The Reluctant Hero by Michael Dobbs Page B

‘It’s a form of holly,’ she explained. ‘The prickless kind.’
    There was little that was romantic about Ashkek. Decades of being run by bureaucrats in Moscow had pressed a heavy hand upon its culture, squeezing out most things that offered a reminder of the old days. Meandering tracks had been replaced by mindless boulevards, its native style smothered in concrete and stone cladding. Then the Soviets had left, taking their money with them, and for the last twenty years almost nothing new had happened, and most of what was left behind had begun to crumble away. The towering figure of Lenin still stood on his plinth, reaching for the sky, but the marble slabs at his feet were cracking, falling off. Old women sat huddled in the underpasses, squatting on plastic bins, offering pirated DVDs and cheap cigarettes for sale, while rusting cranes hung over abandoned construction sites, marking the spot where dreams had died.
    Yet the Castle was an exception. It was too massive to have been swept aside simply by a little snow or neglect. It had begun life as nothing more than a stopover on the Silk Road, but as the centuries had passed it had grown to be used as an armoury, a barracks, a palace and now a prison that squatted, brooding, beside the road leading west out of the city and into the mountains. It was constructed of massive stonework beneath lowering gables and heavy slate roofs, with high walls many feet thick that over the centuries had withstood both cannon and siege. Yet, as Martha and Harry drew up outside, with Sydykov and a driver for company, it was clear that the Castle’s walls weren’t intended to keep the unwanted out. They were there to keep them in.
    ‘We will use the tradesmen’s entrance,’ Sydykov suggested with gentle humour as their Mercedes drove past the massive main entrance and entered through a much less symbolic gate that opened off one of the many side streets. They parked in a cobbled courtyard. Armed guards saluted; Harry noted that their vehicles were mostly ageing Ladas. Nearby a battered, oil-smeared truck was being loaded with bags of rubbish by prisoners whose every move was watched by still more armed guards. As Harry climbed from the back of the car he counted three floors to the roofline, with an indication of a basement or cellar area, too. On the lower two of those three floors the windows were covered in bars. Everything seemed to have been built of rough, old stone, the walls, the floors, even the staircase they climbed. Sydykov led the way. Harry hadn’t expected refinement and he found none. With every step, the stale smell of institutional squalor seemed to set more firmly in his nostrils.
    They were escorted into a large, overheated office on the top floor, in the middle of which, waiting to greet them, stood a serious-faced man of around sixty with a square head and a face that was almost flat.
    ‘Good morning. I am Governor Akmatov,’ he said, in Russian, extending a hand. He indicated they should take seats in front of his ornately carved partner’s desk. For all its size it was surprisingly empty of decoration – a telephone, a desk light, a pen tray, a wooden photo frame. There were no papers of any sort; it didn’t seem to be an office that relied on such things. A bust of the President stood on a wooden column against one wall, and nearby was a noticeboard with what seemed to be some form of illustration of the prison. Harry couldn’t be certain; he stared, cursed silently. He tried squinting. Damn, it didn’t help. He’d been wondering about his eyesight for a few months but had done nothing about it. There came a time for every man to acknowledge his weaknesses, but it was always something for tomorrow. Now, once again, he promised himself he’d arrange an eye test. Soon.
    A tray of tea arrived, Akmatov played host, and ten minutes went by as he ensured they had everything they wanted. The next thirty were spent with him, through the translation of