In the Palace of the Khans Page 10

  Fascinated, wondering how much detail he’d be able to make out at a greater distance than the owls, Nigel trained the glasses on the jumble of rocks on the opposite shore. They too were astonishingly clear, clear enough for him to notice when a rock next to the one he was looking at changed its shape.

  He turned his glasses on it, and saw the notch between the two rocks fill in for a moment and reappear. Something was moving among the rocks.

  “Oh, they’re all going home!” said Nigel’s mother.

  “Something disturbs the owls,” said Herr Fettler.

  “I saw something moving over there,” said Nigel. “I thought it might be a fox.”

  “Foxes the owls do not fear,” said Herr Fettler. “It is perhaps a poacher.”

  “Everybody get down behind the parapet,” said the President calmly. “Nigel, show me where.”

  He added a few words in Dirzhani, moved at a crouch to behind Nigel’s shoulder and peered along the line of his night-glasses. Nigel swung them slowly to the left, searching, and saw a flicker of movement as a crouching figure scuttled across a sloping slab, unmistakably human.

  One of the guards spoke, low-voiced, urgent—she must have seen it too. Then another, and the hide was filled with a clamour of gunfire.

  “Stop!” screamed Nigel’s mother. “You don’t know! They might …”

  A moment of silence, and then she was answered by the sharp crack of something whanging against the cliff face behind them, a brief whine and a cry from one of the guards. Nigel flung himself face down beside the parapet and lay there, terrified, while the clamour broke out again.

  A command from the President and the guards stopped firing. He spoke in Dirzhani, a question. A woman’s voice answered, gasping.

  “Mrs Ridgwell, Taeela,” he said as calmly as ever. “Lie against the parapet. Stay where you are, Nigel. Ambassador, Herr Fettler, please drag the chests to protect them and yourselves from ricochets. Keep your heads well down”

  “Somebody was hurt,” said Nigel’s mother. “One of the guards.”

  “A deep graze from a ricochet,” said the President. “Painful, she says, but not serious.”

  “I’ve done a lot of first aid,” said Nigel’s mother.

  “Later,” said the President. “We are in no immediate danger, but cannot retaliate, as our attacker or attackers are beyond the effective range of our …”

  He broke off as something slammed into the timber of the parapet close above Nigel’s head. He gulped and tried to shrink even further into the floor, unable to stop himself thinking that the shot had been deliberately aimed at him. Stupid. But if it had hit a join between the rounded timbers …

  “… but not of theirs, evidently,” the President went on, as if he hadn’t been interrupted. “The question is, is there more than one man?”

  In the silence that followed Nigel could hear his father and Herr Fettler grunting with effort as they heaved the chests across the rough timbers. The President spoke to the guards and was answered.

  “Just the one, we think, with a hunting rifle and a night vision sight.”

  Nigel’s father heaved a chest into place alongside Nigel’s body.

  “Not a specialist sniper’s weapon, sir?” he said, trying to sound as calm as the President and not succeeding.

  “A hunting rifle is much more likely,” said the President. “There will be several in each of the villages. You spoke of poachers, Herr Fettler. I thought we had put a stop to the taking of owls.”

  “Yes that is stopped, Herr President. And a rifle he would not need. Ach, I see your thought. You are not bringing soldiers enough for to make safe the area. A hunter is over there, setting perhaps traps for squirrels. He recognises your Excellency from across the water. He does not want the dam building. There is much feeling in the villages. This man is a hunter. Not only traps he sets. He brings his hunting rifle. Yes, it is possible.”

  “It must be looked into,” said the President. “For the moment we will assume it is the case. What time is moon-rise, do you know?”

  “Twenty-two forty-eight local time, Herr President.”

  “Then we have time to wait for full darkness before we leave. If you are prepared to look at the guard, Mrs Ridgwell …”

  “Coming.”

  “Please wait. I will tell you when we are ready. You have a hand-torch, Herr Fettler? And First Aid kit?”

  “I fetch them, your Excellency.”

  Scrabbling sounds from the other end of the hide. An urgent whisper from Nigel’s mother.

