‘That injury to your head must have done more harm than you realized, Harry,’ the Frenchman said stiffly.
‘You’ve always worked on the shady side of the system, ever since you started dragging Arabs from the Kasbah and trying to teach them to fly.’
‘Your conclusions are preposterous, my friend.’
‘I don’t think so. And I’m not your friend, Hervé.’
‘Then I think I should get out.’
‘No, I’ll get out. I need a walk. Some fresh air. He’ll take you on.’ Harry tapped the driver on the shoulder and the Mercedes began to pull over to the side of the road, its indicator flashing.
‘Where are we?’ d’Arbois demanded. It was a dimly lit street, he didn’t recognize the location.
‘Near the Embankment,’ Harry said as the driver opened his door to let him out. ‘Waterloo in ten minutes.’ He took the driver by the hand and gripped it firmly. ‘Thank you,’ he said. His voice was soft, almost forlorn.
‘You’re welcome. Wish I could say any time . . .’
‘Oh, there’s something I nearly forgot. Should have given it to you earlier.’ Harry unhooked the Rolex from his wrist and handed it across.
The driver examined it, rubbed its face, like a long-lost friend, then attached to his own wrist. ‘See you in hell, Harry.’
‘Be sure to keep a corner warm for me, Zac.’
Without another word the doors were slammed and the car was underway again. It wasn’t until they hit the Embankment that it slowly dawned upon d’Arbois. ‘Zac? You are Zac?’
The car speeded up. It was a thirty-mile-an-hour limit, but Zac didn’t appear to care.
‘Stop the car!’ the Frenchman demanded. ‘For God’s sake, let me out!’
He tugged at the door handle, but it wouldn’t move. The child locks had been activated. He tried the window, but the same story there, too. He began banging on the window, but there was no one to see. The street lights were flashing past, they were doing sixty, still gaining speed, pushing him back into his seat.
Construction work was taking place on the Embankment. The previous week a heavy lorry had swerved off the road in the ice and hit the river wall. The damage had required that a small section of the wall be taken down and repaired, and the job was half complete, a temporary barrier in place, separating the pavement from the dark, swirling flood waters on the other side. When the Mercedes hit the kerb it was doing eighty, and swept through the temporary railings as if they were bales of straw. For a moment the Mercedes lifted its head and its headlights arced high in the sky. Then it fell back, and hit the water. It floated down-stream in the heavy swell for a few seconds, before it disappeared from sight.
Many people saw the accident, but no one jumped in. It was too dark, too deep, too cold, a deathtrap for anyone who tried. Instead they called the river police, and by the time their launch arrived, Zac Kravitz and his passenger were nowhere to be found.
Karabayev’s cautious instincts had been correct. He should have listened to them. Beg was gone, and so was Sydykov; it left a huge hole in the security apparatus around the President. Far from strengthening his authority, it made the system around him look tattered and vulnerable. Matters began to drift quickly out of control. Large crowds began to appear on the streets, apparently prompted by messages passed around the Internet and through Facebook and Twitter. Bektour’s timing was excellent, and his resources greatly enhanced. His network had received a huge boost through support that came from an entirely unexpected source. Much to the astonishment of his friends, Roddy Bowles declared that he was selling his entire collection of paintings and donating the proceeds to the cause of democracy in Ta’argistan. Even more to their astonishment, he went on to announce that he was retiring from Parliament with immediate effect in order to devote his energies to other, unspecified charitable works.
The demonstrations in Ashkek were too large to be dispersed by troops without resorting to arms, and by the time Karabayev ordered them to do so, it was too late. His authority was gone, they would not fire on their own, not with their wives, and brothers, and sons amongst them. And soon Karabayev was gone, too.
They called it the Snowdrop Revolution.
Superintendent Richards entered Harry’s room. He had a raincoat draped over his arm and an expression to match the weather.
‘This is getting to be a habit,’ Harry said.
‘A dangerous one, Mr Jones.’
Harry noted the formality and didn’t bother to reach for the whisky.
‘Too many friends of yours dying,’ the policeman continued.
‘I’m a natural optimist. I’d like to think it won’t be happening again, Superintendent,’ Harry said, offering him a seat, while he stood at the window, gazing out across the rooftops of the rain-streaked city.
‘The two who died in your car, the American and Frenchman. We’ve completed our investigation. Almost all the evidence points to a tragic accident. And that’s what we’ll be telling the coroner.’
‘I see.’
‘The driver was very ill, on medication, and the passenger had been drinking. That might explain the accident, of course, and why neither of them was able to get out. But I have to tell you there are aspects I don’t fully understand.’
Harry turned from the window to face the policeman.
‘For one thing,’ Richards continued, ‘the passenger was in the back seat. That seems strange, if they were friends. It almost suggests that someone else had been in the car with them.’
