The Reluctant Hero

  She was tired of running away, putting on a front, smiling when she hurt, pretending it didn’t matter all the nights she was on her own with no one for company, still waiting for a creak on the stair. Yet now, as she stood freezing in front of the Fat Chance, she found herself growing ever more confused. She’d stayed behind, for Harry, but Harry wasn’t here and she didn’t know what to do. The place was shut tight, the door locked. Silent. She chided herself. What else could she have expected? This was a club for middle-aged jazz freaks and spotty Internet junkies, assorted insomniacs who wouldn’t be crawling back into circulation for hours yet. God, she was acting like a teenager.

  Damn you, Harry, for messing around with my life.

  She’d had a teddy bear, when she was young, with grazed fur and a torn ear, that she used to hold, and talk to while her father sweated onto her chest. She still had it, tucked into her bed, waiting for her. How many nights had she run back from the Parliament, with both praise and protests ringing in her ear and the world thinking she was made of polished glass, only to cry into a pillow alongside her precious toy? If only the world had known the truth. For some reason, she wanted Harry to know.

  A policeman stood on the street corner, idly watching her. He didn’t seem suspicious, not yet, saw nothing but legs and well-cut clothes, but soon his idle curiosity might breed questions. She couldn’t run that risk, because she could give him no answers. So she hurried on.

  The deputy governor, Sergei Anisimov, was in no mood for distractions. He’d just been told that Amir Beg was on his way, which was why he was trying to gobble down the last of his breakfast. God knew when he might next eat, could be hours. He’d already completed a rapid tour of inspection, checking that nothing had burned down during the night, and he’d found everything in reasonable shape, and better shape than usual after being spruced up for the visit of the foreign politicians. But sports shoes? The guard was clearly drunk, or had spent too long sniffing up the atmosphere of the Punishment Wing; there could be no other explanation, unless while Anisimov had been off duty they’d drifted into some parallel and entirely ludicrous universe. Being off duty wouldn’t save him if something was amiss, of course, the governor would make sure of that. Yet Bolot’s report made no sense. Prisoners didn’t wear shoes, not on the Punishment Wing. How the hell were you supposed to beat a prisoner’s feet or extract his toenails until he poured out every last bit of information if he was wearing bloody sports shoes? That wasn’t the way things worked, it made no sense, but Anisimov could take nothing for granted, not with Amir Beg descending. He looked despairingly at his unfinished breakfast, then turned angrily on Bolot, who flinched, but there was no option. He’d have to see for himself. With a sigh, he scraped back his chair and set off for the Punishment Wing.

  Harry heard them coming all the way along the passage, men in a hurry, their boots noisy as they clipped the stone floor. He sensed trouble, curled himself up into a ball once more, making himself as inconspicuous and anonymous as possible. He couldn’t make out what they were saying from outside the cell, but he felt their eyes on him. He lay totally still, trying to ignore whatever had crawled out from the mattress and was biting him.

  Anisimov, like Governor Akmatov a few hours before him, didn’t enter the cell. He didn’t need to. He saw not only sports shoes but also a belt, and despite the dirt and the rents that Harry had torn in his clothing they were of too good a quality for any inmate in this wing. Harry had dealt with the wristwatch and the torch, but in the dark, and in the rush, it hadn’t been enough.

  There was another reason why Anisimov wouldn’t go in. He was afraid. He was the creature of a System that required an order to things, everything in its proper place. The System didn’t welcome surprises. Yet something extraordinary had happened in this cell, and that spelt danger.

  ‘Who’s been here?’ he demanded.

  ‘No one, sir,’ the guard replied, ‘apart from you and me. And the governor, last night.’

  The deputy’s heart missed a beat, then another. ‘The governor was here, you say?’

  ‘Yessir.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir.’

  ‘And what did he do?’

  ‘Nothing. He didn’t even go in. He just made a quick inspection and left.’

