Revolution (6 page)

‘Murder on your mind, Callum? Wouldn’t go down well on camera,’ he said, gesturing to his following cameraman.

‘That depends on who’s watching,’ Callum murmured coldly before moving on.

Sigby turned to call after them.

‘One call to Harrison Forbes and I’ll have you both on a plane out of here. I’m running the show in Thessalia.’

Megan turned at the top of the stairs, regarding Sigby for a moment.

‘Well, you’re not doing much of a job of it if there’s nothing to report.’

Sigby’s face screwed up into a ball of indignation, but he said nothing more.

Megan let a smile hang on her features for a moment before turning to follow Hillary away down an adjoining corridor. Hillary looked at her.

‘Is that true, what he said?’

‘Every word,’ Megan replied, ‘except twisted to make it sound far worse than it actually is.’

‘So you’re not off your rocker then?

Megan laughed out loud and shook her head.

‘Sadly, I remain appallingly sane. I just took time out of life for my own reasons. Listen, Hillary, I need you to contact Sir Wilkins in the city for me, let him know that I’m here and that I need to speak with him.’

‘Sure, no problem. He’s staying at Government House on the main square.’ Hillary led her to a doorway. ‘Here’s the room. Finest in all of what’s left of Mordania.’

Megan and Callum walked inside the small, musty room. Callum looked around at the creeping damp, peeling walls and grubby windows.

‘I like what they’ve done with the place.’

Megan tossed her rucksack down onto one of the two thin mattresses in the room and peered out of the window over the city.

‘It’s damp, cold and ugly,’ Hillary said, ‘a bit like Martin Sigby, but it’s safe, at least for now.’

‘For now?’ Megan echoed her.

Hillary gestured out of the window, toward the north.

‘The rebels are advancing, taking towns day by day. The UN Protection Force is a gesture only – they can’t legally engage the rebels except in self–defence. You can hear the rebel artillery at night. Sooner or later, they’re going to reach Thessalia.’

Megan nodded slowly.

‘And like Srebrenica, they’ll breach the city.’

Callum stared hard at Megan.

‘And we don’t want to be here when they do that.’

***

‘In Mordanian, Thessalia means“The city with no name”.’

Hillary Cook’s voice carried on the cold air as she walked with Megan through the streets toward Government House.

‘Why?’ Megan asked.

‘Take a look around you. This place was built by everybody and by nobody.’

The architecture of Thessalia was a curious mixture of squat, Soviet style concrete blocks, with the occasional picturesque minaret striking upward toward the slate grey sky. The Islamic monuments betrayed a population made up of almost entirely of Muslims, along with a smattering of Russians, Georgians and smaller ethnic groups living mostly in the highlands of the Greater Caucasus Mountains.

‘It’s one of the oldest of the Caucasian republics,’ Hillary went on. ‘The capital was established sometime over a thousand years ago, around 900AD, and spent most of its time as a key trading port for the flow of goods between the East and the West, especially when the overland routes like the Great Silk Road became too dangerous for travellers and traders alike.’

The street upon which they walked was cobbled – work done, Megan imagined, by the Romans millennia before. Old stone apartment blocks with small windows stood on either side of the street, their shutters closed to keep out the winter chill. A few bedraggled citizens struggled to and fro, wrapped up in blankets against the wind, casting wary glances at the heavily armed UN troops patrolling the streets on foot and in jeeps.

‘What’s the humanitarian situation?’ Megan asked.

‘At crisis level,’ Hillary said. ‘There’s a major refugee encampment spread along the edge of the Ganibe River to the west of the city. The last reliable figures I heard suggested maybe a quarter of a million refugees there, most of them ethnic Muslims and Russians fleeing from the rebel advance. It’s being handled by the UN in terms of supplies of grain and water, but it’s mostly Red Cross,
Medicines Sans Frontiers
and all the other aid groups who are doing the leg–work on the ground.’

‘Missing people?’

Hillary looked at Megan for a moment before replying.

‘Hundreds at least, maybe thousands, mostly as a result of the breakdown in infrastructure. The Red Cross is handling that – they have a special department of some kind.’

‘I know,’ Megan replied. ‘Is anyone getting out of the safe–haven and into the countryside?’