  “Nick! Turn round so you can hear me.”

  Grunts and scrabbles. Nigel wriggled himself beside his mother’s legs so that he could hear too. Anything to distract him from the pit of terror.

  “… thinks it’s one of the villagers …”

  “Which it very likely is.”

  “Yes, but he’s going to take it out on all of them, like he did on that village where they couldn’t find an ibex for him to hunt. You’ve got to stop him. Before he gets to a telephone. You’ve …”

  “We are ready for you now, Mrs Ridgwell. Keep yourself well down.”

  “Coming.”

  She rose and moved away, visible in a faint glow from the further end of the hide. Twisting his head Nigel could see the President and Herr Fettler kneeling there, spreading some kind of tarpaulin into a tent-like structure over the source of the light. The light itself and the wounded guard were hidden by the line of chests. She reached them and crawled beneath the tarpaulin. They lowered it over her and the light vanished

  Behind him Nigel’s father sighed.

  “She’s right, isn’t she, Dad?”

  “I’m afraid so. The trouble is, he’s got to do something. If there were a possibility of finding the right man … I may be able to persuade him it will dish the dam project if he over-reacts. There’s no way it won’t come out, there’s too much interest …”

  “Wait, Dad. There’s a bullet. It hit the parapet just where I was lying. On CSI they’re always looking at bullets and saying which gun they came from. And thingummys—you know, the bit the bullet fits into …”

  “Casings. Ah … Thanks.”

  It was pitch dark in the hide now. Time went by. Terror flooded back. Any worse, and he’d be on his feet and rushing yammering out onto the walkway. He twisted himself over and tried to count the stars sliding westward along the narrow slot of sky that was all he could see from this angle, but his mind kept slipping free to gaze into the pit and he kept dragging it back. At last his mother spoke briefly with the President and returned. He shifted to make room for her legs, then reached up, feeling around for her hand, ashamed to speak aloud of his need. She understood and grasped his and held it.

  “How is she?” said his father.

  “It’s in her thigh. Fairly nasty. She was losing a lot of blood. I’ve managed to stop it, mostly. She’s going to need to be carried back to the cars.”

  “Well done. What’s he up to now?”

  “Just waiting, I think. He says we can move in twenty minutes. What are you going to do, Nick?”

  “Talk to him if I can,” said Nigel’s father. Then, raising his voice above a mutter, “May I have a word with you, Mr. President?”

  “Certainly, Ambassador.”

  His footsteps receded. A brief question from the President, answered by Nigel’s father. Nigel could hear the tone and shape of the sentences, calm, reasoning, official—ambassador-stuff—but not the words. A can’t-be-done sort of objection from the President. Nigel’s father dealing with it. That pattern repeated. And again.

  Fighting the fear-demon, he strained to hear, catching just the odd word now and again, and then with a lurch he’d be back in the nightmare, out on the walkway, an open target, with a skilled marksman peering at him through the night-vision sight of a powerful rifle.

  His father’s voice fell silent. Taeela’s voice now, saying two or three words in Dirzhani, the last one “Dudda.” His abrupt, brushing
-off answer. Her reply, not at all official, urgent, passionate, her whole soul poured into it, refusing to be silenced till she ended, gasping for breath.

  Silence again. A guard slapped at an insect. Now the President, speaking English, even-voiced as before, but a slight difference in tone at first, as if he’d just made one of his odd, unsmiling jokes. (Now, of all times?) Then back to normal, doing more of the talking than before, making a series of proposals. Occasional comments from Nigel’s father. Finish. Almost time to go. Nigel’s heart was already thudding when his father came back.

  “You did it?” whispered his mother.

  “Best we could get. Thanks to the girl, really. She’s watched CSI too, apparently. Gave him a chance to save face, not simply giving in to me. Of course it’s in his own best interest if he wants the dam built. He’s going to close the area off and do a house-to-house search for rifles. But he’s agreed to let me send Tim up as an observer. And I’m going to have to move heaven and earth to get a forensics boffin and equipment in from home to check the rifles and bullets—they don’t have the facilities here … sounds like we’re moving—tell you later.”