  The words effected a miraculous cure upon Anisimov’s faltering pulse, which now began to race like a galloping horse. The matter grew murkier with every minute, and he knew he was best out of it. There was a fundamental rule of survival, one which towered above all the others. Don’t get involved. Stand too close and you were certain to get spattered. He was glad he hadn’t gone into the cell, because he sensed that this particular puddle of shit was so deep that a man might disappear in it entirely. This was a problem he should pass to those higher up the food chain – and they didn’t come better fed than Governor Akmatov. His boss was a man who, up to now, had played the System to perfection, much to his deputy’s frustration, but he had grown long in the tooth, idle from office, was slowing up. In other words, victim material. And in this world a man’s future could change overnight, especially after a night such as this.

  The System wasn’t sophisticated, its pleasure lay in its simplicity. It didn’t demand undue competence, merely that you didn’t get caught – either with your hand in the wrong pocket, or standing too close to someone else’s disaster. When boats rocked, it was necessary to throw some of the baggage overboard in order to restore the balance, and Akmatov made such splendid ballast. Anisimov didn’t view it as betrayal, merely business. Get this right, the deputy concluded, and he could be sitting in Akmatov’s chair by nightfall, enjoying all the privileges that attended the job – an almost new Volkswagen, a share in a dacha in the mountains, his own lavatory. He might even be able to get his wife’s younger and far more adventurous sister on to the payroll, with all the daily distractions that would offer. Keep it in the family.

  He hurried back down the passage, his imagination harvesting the possibilities. Why, he and the governor shared the same initials, the change wouldn’t even give the System wind. For the first time that morning, the deputy broke into a broad smile.

  She had to stop wandering pointlessly. It wasn’t just that her shoes were impractical and her feet were frozen. This was a moment in Martha Riley’s life that would mark it forever, measure her as both a friend and a woman, and right this minute she was failing on both counts. She sat in a coffee shop with her third cup of cappuccino, staring at the bill, trying to pretend she was as tough as everyone thought she was. Yet she had only her handbag, a small amount of local currency, and still no idea what she should do next.

  She paid the bill and took a tissue from her handbag to wipe her nose, damp from the cold outside air. She made an inspection of the bag’s other contents, because it was all she had. A hairbrush and makeup to wipe away the signs of worry. Her reading glasses, which she used as rarely as possible, and usually only in private. Perfume. Mints. Panty liners. Her purse and her credit cards. There was also her MP’s pass; it was of no use here and might even compromise her, but it also reminded her of what she was supposed to be about. This handbag and its contents would have to be her armoury. So where to start? Silly question. Credit cards, of course.

  A brisk walk through the late morning air and she was in the local department store. It was unlike anything she was used to back home. Outside it boasted a big neon sign, but inside its four floors were filled with individual stalls, boutiques, single traders, like a street market, except many of the pitches were abandoned and most of the space on the fourth floor was empty, echoing like a hollow tunnel. Even here, tucked away in a far corner of the world, the recession had sharp teeth. The stalls were piled with everything from cheap leather goods and children’s wear to mobile phones and mementoes of the Soviet time, bric-a-brac, and bargains even at the official exchange rate. She could have picked up hand-woven silks and a fur hat, but her attention was drawn to a Red Army medal commemorating the
Battle for Berlin, its striped ribbon stained, the metal dull. Berlina. 2 May 1945. Less than ten pounds. She haggled a little, bought it. For Harry. A homecoming present, when he got out . . .

  She moved on, knowing she must be more practical. What she needed much more than a medal were stout new shoes, and a ski jacket in case she was forced to spend more time out on the streets. Yet her thoughts kept coming back to Harry. When he got out, however he got out, he would need new clothes, particularly after swimming through the sewer, so she bought a large rucksack and filled it with what she thought would be appropriate, conjuring up his body in her mind, guessing his size. Part of her enjoyed the process. It filled a couple of hours, while she waited.