‘I see your point, Superintendent.’
‘And the child locks were on. You don’t have children, do you, Mr Jones?’
‘No.’
Richards let the reply hang heavily between them for a moment before continuing. ‘A good friend of yours, was he, the Frenchman?’
‘I’d known him a number of years.’
‘You see, sir, his seatbelt was undone – as if he had been trying to get away. You’d expect that. But there was a mark, a bruise on his jaw, almost as though he’d been hit.’
‘Always a risk in an accident, I suppose.’
‘There was also a mark on your other friend’s knuckles.’
They were staring at each other, their eyes tangling, trying to catch the other’s true meaning.
‘But, as I said, the best we can do is conclude it was nothing but a tragic accident.’
‘Is there anything else, Superintendent?’
‘No, sir.’ The policeman rose from his seat. Then his shoulders relaxed, his duty done. ‘Ah, yes, there was just one thing.’ His hand went to his pocket, his voice grew softer. ‘I’m not supposed to do this, Harry, there should be paperwork a foot high, but . . .’ He produced the Rolex. ‘It was on Mr Kravitz’s wrist. Perhaps he borrowed it while he was staying with you.’
He handed the watch across. It was still ticking through the soil of the river. Harry turned it over, used a thumb to rub the smear of silt from the back.
Thank you. J.
He choked, unable to hide the tears, as he read the inscription. Then his eyes found the policeman. ‘I can’t find the words to say how much I appreciate this.’
‘No need. It’s back where it belongs, that’s all that really matters,’ Richards said. ‘Stay safe, Harry,’ he added, over his shoulder, as he walked to the door.
Harry didn’t reply. He was in another place.
The chimes of the newly restored Big Ben pulled him back. He crossed to his desk and slumped dejectedly into its leather chair. He opened the top drawer. It had a broken lock, where he’d once lost his key and forced it in temper. Now, more carefully, he reached for a small box, trimmed in red silk, one of the few possessions that remained from his mother. He opened it, and placed the watch inside, laying it next to his medal, and a battered chess piece.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I have enjoyed exploring this new adventure with Harry Jones as much as any book I’ve ever written, so the thanks I have to offer to those who have helped
me come from deep within.
The book is set in the mythical Central Asian republic of Ta’argistan, but those who know the region well might recognize more than a passing glimpse of Kyrgyzstan and its capital of Bishkek in my descrip-tions. I used Kyrgyzstan as my physical model, but I am glad to say that its politics and leadership are considerably less gruesome than those I have outlined in the book. I spent a fascinating time in Kyrgyzstan soaking up the atmosphere and mountain air, and was treated with supreme hospitality by new friends I made there, particularly Isken Sydykov and his son, Bektour Iskender. While I have invented the Fat Chance Saloon, if you are passing through Bishkek I can thoroughly recommend Fatboy’s Cafe, where Isken and I spent many comfortable and informative hours.
Several people helped me from the parliamentary side, illuminating some of the more perilous aspects of parliamentary visits abroad. My old friend Nigel Evans, MP for the Ribble Valley, offered enthusiastic advice, as did Andrea Skyring from the International Parliamentary Union, and as is typical of him, John Whittingdale MP has always been there to answer questions of irritating detail. The book is dedicated to his beautiful daughter, Alice, my god-daughter.
There have been many technical and medical issues for me to tackle in this book, and I’ve received unstint-ing help from Major General (retd) David Jolliffe, the husband of my cousin, Hilary, as well as Lieutenant Colonel Pete Davis, and Major John Taylor, who by happy coincidence turned out to be the son of a former irrepressible political colleague, Sir Teddy Taylor MP. Dr Philippa Swayne has once again helped me with many medical mat-ters, as has David Perry with all my nagging questions about airports and airlines. I can only hope that I’ve understood and correctly reported the information they have all so freely given me.
Martin Fenner, head of section on Central Asian matters at the Foreign and Commonwealth Office, has also been very kind. I would also like to thank Mike Atsoparthis, the British Honorary Consul in Bishkek, for his support and advice.
My rock in all matters concerning Harry Jones remains Ian Patterson. Ian helped create the character and has played a vital role in leading him through the many minefields I’ve cast in front of him. Our mutual friend, David Foster, has also come to Harry’s assis-tance over thoroughly enjoyable lunches in the Chalke valley. Work should always be that hard.
And every writer should have a wife as wonderfully patient as Rachel, and kids as supportive as Will, Mikey, Alex and Harry.
Michael Dobbs
February 2010
www.michaeldobbs.com
Table of Contents
Half title
Author Biography
Title page
Copyright page
Dedication
Part One. The Friend
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Part Two. The Captive
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Part Three. The Avenger
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Acknowledgements
Michael Dobbs, The Reluctant Hero
Thank you for reading books on BookFrom.Net Share this book with friends