  The President’s voice again, an order in Dirzhani. A guard moved away along the hide.

  And again, in English.

  “We will now prepare to leave. I and my guards are wearing body armour, so we will walk in pairs, with the unprotected person on the right. Ambassador, if you would be good enough to help me carry the casualty …”

  “Er … Of course, sir. Now?”

  “When I have finished. The attacker may already have left, but we must assume he is still there. When we are ready the three guards will line up at the entrance to the hide. Mrs Ridgwell will position herself on the right of the first one, Nigel behind her, then Taeela. Nigel, your guard will not be in place yet as he is helping us to lift the casualty. Take hold of your guard’s uniform so that you will remain in cover as they vary their pace. The Ambassador and I and the casualty will come behind you. Herr Fettler has agreed to stay until we are among the trees, when one of the guards will be free to return for him.

  “Herr Fettler has a flare pistol for night photography purposes. When we are ready to leave I will tell you to close your eyes. He will then fire a flare on a low trajectory over the water, to destroy our attacker’s night vision while we are actually leaving the hide. We will leave at brief intervals as soon as the flare reaches the water and is extinguished.

  “Will you now take up your positions.”

  With a lurch of the heart Nigel let go of his mother’s hand started to twist himself over, tangling with her legs as she did the same.

  “Ouch!” she whispered as he fought himself loose. The strap of his shoulder-bag snagged on something and he wrenched it free. He scrambled over the chest and scuttled towards the paler rectangle of the doorway, now partly blocked by the dark shape of the leading guard. His mother limped past and positioned herself beside him.

  Nigel stopped, still crouching down a little way back from her, next to the second guard, but was immediately shoved forward with an impatient mutter, leaving him with no one to protect him on his left, once he was out on the walkway. Nightmare. The marksman across the water …

  Despairingly he looked over his shoulder for help and saw the pale oval of Taeela’s face floating beside the dim shape of the guard.

  Just in time sanity returned. The mutter had been that of a woman’s voice. The President had actually told him that his guard wouldn’t be in place when he reached the door as he would be helping lift the wounded woman. He could hear her gasping groan as she was settled into place on the linked hands of her bearers. By the time his guard arrived he’d got himself together enough to feel around on the man’s uniform for a bit of web strapping to hold on to.

  The President’s voice again.

  “Keeping hold of the guard beside you, will you now turn your faces to the wall. Close your eyes and cover them with your free hand.”

  Nigel obeyed. Determined not to be separated from his human shield he was already clinging so fiercely to the strap that the webbing bit into his palm. He felt the man move round as the President repeated the order in Dirzhani.

  “We are ready, Herr Fettler.”

  There was an explosive whoosh from the back of the hide, then silence, then a sharper explosion from out over the water. The sudden glare reflected from the rock-face penetrated hand and eyelids. Darkness again.

  “Go now!” said the President. “Drah!”

  Nigel’s mother and her guard were out onto the walkway before he had turned his head. Instinctively he tried to lurch into a run, but his guard grabbed his shoulder, held him, waited two endless seconds, muttered “Drah,” and broke into a rapid trot, short steps that Nigel could easily keep pace with. The starlight glimmered off the long reaches of the lake, framed by the dark mass of the mountains among which it lay. But all Nigel was aware of was the imprisoning cliff on his right, and the walkway ahead, blocked by the dim shapes of his mother and her guard, getting quickly closer. They seemed to be moving at barely more than a stroll.