  Amir Beg listened carefully to what the deputy governor had to say. He didn’t understand everything that had happened, any more than Anisimov did, but he was in no doubt as to the potential fallout. Somehow, it seemed, the prisoner in the cell was not the American. Beg’s mouth went dry as he considered the possible consequences. For this failure he would skin every guard in the place, if necessary, and Akmatov in particular, but he was under no illusion that the skin most under threat right now was his own, because less than an hour earlier he had told his President that the man they had caught for screwing his wife and making such a fool of him was about to get his neck stretched all the way to the highest point in the Celestial Mountains. Karabayev had demanded photographs, as usual.

  Anisimov stood close by, expectant, but his hopes of gratitude and immediate elevation were to be disappointed. He’d expected Beg to lead a charge down to the cell, break a few of the prisoner’s bones and drag the truth from him, uncover some conspiracy for which the governor would bear the blame, but instead Beg seemed to draw in upon himself, lost in thought. There was no excitement, his apprehension unmistakable. Anisimov sensed the moment had moved away from them both. ‘May I ask what’s wrong, sir?’ he asked tentatively.

  ‘I came here to hang him,’ Beg replied quietly.

  Now Anisimov understood. The System was uncompromising, totally unforgiving. It must win. It neither made mistakes itself, nor permitted mistakes in others. He had brought disastrous news, news of failure, which therefore became his news and now placed him in the line of fire. He had gambled and lost. His ambitions began to collapse around him like a snow face in spring.

  ‘Who else knows about this?’ Beg snapped, ripping off his glasses.

  ‘Why, no one, apart from the two of us, and the guard.’ He watched in growing alarm as Beg’s teeth bit into one of his white knuckles in a fusion of concentration and pain. ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ Anisimov blurted, ‘if your plans have to change.’

  Beg glanced sharply into the face of the deputy governor, his dark, naked eyes bright, burning in desire, like a hunting stoat. ‘No, nothing changes. We carry on.’

  It was gone midday by the time Martha returned to the Fat Chance. She had eaten, felt warmer in her new jacket, more confident. The door was still shut but she could see a light shining behind it and the sound of someone cleaning coming from below. There was no knocker, no bell, so she pounded on the wooden panel. It was some time before she heard the footsteps. The lock rattled, the door swung slowly open. It was Benazir. Her tired eyes flooded with surprise as they saw Martha, then quickly darkened and she began to close the door. Only Martha’s foot prevented it. She had to use her full weight to force her way in.

  ‘You’re not wanted here. Get out!’ Benazir spat as she was forced backwards.

  ‘I need your help,’ Martha said, trying to fathom the reason for the outburst of fury.

  ‘But we need none of yours. Now go!’ The older woman pointed with a trembling finger.

  It is one of the aspects of politics that those who choose to practise it have to grow accustomed to abuse. It arrives as regularly as rain and they must weather the storm. Martha didn’t flinch. Instead she pushed past the mother’s restraining hand and ran down into the cellar. For a little while Benazir didn’t budge, trying by force of will to get Martha back out onto the street, but eventually she realized it wasn’t going to be quite as simple as that; her unwanted guest was just as stubborn and no respecter of manners. As Martha sat herself down at one of the tables, its top still stained and sticky from the night before, she heard Benazir bustling down the stairs after her. When she appeared, her face was contorted with fury.

  ‘You almost got my son killed!’ she spat.

  ‘He is a brave boy.’

  ‘He is my boy!’

  ‘We need to get Harry out,’ Martha replied, shifting the ground, determined to remain calm.

  ‘Then you go and do it, but you’ll not get a finger lifted here to help you.’

  ‘Why are you so angry?’

  ‘Bektour. You put him in great danger, almost got him locked up with your friend. And no one gets out of that place.’

  That wasn’t entirely true, as she’d only just put Zac on the plane, but there seemed little point in getting pedantic. ‘We were unlucky,’ Martha said.

  ‘And your rotten luck is staying with you, no one else. No one asked you to come here, so now I tell you to go.’

  ‘We can’t just leave Harry to rot.’

  The woman’s thin lips twisted in contempt, every furrow on her face growing deeper, making her look a hundred years old. ‘He’s not going to rot, he’s going to die.’

  The word sang out, freezing Martha as though she stood in a mountain wind, despite the new jacket.

