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 thei
r 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.
The captain was, as Martha had been told, signing off on his load sheet that recorded fuel, weight and passenger numbers on board. The only other person present was the co-pilot. The captain appeared distracted, head down, not best pleased at the interruption, but when he looked up, his expression softened.
‘Mrs Riley, isn’t it?’ he asked, his accent suggesting that home was somewhere near Bristol. ‘Saw you on the box the other week. You didn’t take any prisoners, I seem to remember.’
‘Then you’ll know I don’t dick around, Captain.’ The smile faded. This clearly wasn’t a courtesy call. He shifted in his seat. She had his full attention. ‘There are a couple of my parliamentary colleagues seated in first class. One is Harry Jones . . .’
The captain’s eyes indicated he recognized the name.
‘So there are two things you need to know, Captain. The first is that Mr Jones has made himself deeply unpopular with the Ta’argi authorities.’
‘I seem to remember he has something of a reputation for getting himself into scrapes . . .’
‘More than that. I think someone has tried to poison him. He’s not at all well. Whatever happens, it’s imperative that he leaves on this flight and the Ta’argis aren’t allowed to take him off.’
The captain’s brow creased. ‘Once he’s on board, Mrs Riley, he’s pretty much legally on British territory. They’d have to use crowbars to get him off.’
‘I don’t think that’s likely to happen. I just want to get him home.’
‘Well, we’re almost done with our pre-flight checks. Another ten minutes or so, we should be on our way.’
‘Thank you, Captain.’
‘Poisoned, eh? Sounds like you’ve had a lucky escape.’
‘Not quite.’ She took a deep breath. It was the moment for decision. She hadn’t been certain that she was capable of carrying through with what she had in mind. She stood on the very edge, suffering from vertigo, trying to ignore the nausea rising in her stomach, remembering Sid Proffit’s words that everything that had happened had been Harry’s choice. She also remembered she had a life and a one-eyed cat to feed back home, but – what the hell, where had playing everything straight got her? And that’s all she had back home, a cat. So she jumped. ‘There’s the second thing you need to know.’
‘Which is?’
‘I’m not coming with you.’
The captain couldn’t hide his surprise. ‘Can I ask why?’
‘Unfinished business.’
‘Well, that’s your choice, I suppose. But it’ll delay things. We’ll have to unload your baggage first.’
‘Not necessary. I have none.’ And it was true. Sid Proffit had taken care of it, all the baggage receipts were on his boarding card.
‘I see.’ The captain fell silent, ransacking his memory for the regulations covering this situation and pondering the downpour of corporate crap that awaited him if he got it wrong. ‘I can’t force you to fly with us, Mrs Riley.’
‘Some other time, I hope.’
‘But if the rest of us are to get underway on schedule, I’m going to have to ask you to leave. We’re about to close the doors.’
‘You don’t need to inform the Ta’argis that I’m getting off, do you?’ It was more plea than question.
‘I have to fill out an LMC – Last Minute Change – on the load sheet. But that’s all. The Ta’argis are notoriously poor with their paperwork, and my handwriting’s rubbish. It might be days before they decipher it.’
‘Thanks.’
He nodded. She turned to leave.
‘Mrs Riley.’
‘Yes?’
‘On this plane, you’re safe. But the other side of that cabin door isn’t. You’re a long way from home. Please take care.’
Beg slid beneath the water in his bath tub, so slowly he caused barely a ripple. He let out a long sigh as the water closed around him, carrying him away from the weariness that had seeped into every one of his bones, and from the fug of cigarette smoke that had taken over in his bedroom. That was unusual for Beg, he’d often go days without a cigarette, yet sometimes his dark moods would gather and he was a man who preferred to keep his comforts close at hand, totally private. But he’d been surprised to discover there had been a continuous stream of cigarettes in the last couple of hours, ever since the phone call. He’d lost track somewhere along the way. Too much to think about, too many concerns. And his hands hurt so.
Through the window of his bathroom he looked east, to the Celestial Mountains, where the embers of time were being fanned gently back to life. That’s where he was
from, the mountains, with the villages and communities huddled beneath the peaks, where the herds were still driven up to their summer pastures and where, during winter, when the snow reclaimed the earth, the mountain people gathered round their fires and the akyns sang their songs of long ago. Amir Beg had promised himself that one day he would go back there, for good, leave the corruption of the city for the simple wooden chalet he had built beside the Shimmering Lake, where, during the summer months, he would sleep in a felt-covered yurt, like his father had done. No TV. No telephone. Just old ways and enduring loyalties. Leave Karabayev, his casinos and his petty conquests far behind. Slowly he lowered his hands into the water, but quickly lifted them again as the water seemed to scald. The pain was getting worse.
It hadn’t always been like this, with Karabayev. There had been a point when they had shared their lives, studied at the Lenin University together, in the Soviet time. It was when the Russians had got stuck in Afghanistan, getting their eyes gouged and their balls hacked off, and the terror had spilled over the mountains into Ta’argistan. Beg and Karabayev had been part of the nationalist movement, kids’ stuff, really, but that hadn’t saved them. They, and many more, had been rounded up and fed into the vast machinery of retribution and repression that Moscow had kept oiled almost to perfection. Beg had had it worst, three years of it, to the point where he would fall asleep every night praying he wouldn’t wake up in the morning. He’d lost count how many times they’d crushed every one of his knuckles with hammers, but he wouldn’t submit.
Karabayev’s passage through the machine had been altogether smoother, and substantially shorter. Somehow he’d managed to talk his way out, done some sort of deal, so it had been rumoured. He was always doing deals. But what could you trade to get out of a prison cell, except, of course, other lives? And by the time the Russians had retreated from Afghanistan and their empire came crashing down, Karabayev had transformed himself into a symbol of national resistance, while Beg was left to pick up the pieces of his life – not that he could pick up much at all. So Karabayev slept in the Presidential Palace, while Beg chain-smoked through the night.