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

“Are you crazy? A pig?”

“If anyone’s crazy, it’s you.”

“Idiot.”

“You’re the idiot.”

At some point that night, according to evidence on display the following morning, they must have decided that they needed a bottle of local spirits and two sandwiches wrapped in greasy paper, that August should sign a contract promising to help Youssef find his wife and daughter, that they should write a joint letter setting out their thoughts on the situation in Syria, that Youssef would sleep in the bed and August would fashion something from pillows on the floor. “Dear Mr President,” the letter began, in handwriting that differed enough in style and legibility to suggest they had taken it in turns with the pen over the course of the evening, “you are a fool, a dog, a son of a dog, a dickhead, a father of smells, a pimp, a shoe, a knobhead, an arse-licker, a son of a whore and a donkey.” It was signed by them both and illustrated with doodles. Other evidence suggested an attempt to fashion a blowpipe from a piece of bamboo previously seen holding up a plant in the hallway outside, and a target of concentric circles had been drawn vigorously in pen on the wall opposite the bed, with a different score allocated to each circle. Pellets were scattered on the carpet below like a light dusting of snow. There were signs that as the evening had progressed they had ventured further afield. A note from reception circulated the following morning asked guests with children to keep them under control at all times following complaints of someone knocking on doors in the middle of the night, giggling loudly and running away. And the hotel porter was sent up to the rooftop with a new padlock and chain after a report that two grown men had been seen dancing around up there, but the manager was sceptical about this particular complaint because it came from an old lady across the street who could be guaranteed to write to him at least once a week, whether about the noise or the rubbish or the smells from the kitchen or occasionally something more outlandish, as in this case, which the manager put down to the full moon and the way it could make even the sanest of people go slightly crazy.

21

The call from the vizier came late the following day. August hadn’t even realized the phone was switched on.

“We have the package,” he said. “You must act immediately. Gather your belongings and travel to Gaziantep. There is an overnight bus that leaves in one hour. We will meet you outside the Grand Hotel at noon tomorrow. I will hold a copy of an English newspaper under my arm so that you recognize me. My colleagues are ready to take us to the other side. Any questions?”

“Wait, what are you talking about? You’ve got the what?”

“I cannot hear you, say it again.”

August lifted the blanket off his head and peered into the gloom. He was lying on the floor. His head was pounding and he felt confused. Youssef was snoring underneath the bedcovers.

“What’s going on?” he asked, as much to his hotel room as to the voice on the other end of the line.

“The package,” said the vizier. He sounded impatient. “The one from the other country, the one you … inspected for us. We need to move it now. It is already badly damaged. There is no time to waste. Take the bus to the border tonight and we will see you there tomorrow.”

He hadn’t expected this. What should he say? Thoughts fled from the screaming alarm of his headache. He reached for the coat-tails of the obvious ones, the ones that found it difficult to hide from his trembling hands. Number one: he had to stop them taking the Iranian anywhere near the Syrian border. Number two: he had to buy enough time to tell Lawrence and his colleagues what was happening. This was his chance to remedy things.

“Hold on,” he said, looking around for a glass of water. “Wait a minute. I can’t … I can’t just jump on a bus. There are checkpoints, police come on board and ask people where they’re going.”

“So? They may ask you questions but they will not stop you. Remember what kind of person they have been told to look for: Muslim boys, early twenties, probably Pakistani or Arab or Somali. You are a white man in his thirties. Clean-shaven, well dressed, Christian, with a story about visiting the world-class Roman mosaics preserved in the Zeugma Museum.”

“What if I mess up?” August said. “What if I get nervous and say the wrong thing? Can’t I travel with you?”

“Stop, take a deep breath. By this time tomorrow you will be in the place you have dreamed about for a long time. Do not make unnecessary problems for yourself, brother, do not hesitate. Put some clothes in a bag, buy a bus ticket, meet me outside the Grand Hotel. It is as simple as that. We have many things to discuss but after tomorrow we can do it face-to-face. Now go.”

“I can’t, I’m sorry, I wish I could.” Quickly, think. Think. “I’d never forgive myself if I said the wrong thing and messed this up for you and the brothers.” He reached for the excuse that was closest to hand, he reached for the truth. “My head,” he said, groaning loudly and turning away to retch. “I can’t believe I’ve done it again, not after what you said to me last time. But I can’t lie to you. In this condition I just don’t trust myself not to mess everything up.”

The vizier was quiet. Youssef’s breathing settled into a high-pitched wheeze, as though a bus had changed gear for an uphill climb.

“You have been drinking again,” the vizier said. “After everything I told —”

“I can’t hide it from you. I don’t want to hide it from you. I’m weak, that’s the truth. I need to have