is flawed.
Before I leave Trieste I must recommend the finest book about the city, written by Jan Morris, which is entitled Trieste and the Meaning of Nowhere. Her beautiful and mesmerizing descriptions capture the elusive, sleepy character of the place better than any other, and anyone thinking of visiting the city should devour her book. It’s not necessary to agree with all her conclusions in order to relish an exceptional piece of writing.
Old Enemies has required me to delve into the murky and unpalatable world of kidnapping, and I have many people to thank for explaining so much of what takes place. Dr David Claridge of Janusian Security Risk Management was extremely helpful, and my distant cousin, Peter Dobbs, also had a hand in getting me underway. My old friend from Downing Street days, Barry Strevens, has also been kind and introduced me to Phil Atkinson of the Serious Organized Crime Agency. Both of them provided time and invaluable advice, while Tessara Coutts gave me all the inspiration I needed to set a scene in a hairdresser’s. She cuts my hair and tells me about cats, and does both wonderfully.
The expertise with helicopters of John Edward Taylor and Jamie Murray freed my imagination to fly through the Alps; the hospitality of Kevin Hughes helped me construct the scene based upon Brokers wine bar in the most relaxing of circumstances, and James Body, my neighbour from the other side of the hill in Wiltshire, taught me more about modern communications than I ever knew. I also hope my friend Cosmin Baduleteanu will forgive me for turning him into a ruthless criminal, while another friend, Will Hiley, celebrated his fiftieth birthday during the time this book was being written. I have marked an extraordinary evening of birthday celebrations by appropriating his name for one of the characters.
Three old friends deserve special mention. I can’t remember how many times I’ve thanked Andrei Vandoros in my books, and Old Enemies turns out to be no exception. His limitless knowledge and generosity never cease to lighten the sometimes heavy burden of writing, while between them, Ian Patterson and David Foster continue to provide the inspiration and very special advice that allow Harry to grow larger with every adventure.
Rachel and the boys have, as always, been there to massage my weary shoulders and turn furrows into laughter lines through the long months of writing. James and Liz Barnes, to whom this book is dedicated, are two of the finest friends I have ever had. I thank them from the bottom of my heart for all they have done, and for all they mean to the Dobbs family.
Michael Dobbs.
Wylye, September 2010.
Table of Contents
Half-title page
Also by Michael Dobbs
Title page
Copyright page
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Acknowledgements
Michael Dobbs, Old Enemies
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