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

who saw good in most people. It was a grievous weakness for a politician. ‘That man’ll never climb the ladder,’ one Chief Whip had remarked. ‘Spends too much bloody time on his knees being nice to the weeds.’ It wasn’t that McKenzie had no ambition. Several years earlier, during a ministerial reshuffle, he had been at home affecting a total lack of interest in the matter yet straying no further than the pond at the end of his garden, when his wife had stuck her head out of the kitchen window and yelled at him that Downing Street was on the phone. It had transformed him from monkish indifference to a man with the energy of a rutting greyhound and he had leapt to respond. Yet, tragically for those who like happy endings, in his bounding haste he had tripped over the step and given himself a head wound that would later require half a dozen stitches at A&E. What caused far greater indignity was that the call turned out to be from a correspondence secretary enquiring about nothing more life-enhancing than a constituent’s letter. Afterwards, true to his good nature, McKenzie had shared the joke with his many friends. It was one of the few ways that year he’d managed to get coverage in the newspapers.
    ‘Mac? It’s Harry Jones.’
    ‘Harry! Happy Hogmanay, my friend.’ He was somewhere outside, his voice raised, almost shouting down the phone.
    ‘You, too, Mac. Look, I need a small favour.’
    ‘Anything for you.’
    ‘You’re going with Roddy Bowles to Ta’argistan in a couple of days.’
    ‘Getting stuck into a bit of training for it even as we speak, as it happens.’
    ‘Where?’
    ‘Val-d’Isère.’
    ‘I admire your dedication.’
    ‘I’m in the line for the ski lift right now, just about to thump some little French teenage shit who thinks he’s got the right to jump the queue.’
    ‘Sounds like you’re having a wonderful time. You should stay.’
    ‘Oh, fat chance.’
    In the background Harry heard a youthful cry and a Gallic curse before McKenzie came back on the line.
    ‘Sorry, Harry, all yours now.’
    ‘Stay, Mac. Call in sick. Would you do that? Just tell Roddy you can’t go. I’d like to take your place.’
    ‘You can’t be serious, old mucker.’
    ‘Never more so.’
    ‘But it’s the middle of bloody winter there. And Roddy’s such a prick.’
    ‘What are you saying?’
    ‘He practically broke my arm to get me to agree in the first place. You know what he’s like. I’ve been kicking myself ever since – must have been pished. No, come to think of it, must have been completely bloodyparalytic. I’ve spent the whole of Christmas trying to figure out some way of wriggling out of it.’
    ‘Why not simply say no?’
    ‘You know what a hideous bully he can be. And –’ he sighed – ‘I owe him a couple of favours. He never stops reminding me. Payback time.’
    ‘So you’ll help?’
    ‘Harry, if I was a true friend, I’d save you from yourself. But if you’re wanting to spend a few days cuddled up to Roddy Bowles in the frozen armpit of Central Asia, it’s all yours. Call in sick? What sort of malady do you want me to contract? Something lurid, I hope.’
    ‘Anything that stops you rushing back. But let me be the one to tell him first.’
    ‘Whatever. Look, I’ve reached the head of the bloody line, got to dash. Totally raving mad, you are, Harry. God, I hope you’ll not be living to regret this. Tally ho . . .!’
    The connection went dead.
    It was the following afternoon before Harry called on Roddy Bowles once more.
    ‘Why, Harry. This is becoming a habit.’ Bowles opened the door with such reluctance its hinges might have seized.
    ‘I was passing,’ Harry lied. ‘Thought it better than the phone.’ That was truthful, at least, beard the bully in his own den, face him down. And gather intelligence. The woman’s coat was still slung over the chair.
    Harry glanced round the room. ‘So how’s the curating going, Roddy?’
    ‘You mentioned some