‘Only the French,
Medicines Sans Frontiers
,’ Hillary said. ‘They’re refusing to confine their activities to Thessalia. The government is tolerating their movements because they don’t venture much more than ten miles beyond the city, and they never move north of the Tornikov River. That’s bandit country.’

The end of the street opened up onto Pevestraka Square, a vast, Soviet style pedestrian area dominated by Government House on the opposite side. The huge and elaborate edifice of the building towered over the smaller administrative offices that ringed the square, and on the roof of one side of the building ranks of satellite dishes stared blankly up into the cold grey sky. On the opposite side of the square stood a tall, Gothic looking church, whilst the square itself had a large statue in its centre.

‘Who’s that?’ Megan asked as they walked, pointing to the centre of the square.

The large iron statue of a rampant horse was surrounded by corroded water spouts whose fountains had fallen dormant long ago. Upon the horse was a man with a heavy beard on his face and an equally heavy sword in his hand pointing vigorously forward, his face stoic with the courage of ages gone by.

‘Balthazar the Great, one of several legendary Mordanian heroes who stood against the Mongol invasions and Tamerlane‘s raids in 1389. Dagestan suffered heavily during the Mongol actions, but Balthazar held the Mordanian line to the north and with it his country’s independence.’

Megan looked at the bitter, immoveable lines of the man’s features as they walked beneath the statue and imagined that he had been as hard as iron in real life too. Hillary pointed to the church.

‘That’s the Thessalia clock tower,’ she said, pointing to a large and simple white–faced clock atop the gothic church bell–tower. ‘It’s rumoured to have never stopped in over five hundred years and kept perfect time throughout. Mordanians say that you can set your heart by that clock.’

Hillary walked with Megan past the church to the gates of Government House, manned by two military policemen who spoke halting English. Hillary managed to convey who Megan was and that Sir Wilkins was expecting her.

‘This is as far as I go,’ Hillary said. ‘I’ve got a live UK broadcast in two hours and sod–all to say.’

‘I’ll see you at the hotel,’ Megan promised, as one of the policemen returned and opened the gates.

Megan walked inside the compound, the gate closing behind her as the policeman gestured for her to follow. They walked through the main door of the house and into the hush of the building itself.

The main reception hall was broad and flanked by opposing staircases carpeted in faded red fabric. Mock chandeliers hung from the high ceilings on long cables. Megan sensed the musty odour of age and aeons of dust as she followed her escort down a long corridor to the right of the reception hall.

Despite the winter chill outside there seemed to be no heating in the massive building. Iron–barred windows to her right looked out over the compound, whilst the walls to her left were adorned with large canvass paintings of what Megan assumed to be politicians or Mordanian Kings.

‘Megan!’

Sir Thomas Wilkins strode toward Megan from one of the offices adjoining the corridor. The escort peeled away as Wilkins grasped Megan’s hand firmly and kissed her on both her cheeks, his wild white hair as wavy as ever and his florid skin betraying decades of fine dining and late–night brandy drinking with the dignitaries of dozens of countries.

‘So good to see you back in the field again, Megan!’

‘And you Tom,’ Megan replied. ‘It’s been a while.’

Sir Thomas Wilkins had been a servant of the United Nations for well over a decade, and before that had served the UK Foreign Office in Kuwait, presiding over Kuwaiti liaisons with the extraordinary multi–national coalition that had responded to Iraq’s invasion of that country in 1991. It had been there that Megan had first met the animated, enthusiastic Wilkins, a man who had been a key asset to Megan’s investigations into Iraqi atrocities against the Kurds both before and during the Gulf War.

‘I’m only here for a temporary assignment,’ Megan replied. ‘I’m working for GNN.’

‘Thought you might be,’ Wilkins confided. ‘Come, my offices are right around the corner.’

Megan followed Wilkins into a large room that had probably once served as a dining hall but was filled now with computer desks and filing cabinets. UN staff tapped busily away at computer terminals or talked with serious expressions on telephones.

‘Totally mobile communications,’ Wilkins explained, ‘modern technological marvels. We supply New York with on–the–spot, up–to–date information on events here, so that they can determine the required responses immediately.’