  Now they broke into a run, but strangely slow and awkward. His mother could run better that that, for God’s sake. Sometimes in Santiago he’d gone out with her on his bike and admired her handsome, easy lope. Not now. So the obvious thing was to catch up, yell at them to get out of the way and race on to the sheltering woods. Come on, come on, come on …

  Instead his guard muttered something and stopped dead. Before Nigel could protest he muttered again and marched on, slowed after a few paces, speeded up, slowed, stopped, broke into a run, with a grunt of warning at each change and keeping a hold of Nigel’s shoulder all the time, forcing him to do the same. It was clear from the firmness of the grip and the tone of the grunts that the man knew Nigel was on the verge of bolting and despised him for it. Shame and fury—fury with the man, fury with himself—joined terror in the churn of his emotions. He stumbled on, only aware of rounding the bend in the cliffs and seeing the woods coming nearer and nearer, until they stepped onto the packed earth of the path and into the greater darkness under the trees. The guard let go with a final grunt and started back along the walkway.

  Nigel stood, gasping, gasps that were almost sobs, with a taste of vomit in his mouth. Looking back he could see Taeela and her guard silhouetted against the starlit water, just reaching the end of the walkway. She was trotting along, head high, one hand holding onto the guard beside her, the other lifting her long skirt clear of the timber so that she could run more easily. Her guard wasn’t keeping hold of her. No need.

  Unable to face her Nigel turned away and saw that the darkness wasn’t as absolute as before. Further into the wood his mother was sitting by the path with her skirt pulled up above her knees. She had got her little torch out, screened by her body, and was feeling around on her calf with her other hand. Her guard watched her from the dimness beyond.

  Nigel staggered towards them. His mother looked up.

  “Oh, darling, thank goodness!” she said. “Wasn’t that awful! Are you all right?”

  “Don’t know. I’m going to be sick,” he said, and was, leaning against a tree so that the mess fell further down the slope. He turned, shuddering and chilly, and sat down beside her. The terror seemed to have gone with the vomit, but the anger and the shame were still there, churning. She put her arm round him and drew him close.

  “That was awful,” she said again.

  Mercifully Taeela hadn’t seen any of this, as she had stopped as soon as she was in among the trees to wait for her father. They sat in silence, waiting for the others. Now it dawned on him what his mother had been doing.

  “You’ve hurt your leg!”

  “Caught it on the corner of one of those chests while we were getting out from behind them. We got in a bit of a tangle, remember?”

  He did now. He remembered how he’d fought clear of her, how she’d muttered with pain, limped to her place at the door of the hide, run so awkwardly
along the walkway … He’d felt and heard and seen these things, but not once thought about them, or what had caused them, or anything except his own terror-driven urge to run …

  “Ah, here they are at last.”

  He scrambled to his feet and, rather than face Taeela, watched her guard help the two men lower the wounded woman to the ground. She seemed to have fainted.

  The President rose and turned.

  “Mrs Ridgwell, we must … You are hurt?”

  “Nothing serious, just a nasty cut,” she said, rising and limping over. “I just need a plaster bigger than what I’ve got in my bag. It can wait. How is she?”

  “Still losing blood, I fear.”

  “I’ll look, shall I? But I don’t think there’s much I can do here. It’d be much easier back at the offices, with proper lights and water and everything. What we really need is a stretcher. With her wound where it is it isn’t doing her any good, carrying her like that.”

  “We will construct one,” he said after a pause, and started giving orders to the guards. One of the women took a hand torch out of a bulging pocket and ran off up the path, the other handed her torch to the President and returned to the start of the walkway, where she waited under the trees, gun held ready, silhouetted against the star-glimmer.

  “If you and Nigel would help us look for suitable branches, Ambassador,” said the President.

  “Of course. Come on, Niggles. You can drag them back down.”

  Nigel jumped at the chance, not just to do something—anything—except drown in shame and terror, but also to get away from Taeela. He fetched out his own torch, and started to follow the three men up through the trees. To his dismay Taeela came scrambling up beside him.

  “Oh, Nigel!” she gasped. “I was so scared!”

  He halted, turned, and stared at her. Her eyes seemed huge as an owl’s in the dim light. Her chest was heaving with the effort of the climb.

  “Me too,” he muttered.

  “But … But … Oh, Nigel!”

  Then, astonishingly, she started to laugh, took a pace towards him, caught her foot on something and lurched forward so that he had to grab her to stop her falling. She flung her arms round him and hugged him, her laughter now on a rising note, almost out of control.