Samarkand Hijack. David Monnery
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continued on its bloody way, despite losing top spot in the genocide league to Rwanda. And then there was the Middle East…If this was the New World Order, Holcroft thought, then he would hate to see chaos.
On his desk he found a memo waiting for him. The two British hostages held by the Khmer Rouge in Cambodia were getting a full-page write-up in tomorrow morning’s Independent, and it was expected that the Labour MP championing their cause would be seeking a government response the following afternoon.
Holcroft sighed. What did they expect – a gunboat? That the government would send the hostage-takers to bed without any supper? The honest answer would be to say that Her Majesty’s Government had no influence whatsoever on the Khmer Rouge, and to admit in addition that it had more important things to worry about than a couple of British citizens who had been stupid enough to travel in a country that was clearly unsafe. As far as Holcroft was concerned they were like transatlantic rowers or potholers – he had no objection to them taking risks, but every objection to their using taxpayers’ time and money to pull themselves out of jams of their own making.
None of which he could say at the dispatch box. He settled down to read through the memo, confident that the author would have supplied him with either a more acceptable reason for doing nothing or a convincing explanation of how much he was already doing.
Holcroft was nearly halfway through the three-page memo when there was a sharp rap on his door. He looked at his watch – there was still at least forty minutes left of the one hour without interruption which he demanded each day. ‘Come,’ he snapped.
It was his Parliamentary Private Secretary, Michael Allsworth. ‘Sorry to interrupt you,’ the intruder said, ‘but the embassy in Tashkent has been on the line.’
Holcroft felt the familiar mixture of anger and frustration seize him by the throat. ‘What in God’s name has she done now?’ he demanded.
‘No, it’s nothing like that…it’s…well…’ Allsworth took a seat. ‘It all seems a bit iffy, Minister. The gist of it is that the tour party your daughter is with seems to have disappeared. Or at least not returned to the hotel in Samarkand when it should have. As you know, the agent assigned to your daughter is supposed to report in each day at seven local time. Today she hasn’t. But we have no actual reason to suspect foul play…’
‘No actual reason?’
‘Well, when the embassy tried to contact her at the hotel they were asked to speak to the police, which they found a bit odd.’
‘Was there no reason given for the tour party not being there?’
‘Just lateness. And that may be…’
‘What’s the time there now?’ Holcroft wanted to know.
‘About ten o’clock in Samarkand, eleven in Tashkent.’
‘And they were due back when?’
‘For dinner at eight o’clock.’
‘So it’s only two hours. That doesn’t seem much.’
‘No, it’s just…’
‘The police business. I understand.’ Holcroft considered for a moment. The familiar thought of how much easier life would be, both for him and his wife, without their youngest daughter flitted across his mind, and for once induced a slight sense of shame. Rather more to his surprise, Holcroft also felt a tinge of panic. ‘If they’re not simply late, then what are the possibilities?’ he asked Allsworth.
‘An accident of some sort, a simple hold-up, a political hijack.’
Holcroft wondered which would be worst. ‘So what do you suggest?’ he asked.
‘Get the intelligence boys working on it, just in case. After all, they’ve already got someone with the party, and MI6 have another man in Tashkent. MI5 or Special Branch can do any spadework that needs doing this end. The tour company operates out of Bradford,’ he added, in response to Holcroft’s raised eyebrow.
‘Of course.’ Sarah had told him as much when she’d announced this ridiculous jaunt. That was how he had managed to arrange the accompanying minder. ‘Right,’ he told Allsworth. ‘Do that. And call me if any news comes in. I’ll be at home.’
The secretary disappeared, leaving Holcroft with a sinking sensation in his stomach. ‘They’re just late,’ he murmured to himself, but it didn’t sound convincing. He wondered what, if anything, he was going to tell his wife Phyllis.
Marat Rashidov watched Nurhan’s thighs shift as she changed gears and had a fleeting memory of being excited by his ex-wife in similar circumstances. ‘What were you planning this evening?’ he asked.
She didn’t answer for a moment, being absorbed in circumnavigating a goat which had strayed into the middle of the road, and now seemed transfixed by the car’s headlights. ‘What did you say?’ she asked, once they were past the belligerent-looking animal.
He repeated the question.
She smiled to herself. ‘Just a dinner date,’ she said.
‘Who was the lucky man?’ he asked.
She laughed. ‘Mind your own business,’ she retorted. ‘What did you have planned?’
He grunted. ‘Nothing much.’ Another evening staring at the walls and wondering who he was staying sober for. He glanced across at Nurhan, whose black hair was now gathered at the nape of her neck and held by an elastic band she had found in one of the tourists’ rooms. Marat had known of her for a long time, occasionally run into her when their professional duties overlapped, but he had no real idea of who she was. Rumour had it that she’d screwed her way to the position she currently held, but in the predominantly male world of the Samarkand NSS such an explanation of her success was almost inevitable. Marat doubted it was true. She didn’t seem like the scheming sort. Or the sort who wanted to be beholden to anyone for anything.
‘How did you get into this work?’ he asked.
‘It’s in the family blood,’ she said. ‘My grandmother was in the Chekas during the Revolution.’
‘Tell me about her,’ Marat said.
She glanced across at him. ‘It’s ancient history,’ she said. ‘Why would you be interested?’
‘It’s going to be a long ride,’ he said. ‘Humour me.’
She shrugged. ‘She was my mother’s mother. Her name was Rahima Asankulova. She was the wife of one of the first Uzbek Bolsheviks, a very young wife. Of course he treated her like any Uzbek husband treated his wife in those days, and in 1921, when she was only about nineteen – she never knew exactly which year she was born in – she ran away to Moscow, to the headquarters of the Party women’s organization, the Zhenotdel. There was a big fuss, but six months later she came back as a Zhenotdel worker, one of the first in Central Asia. You know what they went through?’
‘I imagine they weren’t too popular.’
‘That’s an understatement if ever I heard one. They campaigned against the veil, and for an end to the selling of brides, and in favour of education for women…the usual. Some were stoned to death, some were thrown down wells, one woman was actually chopped up. All these murders were committed by fellow family members, of course.’
Glancing to his left, Marat could see her staring angrily ahead.
‘And your grandmother?’
‘She survived until the thirties, then died giving birth in one of Stalin’s prisons.’
‘To your mother?’
‘No, she was born in 1928. She worked for the Party too, though not for the KGB. She was a union representative for the Tashkent textile workers. She’s retired now, but she still lives in Tashkent…’
She broke off as two headlights appeared round a bend in the mountain road.