Read Online The Reluctant Hero by Michael Dobbs - Free Book Online Page B

and hair plastered thinly across his skull. He was wearing circular rimless glasses, and the eyes behind them were bright and almond-shaped, betraying the presence of something Mongol in his genes, yet his skin was pale by the standards of most mountain men, as though he rarely saw the light. With his sloping shoulders and modestly cut suit he gave the impression of an academic, a professor who loved nothing more than spending his days with books. Sydykov made the introductions.
    ‘May I introduce to you Mr Amir Beg,’ he said, ‘the President’s chief of staff.’
    ‘Welcome to the Presidential Palace,’ Beg said, offering a polite bow but without shaking hands. His English was halting but, as his guests were to discover, usually technically precise. ‘The President will be with us shortly. I’m afraid I can offer you no more than fruit juice, since the President himself doesn’t touch alcohol.’ He waved to trays carried by young girls in colourful native costumes.
    ‘That wasn’t in the bloody briefing,’ Proffit muttered in a theatrical whisper from the back of the group.
    ‘You never read the briefing,’ Bowles responded, leading the charge for the trays.
    Apart from Beg and Sydykov there were only three other Ta’argis present, officials from various economic ministries; it was destined to be a small gathering. The room, like so much else in Ashkek, was stiff with formality and too large for their number, and fruit juice wasn’t going to help. Two oversized portraits of the President hung at either end, and the only splashes of colour came from cultural artefacts and murals on the walls. Many of the designs featured horses.
    ‘Used to do a little hunting myself when I was younger,’ Proffit ventured, tugging wistfully at his whiskers.
    ‘We Ta’argis are – or were – nomads,’ Beg said. ‘We claim descent directly from Genghis Khan. Our horses represent our freedom.’
    ‘Then Martha here should feel at home,’ Proffit exclaimed jovially. ‘I’ve always suspected she was in direct line from Cochise and the Sioux.’
    ‘Cochise was an Apache.’ She arched an eyebrow. ‘And I’m half-Irish.’
    ‘The other half?’ Proffit enquired.
    ‘Pure skunk.’
    Proffit was about to offer several further observations about her probable genealogical roots when the large carved wooden doors at the end of the reception room swung open. Everyone turned, and fell to silence as Mourat Karabayev, the President of the Republic of Ta’argistan, strode through the doors, accompanied by two large hunting dogs close at his heels. He was tall for a Ta’argi, in his early fifties and only a little over-weight, with a full head of dark waving hair swept straight back from the temples. He had the high, prominent cheekbones so characteristic of his people, and a small but deeply incised scar just below his right eye. He also had a nose that at some point in his life had been badly broken.
    ‘Mr Bowles, it is so good to see you again,’ he said, extending his hand and sniffing – his broken nose seemed to give him the need to snuffle repeatedly. ‘And all of you: Mrs Riley, gentlemen, you are most welcome. I am sorry if I have kept you waiting. You must be hungry. Let’s eat!’
    His suggestion was more than hospitality; it implied a man short of time and, perhaps, with limited patience. At a brisk pace he led them through to a neighbouring room that was much smaller, with windows on two sides facing out across the city, where the lights were beginning to change as shops were shuttered and in their place the nightspots came to life. Yet the view inside the room proved far more tempting. In discretely lit display cabinets hugging every wall was housed a collection of gold artefacts, exceedingly old and in remarkably fine condition. Items of jewellery, ornamental horse harnesses, burial goods, Buddhist figurines both seated and standing, ancient coins, amulets, with every piece crafted from gold. The display