Free The Reluctant Hero by Michael Dobbs

was overshadowed by yet another portrait of the President, watching protectively over a dining table set for ten. Karabayev took his place in the middle, looking out over his city, Bowles sat opposite. The two groups didn’t mingle but found their seats on either side of the table – like North and South Korea, Harry thought. Beg was at the President’s right hand, and Martha next to Bowles. It made Harry wonder if Bowles had been responsible for the British seating plan; he was left in no doubt when he found himself ushered to the floating seat at the very end of the table.
    The meal was simple – meat that might have been mutton, with cabbage and potatoes. And cheese. Mountain food. Alongside the fruit juice, they were also offered a drink of sour-smelling liquid that was described as fermented mare’s milk, but even Proffit took only a cursory sip. The glasses were kept topped up, and they talked: of aspirations, of industries, of economic ties and political ambitions, all the many things that might turn the myth of the Silk Road into a modern reality. Then Karabayev raised his glass of mare’s milk and offered a toast: ‘To friendship.’
    ‘To trade,’ Bowles responded.
    ‘To aid,’ the President added.
    Bowles smiled and sipped his fruit juice.
    ‘And in return for that aid?’ It was Martha. As usual, there was a note of challenge in her voice.
    The President stared across the table. ‘In return? Why, our friendship. We are a proud and independent people, Mrs Riley, a natural ally of the West. Friendship in a turbulent world has its own value, I think.’ But he could see he had failed to impress Martha. ‘Is there more you would want?’
    ‘I’m a democrat, Mr President. You want my friendship, I want more openness. Human rights. Free elections. I hope you’ll forgive me speaking candidly’ – her lips were working as though chewing a large wad of tobacco – ‘but I keep hearing claims that the last election was rigged.’
    An uncomfortable silence settled upon them all. While he considered his answer, Karabayev threw morsels of meat to the two dogs, whose jaws snapped hungrily. Then he sniffed, pretended a smile, showing a set of perfect white teeth that Harry suspected might even be his own.
    ‘Yes, democracy. A delicate flower, Mrs Riley, too easily trampled by . . . careless criticism.’ He threw more meat to the dogs before wiping his hands and turning his full attention to her. ‘You shouldn’t listen to lies peddled by the disappointed. And might I suggest you take care when you offer lectures about democracy? After all, your own government was elected by barely a quarter of the voters while your head of state isn’t elected at all. And as for your House of Lords . . .’ He turned to Sid Proffit, a.k.a. Lord Proffit of Chipping Sodbury. ‘I hope you will not take this personally, but the entire world sits back in bewilderment at a house of Parliament filled with nothing but placemen and hereditary aristocrats. It is . . .’ – he searched for the appropriate term – ‘quaint. But scarcely democratic.’ He held up his hand to stall the imminent outpouring of rebuttal from Martha. ‘Yes, yes, I know, you have your own way of doing things, but so do we. In Ta’argistan we like to work in harmony with the people. The government and governed are as one. All in step.’
    Harry could almost hear the tramp of marching boots echoing through the streets.
    ‘It is an ideal more easily aspired to than achieved, I know,’ the President continued, ‘but that’s why the foremost task of my loyal lieutenant here –’ he placed his hand on Amir Beg’s shoulder – ‘is to ensure that it becomes a reality.’ He made it sound as if Beg was a spin doctor. Beg smiled, nodded his head to acknowledge the recognition, although his knuckles showed white. They usually did, Harry had noticed. They were remarkably uneven, like a mountain range, as if at some point they had been badly broken.