How to Betray Your Country by James Wolff (spicy books to read .TXT) 📕

instructed him to leave the note hidden in the crumpled cigarette packet that same night, because the matter was so urgent, and August told himself it wouldn’t take more than a few minutes. The cold night air would revive him. It wasn’t as though there was anyone around who might see him, and there were plenty of benches inside the cemetery in case he needed to sit down, and if he did weave a little as he walked, well, what was more innocuous than a tipsy tourist out for a late evening stroll?

It took him much longer than expected to find the gravestone. He looked through all his pockets several times before he found the message.

“What is wrong with you? Are you ill?”

The voice was quiet, at least ten paces away. August wheeled around so quickly that he lost his balance and fell over. He got to his feet but didn’t know which way to face. He couldn’t see anything other than trees.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, more loudly, more abruptly than he would have liked. The surprise in his voice was genuine. “I thought… You told me to leave a note for you.”

“I came to collect the note. I expected you would leave it more than an hour ago. But since we are both here, tell me what happened.”

August tried to stand still. He took a deep breath of the night air and swallowed away a hiccup.

“He came out like you said from that place and I saw him straightaway. No doubt it was him – the glasses, the briefcase. I stuck with him down to the station, where he killed a little time.” He was talking too quickly. He tried to slow down. “I just about made it onto the same train as him too. Last-minute thing, I had to scramble. I’m sure he didn’t see me. But we got to this station called Ulanan, Lunalan – something like that. Sounds like a theme park, doesn’t it, Luna Land. Ferris wheel, bumper cars. What was I saying? Oh yeah, hang on, I’ve got it written down. Can I put my hand in my pocket?”

“This is not a robbery,” said the vizier. “No one is pointing a gun at you.”

“Yeah, sorry, of course.”

“Was it Unalan?”

August unfolded the piece of paper. “That’s it. Unalan. I lost him there. Rough place, not many foreigners. Some kids threw a bottle at me. I don’t know why, but it spooked me a bit. When you think about the things kids said to me back home because of my beard or my clothes.” Another hiccup, this one too sudden to do anything about. He cleared his throat noisily to suggest it had been a cough. “Sometimes they threw worse things than a bit of glass too. Most of the time I’d throw it straight back. Sorry, I’m rambling a bit. Anyway, I waited too long and I lost him. I’m sorry. I’m learning all the time, it won’t happen again.”

“Is it possible that he saw you?”

“What, the man with the briefcase? No chance. He looked like the nerdy type, belongs in an office. Fiddling with his glasses, the whole suit and tie thing. Nervous too. Reminded me of a geography teacher we had at school. We called him all sorts of names, he had a breakdown in the end. I can’t remember his… He went into a toyshop so maybe he’s got kids. The man with the briefcase, I mean, not the teacher. He didn’t have any kids, no wonder, dealing with us lot all day. What else? I bet whatever’s in it’s important, the way he was hugging it close. Should I try to grab it from him, make it look like a mugging? It wouldn’t be too difficult. Take his wallet too, smash him in the nose, make it look real.”

The man was quiet for a while. Finally he said, “What is wrong with you?”

August wanted to sit down. He wanted to sit down, he wanted to stop talking, he wanted to have another drink.

“What? Nothing. I mean… Why are you asking that?”

“You have been drinking.”

“No, don’t be crazy, it’s … indigestion. Making me —”

“You are Muslim and you are drunk. How is this possible?”

“Wait a second, it’s not like that. I just ate something funny. You’re always telling me to try the local food, turns out it’s made me a bit wobbly. I just need to go back to my hotel and lie down for a bit.”

The sound of a footstep on gravel was like something breaking into hundreds of pieces.

“What’s going on?” said August. “Are you —”

“Do not turn around.”

Another footstep, louder. His thoughts jostled like a crowd running for the door.

“Wait,” August said, “what are you doing? Is this just because —”

“Look in front of you.”

What should he say? He could continue to deny it, come up with a better story, put it down to excitement or nerves or even medication. But it was always dangerous to tell an unnecessary lie.

The footsteps were on grass now, getting closer every second.

“I used to have a problem with all that,” he said quickly, thinking about who he was supposed to be, who 34c was, and the path he had taken to reach this point. He put his hands in his pockets and relaxed his shoulders. He felt strangely calm. “I know I shouldn’t lie to you. But I’m ashamed, I guess. Sometimes when I get stressed… It’s hard here, you know, all on my own. I’m not complaining or anything. I know the brothers are with me, like you said. I know they’re in a much tougher place. This is a walk in the park compared to what they’re doing.” The vizier was standing behind him. His presence hummed with hot malevolent energy. “Do what you want to do,” August said. “But you don’t understand, that’s the truth. I don’t sleep, I don’t eat, it’s like something is killing me from the inside. I’m bursting with all of this,