‘What about local broadcast resources?’ Megan asked.

‘That’s based in the communications centre of Government House – you may have seen the satellite dishes on your way in. State–owned television is broadcast from there, and selectively censored broadcasts from the outside world allowed in. It’s very carefully controlled here, Megan. The transmission dishes atop government house essentially control what the Mordanian people see on a day–to–day basis, all of it filtered through a communications centre beneath the building that’s controlled by the secret police.’

Wilkins led her into an office and closed the door. A small fire crackled energetically in the corner of the room, filling it with light and blessed warmth.

‘Sit, sit,’ he insisted. ‘Coffee? Tea? A dram?’

‘Coffee’s fine, Tom.’

‘So,’ Wilkins began as he poured. ‘What brings you to Mordania? I wouldn’t have thought that there was much for a journalist of your calibre to cover here right now.’

Megan decided not to beat about the bush.

‘I’m not here for journalistic purposes, Tom. I’m looking for someone.’

‘Ah,’ Wilkins said, setting a mug in front of Megan and taking a seat opposite with his back to the broad windows. He regarded Megan for a moment. ‘I had rather hoped that you were past all that, terrible business that it was.’

‘I am,’ Megan replied. ‘This is somebody different.’

Megan pulled a copy of the picture of Amy O’Hara from her pocket and handed it to Wilkins. The old man looked at it for a moment before speaking.

‘A beautiful girl, Megan, no doubt about it. Who is she?’

Megan filled the attaché in on the details. Wilkins sipped his coffee, but shook his head.

‘Well, there are plenty of journalists on the ground here in Thessalia and have been for some months now, but we don’t intervene in individual cases for fear of accusations of favouritism. Besides, our main concern is displaced locals rather than journalists. I’d like to help, but in all honesty Megan I would have thought that the resident journalists at the Hilton would know more than I about this young girl’s whereabouts. How long did you say she’s been missing?’

‘At least ten days,’ Megan replied, her voice tense. ‘It’s important to me, Tom. I need to know what has happened to her, one way or the other.’

Wilkins studied the look on Megan’s face for a moment and then smiled kindly.

‘Well, let’s see what we can do, shall we?’ he suggested thoughtfully. ‘I’d imagine that the most likely course of action would be to meet the Mordanian President and ask his advice.’

Megan’s eyes almost popped out on stalks.

‘What? Just like that?’

Wilkins let out a peal of laughter.

‘Absolutely dear girl, just like that. Mordania is a small country with a different pace and different expectations. In countries like this the President will lend an ear to the individual and is in fact expected to do so. The population of the entire country is less than two million individuals. Most western cities alone harbour more citizens than that.’

‘Do you think that he’ll be able to help?

Wilkins leant forward on the table.

‘I’ve worked in most countries at one time or another,’ he said softly. ‘Dictators, reformists, tyrants and saints. President Akim is one of the saints, Megan. He’s kept his chin up and his back straight throughout this insurrection and has refused to commit his men to battle unless provoked. He wants this conflict resolved with the assistance of the United Nations. What’s more, he has a soft–spot for young people in trouble. Come on, let’s see if he can help.’

***

‘Please wait here,’ a smartly dressed secretary said in an effortlessly gentle voice. ‘The president will see you shortly.’

Megan felt slightly uncomfortable as she followed Sir Wilkins into a waiting room that adjoined the president’s briefing room, where he held court with his administrative officers and party members. Wilkins gestured to the door of the briefing room and whispered softly.

‘The Parliament of Mordania is a People’s Assembly, very democratic and all that, consisting of just over a hundred deputees elected for four–year terms. The President is the highest executive member and has been elected by popular vote since Mordania’s successful ‘Purple Revolution’ in 1996. This is Mukhari Akim’s first term as president.’ Wilkins shook his head. ‘Such a shame that a military coup should be attempted during his tenure.’

The door to the briefing room opened and Wilkins and Megan watched as a procession of smartly suited men walked out of the room. Wilkins spoke softly out of the corner of his mouth.

‘Parliamentary representatives for the various ethnicities of Mordania; Aguls, Avars, Chechens, Laks, Russians, Rutuls and Taskhurs. Quite a mix, don’t you think?’