A Hostile State by Adrian Magson (best finance books of all time txt) 📕

I said, ‘Have you been hit?’

She took a while to acknowledge me, then shook her head. I knelt down in front of her. She’d been crying, tear tracks showing in the dust down her cheeks.

‘What’s wrong?’

She brushed away the tears and said, ‘Sorry … I’ve never done that before. Shot anyone, I mean.’ Her voice was shaky and she looked at me with wide eyes. ‘I can’t believe it.’

‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘It gets easier. Just try not to make a habit of it.’

‘But I missed! I mean, how could I do that? I could have got us both killed.’

‘You didn’t. OK, you missed him but the other man got in the way. Same outcome. It happens.’ It was kinder than saying her shooting was off. I eased the Kahr out of her hand and placed it in the car. Shock does strange things to people and doesn’t always mix well with a loaded gun.

We drove on, Isobel insisting on driving to occupy her mind. Having no focus other than reflecting on having just killed a man – even someone who’d been trying to kill you – can lead to a desperate downward spiral that does nobody any good. But I didn’t waste time trying to engage her in conversation. She didn’t need it and I had little to say that would help.

The evening was beginning to close in now and we saw few signs of life off the road other than the occasional flicker of house lights or camp fires or a plume of dust as a vehicle followed a track across the side of a hill. I kept one eye on our rear for signs of vehicles coming up fast but we seemed to have the road to ourselves in this direction.

We passed a steady stream of pick-ups and small trucks going the other way, and even a few military vehicles, but they showed no interest in us. Isobel gave them a wide berth, which seemed wise considering the way they held the centre-line of the road.

Not long after we passed a battered sign on our left to El Hermel, she turned off the road and drove up another steep and rugged track into an extensive grove of olive trees with a tiny wooden hut. As we passed by I could see the door of the hut hanging open but there was nobody inside.

The headlights cast a flurry of shadows among the branches and down the twisted and gnarled trunks of the trees, creating the impression of movement where there was none. With our recent run-in with the three men behind us I had the Kahr out down by my feet, so I lifted it and got ready in case we ran into any opposition. In this deserted spot we might not get much warning of a roadblock even this late and I doubted it would be official.

We topped a rise between a collection of large rocks which looked like the end of the road. Isobel stopped and reversed into a deep gap before switching off the engine. The ticking as the metal cooled was the only sound, and even winding the window down offered just the sound of the breeze. The sky was huge, showing a vast array of stars, and I once more felt awed by the sheer size of the space above our heads.

‘There’s a flat area just down there,’ she said, pointing back down towards the olive grove. ‘Easy for a chopper to land. I’ll give them the new coordinates and they’ll pick us up before dawn.’ With that she took out her cellphone and began tapping at the keys.

I didn’t bother asking how she knew this. Isobel was becoming more of a revelation as time passed, a contrast to the image she presented to the world, and I wondered how much of her career and experience she had glossed over. Probably a great deal more than I would ever discover. She was a professional.

I climbed out of the jeep and did a quick recce of the area to make sure we weren’t sharing this space with a unit of Hezbollah on night exercises. I moved carefully among the rocks, wary of stumbling down a hole, until I reached higher and more open ground with a good view across what I hoped was unoccupied rolling hills. Not that I could see much in the dark, but when light falls you have to rely on other senses.

I stood and tuned into the night, listening to various noises and discounting anything to worry about. Goats I recognized easily enough, along with the smell, but a host of other night-time sounds had me beat.

I returned to the car and found Isobel gone. I stayed close by, waiting. When she did appear it was like a ghost. She climbed in the car and opened a glove-box, and the small inside light revealed that she was holding a semi-automatic pistol.

‘I did some training when they took me back,’ she said quietly. ‘Communications and surveillance – that sort of thing. One was a small arms course. They said I might need it for self-defence. I didn’t want to do it but it was orders, so …’

‘Good thing you did,’ I said. ‘For both of us.’

She smiled gratefully. ‘I mentioned the course to my maiden aunt before coming out here. She’s in her nineties and was in the WRNS – the woman’s branch of the Royal Navy – during the war. She has a pithy sense of humour, as you’d expect. She said, “Just because I don’t, doesn’t mean I can’t.”’

‘She’s a wise lady,’ I said. ‘Did they do weapons training in the WRNS?’

‘I think she was talking about sex, but I suppose the same rule applies.’

FIFTEEN

She looked down at the gun as if seeing it for the first time and put it back. ‘Sorry I wobbled. It’s not the same when you do it for real, is it?’

‘No. It’s not.’ I let it go. At least