nodded at them, like a teacher trying to encourage a child, and they responded with alacrity, moving back down the aisle of the bus as if their lives depended on it. Elizabeth sat down next to Brenda Walker, while Charles took the single seat across the aisle from her.
Docherty was examining the two men holding the assault rifles. Both were in their late twenties or early thirties, and both, to judge by the slight body movements each kept making, were more than a little nervous. One wore a thin, dark-grey jacket over a white collarless shirt, an Uzbek four-sided cap and black trousers. His hair was of medium length and he was clean-shaven. Dark, sunken eyes peered out from either side of a hooked nose. His companion was dressed in a black shirt and black trousers, and wore nothing on his head. His hair was shorter, his Mongoloid face decorated with a neat beard and moustache.
‘I don’t suppose I need to tell you all that you have been taken hostage,’ Nasruddin begun. Then, as if realizing that he was still talking to them like a tour guide, the voice hardened. ‘You will probably remain in captivity for several days. Provided you obey our orders quickly and without question, no harm will come to any of you…’
There was something decidedly unreal about being taken hostage in Central Asia by a Pakistani with a Yorkshire accent, Docherty thought.
‘We do not wish to harm anyone,’ Nasruddin said, ‘but we will not hesitate to take any action that is necessary for the success of this operation.’ He looked at his captive audience, conscious of the giant step he had taken but somehow unable to take it in. It felt more like a movie than real life, and for a second he wondered if he was dreaming it all.
‘Can I ask a question?’ Mike Copley asked.
‘Yes,’ Nasruddin said, unable to think of a good reason for saying no.
‘Who are you people, and what do you want?’
‘We belong to an organization called The Trumpet of God, and we have certain demands to make of the Uzbekistan government.’
‘Which are?’
Nasruddin smiled. ‘No more questions,’ he said.
‘Can we talk to each other?’ Mike Copley asked.
The bearded hijacker spoke sharply to Nasruddin – in Tajik, Docherty thought, though he wasn’t sure. Their guide smiled and said something reassuring back. Docherty guessed that neither of the new arrivals spoke English.
‘You can talk to the people next to you,’ Nasruddin announced, deciding that conversation would do no harm, and that enforcing silence might be interpreted as a sign of weakness. ‘But no meetings,’ he added. He turned to Talib and Akbar, and explained his decision in Uzbek.
‘So what shall we talk about?’ Isabel asked Docherty in Spanish. She sounded calm enough, but he could hear the edge of tension beneath the matter-of-fact surface.
‘Some ground rules,’ he said in the same language. The two of them were used to conversing in her mother tongue, and at home often found themselves slipping between Spanish and English without thinking about it.
‘OK,’ she agreed. ‘Number one – you don’t try playing the hero. You’re retired.’
‘Agreed. Number two – don’t you try arguing politics with them. These don’t strike me as the kind of lads who like being out-pointed by women.’
‘That doesn’t make them very unusual,’ she said, putting her eyes to the window. ‘Where do you think they’re taking us?’
‘Somewhere remote.’ Docherty was watching Nasruddin out of the corner of his eye, thinking that he would never have suspected the man of pulling a stunt like this. He suddenly remembered something his friend Liam had said the last time he’d seen him, that the more desperate the times, the harder it was to recognize desperation.
He turned his attention back to his wife’s question. They seemed to be travelling mostly uphill, and the road was nowhere near as smooth as they were used to. He tried to remember the map of Central Asia he had examined before the trip, but the details had slipped from his mind. There were mountains to the east of the desert, and Chinese desert to the east of the mountains. Which wasn’t very helpful.
He thought about leaning across the aisle and asking to borrow Mike Copley’s guide book, but decided that would only draw attention to its existence and his own curiosity. Better to wait until they reached their destination, wherever that might be.
He turned round to look at Isabel, and found her angrily wiping away a tear. ‘I was just thinking about the children,’ she said defiantly.
He took her hand and grasped it tightly. ‘It’s going to work out OK,’ he said. ‘We’re going to grow old together.’
She smiled in spite of herself. ‘I hope so.’
Diq Sayriddin plucked a group of sour cherries from the branch above the kravat, and shared them out between the juice-stained hands of his friends. ‘I have to go inside for a while,’ he told them.
It was fifty-five minutes since he had received the call from Shakhrisabz at the public telephone in Registan Street. Nasruddin had expected him to make his own call from there, but somehow the place seemed too exposed. He had decided to use his initiative instead.
Sayriddin passed through the family house and out the back, climbed over the wall and walked swiftly down the alley which led to Tashkent Street. His father, as always, was sitting outside the shop in the shade, more interested in talking with the other shopkeepers than worrying about prospective customers. Sayriddin slipped round the side of the building and let himself in through the back door.
The whole building was empty – no one stayed indoors at this hour of the day – and the office was more or less soundproof, but just to be on the safe side he wedged the door shut with a heavy roll of carpet. Exactly an hour had now gone by since the call from Talib – it was time to make his own.
He pulled the piece of paper with the number, name and message typed on it from his back pocket, smoothed it out and placed it on the desk beside the telephone. He felt more excited than nervous, but perhaps they were the same thing.
After listening for several seconds to make sure he was alone, he picked up the receiver and dialled the Tashkent number. It rang once, twice, three times…
‘Hello,’ an irritable voice said.
‘I must speak with Colonel Muratov,’ Sayriddin said. His voice didn’t sound as nervous as he had expected it would.
‘This is Muratov. Who are you?’
‘I have a message for you…’ Sayriddin began.
‘Who are you?’ Muratov repeated.
‘I cannot say. I have a message, that is all. It is important,’ he added, fearful that the National Security Service chief would hang up.
There was a moment’s silence at the other end, followed by what sounded like a woman speaking angrily.
‘What is this message?’ Muratov asked, almost sarcastically.
‘The Trumpet of God group…’ Sayriddin began reading.
‘The what?!’
‘The Trumpet of God group has seized a party of Western tourists in Samarkand,’ Sayriddin said, the words tumbling out in a single breath. ‘They were with the “Blue Domes” tour, staying at the Hotel Samarkand. There are twelve English and two Americans among the hostages…’
Muratov listened, wondering whether this was a hoax, or simply one of his own men winding him up. Or maybe even one of the Russians who had been jettisoned when the KGB became the NSS. It didn’t sound like a Russian though, or a hoax.
‘Who the fuck are The Trumpet of God?’ he asked belligerently.
‘I cannot answer questions,’ Sayriddin said. ‘There is only the message.’
‘OK,