The Reluctant Hero by Michael Dobbs Page A

you.’
    The man tugged at his moustache while he examined Harry, as though he would find the truth written on his forehead. ‘We see. You must go.’
    ‘But when will I hear from you?’
    ‘Tomorrow. Tomorrow evening, perhaps. Or never. Now go.’
    ‘I must see him,’ Harry insisted, stepping forward.
    Suddenly, the other man had a knife in his hand. The speed with which he had produced it was more than enough evidence for Harry that he knew how to use it. ‘Go!’ the man repeated, his voice cracking with menace.
    There was no point in haggling, it might even be counterproductive. Harry knew he had overstepped some invisible mark and the matter was now in their hands. He backed off. Outside it was snowing more heavily than ever, and it had grown colder, the snow more fierce, bullets of ice that were beginning to rattle off the roof of the shelter.
    ‘Any chance of a lift back to the hotel?’ Harry asked.
    ‘We busy,’ the man with the moustache muttered, the light of the fire still dancing off the knife in his hand. Then he turned his back and began talking animatedly with the others.
    With a sigh, Harry stepped out into the snow.
    Harry had less than three hours’ sleep that night, and had to fight his way through a wall of numbness before he made it down to breakfast.
    ‘You always look that bad when you spend the night with a girl?’ Martha greeted, offering a smile that was half-welcome, half-amusement as he sat at her table. ‘I hope I was worth it.’
    ‘Remind me never to let you share my bed again.’
    ‘Must be tough being a man of your age. Running out of staying power already.’
    She was about to persecute him a little more when they were interrupted by the sight of the advancing Roddy Bowles. He had clearly adopted a new tactic and was sidling over to their table, wrapped in a conciliatory smile.
    ‘Good morning, you two.’
    ‘Roddy,’ Harry acknowledged, unwilling to commit himself.
    ‘Er, Martha . . .’ Bowles’ lips puckered as though chewing lemon rind. ‘We got off on the wrong foot yesterday. I hope you’ll forgive me. Suffering from a little jet lag, I suspect – you know, arranging these trips can be hell, so many balls in the air. Barely got any sleep these last few nights.’
    Perhaps it wasn’t all bullshit. Harry’s mind wandered back to the woman’s coat that had been cast so casually over the back of the chair.
    ‘That’s why I was put out by all those last-minute changes,’ Bowles continued. ‘Damned snow. You’d have thought in a place like this they’d know how to cope, but . . .’ He shrugged and made a stab at gentle humour. ‘Where do they think this is? Bloody London?’
    Martha made a point of concentrating on her bowl of fruit, digging out the pips.
    ‘Anyway,’ he struggled on, ‘everything’s sorted. Just as you asked. I understand the arrangements have been made for your visit to the central prison . . .’
    It seemed he’d been talking to Sydykov.
    ‘I like to run a tight ship – and keep one happy family,’ Bowles continued, strangling his metaphors. ‘Wouldn’t want any silly stories floating around when we get back home about – what’s the best way of putting it? – how we fell in or out of bed with each other, would we?’
    So, he’d definitely been with Sydykov, who’d had the nightly report from Madame Guillotine. Martha hadn’t stayed in Harry’s room above an hour, but that had been more than enough.
    ‘Thank you, Roddy. You’re something special, really you are,’ Martha replied, not looking up from her bowl.
    ‘Good. Enough said. I’ll leave you in peace, then. Enjoy the morning.’ With a triumphant wobble of his lips, Bowles departed in search of his breakfast.
    ‘ Ilex aquifolium ,’ she said in the direction of his retreating back.
    ‘What?’ Harry enquired.
    ‘I have a large bush in my back garden,’ she said. ‘Roddy reminds me of it. Ilex aquifolium .’ Her eyes caught his for a moment, and she smiled.