Free The Reluctant Hero by Michael Dobbs Page A

Perhaps that was why he didn’t shake hands.
    ‘If you want more aid, we need to see progress on human rights,’ Martha persisted.
    ‘We have nothing to hide.’
    ‘Really? That’s not what I hear.’
    ‘And what is it, precisely, that you hear, Mrs Riley?’ Karabayev sniffed.
    ‘All nature of things. Domestic violence on women being the norm. Bride kidnapping. Harassment of the gay community. And I can give you a list of opponents who seem to have disappeared inside your prisons.’ As she was speaking she reached out to stroke one of the dogs that was prowling around the table in search of more treats. In return what she got was a deep, glottal growl and a curled lip that revealed large yellow teeth.
    ‘I’d advise against that, Mrs Riley,’ the President warned. ‘They’re not pets.’ His voice had grown quiet, almost soft, but he was no longer even pretending to smile. ‘As for lists, I can offer you lists, too, if that’s what you want. About your own country. Unless I am very much mistaken, Britain has the highest prison population in Europe. Isn’t that so? And the highest levels of crime, the highest levels of homelessness. And what did your Leader of the Opposition say just last week? I seem to remember he talked about cities littered with drug addicts where the streets are patrolled by pimps and prostitutes.’ He brushed a piece of imaginary lint from the front of his jacket. ‘We can all play games with statistics, Mrs Riley, but I find it a fruitless exercise. In Ta’argistan, we do our best, in difficult circumstances.’
    Beg joined the battle. His accent was less fluent than his President’s, yet his voice conveyed remarkable passion. ‘Twenty years ago, there was no freedom in our country. The half that wasn’t used as a training ground by Soviet special forces was used as a dumping ground for its nuclear industry. And we need no lectures about prisons, Mrs Riley. Both the President and I had the pleasure of spending several years as guests of our Soviet masters. If our hands aren’t yet as clean as you might like, it’s only because we haven’t finished washing them of foreign dirt.’
    Karabayev took up the reins once more. ‘Please don’t mistake us for barbarians, Mrs Riley. Look around you. These beautiful artefacts were being fashioned at a time when in your own country I believe the natives wore animal skins and daubed their bodies in coloured mud.’
    She was about to protest that she had been born an American, but held her tongue. Somehow, she doubted that waving the Stars and Stripes would help.
    ‘This place was the crossroads of many ancient civilizations. We are a proud people, an ancient race. We ask for nothing other than respect.’
    ‘And a little aid,’ she reminded him.
    Karabayev was on his feet, his face stiff. ‘I’m sure we could swap stories all night, but you will have to continue without me, I fear. Affairs of state, you understand. I shall leave you in Amir Beg’s capable hands. Goodnight.’
    With a final snuffle, he was gone, pursued by the dogs. Bowles glared at Martha, she fixed her gaze on her mare’s milk, and Sid Proffit took another, and longer, exploratory sip. Meanwhile, Harry’s heart sank. The President had disappeared, and with him had vanished any chance Harry might have had of simply asking for Zac’s release, as an act of friendship. Martha had really mucked that one up. Blown it to pieces. It had always been a long shot, he knew, but so much less painful for him than any of the alternatives. His eyes were drawn once more to Beg’s obliterated knuckles. Something about this man told Harry that nothing would ever be achieved here without very considerable pain.
    Bowles’ eyes continued to glow red with anger, as if with a little more focus they might encourage Martha into an act of spontaneous combustion. There would be words later, yet the hole in the evening was quickly filled as Beg nodded towards Sydykov and the President’s