  ‘And he’s going to do it on his own,’ Benazir continued, ‘not with my son!’

  And Martha knew, not so much from the words but from the strength of the passion, that she would never change this woman’s mind. Even so, she shook her head in defiance. ‘I can’t leave him.’

  ‘You can get on a plane and fly.’

  ‘No, it’s . . . not as simple as that.’ Damn it, she was supposed to be at 35,000 feet on a flight to Heathrow right now. ‘It’s not as simple as that,’ she repeated, more softly, her voice falling, betraying her confusion. Benazir recognized it for what it was, and her own tone softened a fraction. She wiped a greying lock of hair from her eyes as she bent over Martha.

  ‘You love him. I pity you. All love is madness, which in the end betrays a woman, leaves her in pain. But we cling to it while we can, so you will understand why I will not help you. I love Bektour, he is all I have, and I will not give him up to you and your madness.’

  ‘But Harry will find some way out, I know he will.’

  ‘He will die in there.’

  ‘Either way, until we hear, I’m staying. And this is the only place I have, the only place he knows.’

  ‘I will not let you stay.’

  ‘Then you’d better call the police and explain what I’m doing here,’ Martha said, struggling out of her new coat, setting up camp in order to make her point. ‘I’ll just sit here and wait for them, shall I?’

  Benazir stared defiantly, locked in a clash of competing loves, but she knew that Martha had won this round. The wretched woman was right, she couldn’t afford to make too much of a fuss and risk drawing attention to what had gone on, least of all to Bektour’s role in it. With a snort of frustration that indicated the matter was far from settled, she went back to her cleaning, confident that her love as a mother would far outlast the feelings of this woman.

  She wasn’t the first to have underestimated Martha Riley.

  Harry began to make a meticulous search of his cell. He checked every corner, every crevice. The mortar was old but had been used sparingly, since the stones were well faced and tightly laid. None of them was going to leap into his hands and offer him a way out. He peered particularly closely at the bars on the ventilation flue, even hanging from them to test their strength. It was while he was hanging that he noticed another scratching on a stone, high up on the wall. He brushed a finger across it to wipe away the damp and reveal its message.

  Dmitri Panov. Hanged Himself. Fuck Them All.

  The date was indec
ipherable. Harry reckoned it might have been scratched during any of the past hundred years. Perhaps he’d used a shirt or his trousers as a ligature, maybe his belt, even shoelaces. And, in the process, Dmitri had proved that these bars weren’t going to shift.

  Harry had tried to resist, but he’d been forced to use the slop bucket, which was full almost to the point of overflowing. Zac’s bucket. By now he’d be touching down at Heathrow, explaining to bemused immigration officials what it was all about, with the help of Sid Proffit. They’d be a fuss, of course, in a typically quiet and restrained British way. Discreet enquiries over tea in the Foreign Office. Harry hoped they’d hurry about it; he wasn’t getting out of here on his own any time soon. Or they might simply crawl away in embarrassment at this foulup he had caused, just as the Americans had with Zac. Bloody Harry Jones. Not their problem.

  When he was finished with the slop bucket Harry wrenched off its handle and used it to attack the door, but the primitive tool bent pathetically. Over the course of the next couple of hours he tried several times to shift the lock, at first wedging his body between the door jambs in any number of imaginative ways, even tearing a length of wood from the pallet on which his mattress was spread, using it as a crowbar, then a battering ram, and finally a hammer. The result was always the same. Nothing. Eventually the wood splintered and fell apart, yet his growing sense of doom forced him on, his mind trying to conjure up feats of Herculean proportions that would rip the lock from its housing. He’d be happy if it shifted even a little, but soon he began to tire, and as his strength seeped away, so did his sense of invincibility. He was no longer the young warrior who could never die. That was years ago, and anyway it had never been true.

  He found himself drawn back to the wristwatch, Julia’s gift, hidden in the verminous straw, rubbing its face for encouragement, but it soon became like an hourglass whose sand was trickling inexorably away. He had no choice. Somehow, he’d have to get them to open the door for him. He sat back and waited.