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

is, they saw my picture, realized who I am and understand that I’m worth a lot more than some random guy. Both in terms of what I know and publicity value. That’s why I’ve no doubt they’d give you ten bags of cash in exchange for me, and if this is your one chance to set yourself up properly before you disappear forever, it’d be a shame —

What, you’re a spy, are you? Course you are. That’s why you’re locked up here with no one coming to rescue you.

I was. I’m not any more. The reason there’s no one coming to rescue me is because he persuaded the only person who knows I’m here that he’s a caretaker and that I’m off getting drunk somewhere. The truth is … well, I don’t expect you to believe this. But I’m here because my wife died, and then I lost my job, and I saw a young man acting weirdly on a plane, and then I went to a cemetery and met you. This has all been a mistake. I was just looking for… I don’t know what I was looking for. Something to do, I suppose.

This makes no sense at all. Come on, we’ve got a van downstairs, we can’t hang around —

The vizier closes the bag and stands up.

Can you prove any of this?

What? Are you seriously —

Do I need to? You know that I’m telling the truth, says August. You can see that this guy doesn’t even want to engage with the idea, he doesn’t want to ask me a single question about it. He wants to get out of here as quickly as he can. If he genuinely didn’t know who I was he’d be jumping with joy right now at the thought of what he had in front of him. Instead he can’t wait for this to end. It’s written all over his dumb face.

I don’t want to ask you any questions because it’s all bullshit and you’re trying to waste time. Ahmed, grab his arm.

I don’t know if you’d call it proof, but if your boss is Abu Mustafa, then his boss is a Saudi guy who uses the kunya Hajj Mohammed and sleeps in a farmhouse fifteen miles outside Raqqa. His second wife lives there too, but her in-laws are from a small town on the other side of the border called Wardiya, so every two weeks she takes the children and travels —

Enough of this. You’ve got your money so now he’s ours.

He steps forward and hits August hard in the mouth.

Don’t touch him, says the vizier. He unbuckles his belt and pulls it loose, wrapping the leather end around his fist twice.

You’ve got your money, exactly what you asked for, says the man in the black tracksuit. Don’t be an idiot – there’s two of us. Take the bag and fuck off. Ahmed, grab his arm —

Step back.

Don’t tell me —

The vizier swings the buckle in an arc through the air.

I said step back.

Ahmed continues forward and the buckle catches him across the face and tears his forehead open. He raises a hand to wipe away the blood that is pouring into his eyes. From somewhere behind his back he takes a knife and steps towards the vizier, who shuffles backwards and then lunges forward so quickly that nobody is prepared. With his right hand he grips Ahmed’s outstretched wrist, twisting it sharply down and towards him so that the knife clatters to the floor, while with his open left hand he hits Ahmed hard on the side of his neck. He slumps to the floor. His wrist sticks out at a funny angle.

What the fuck you doing? You want to fight with us? We’ve just given you exactly what you asked for. You telling me you believe this bullshit about him being James Bond? Man, are you crazy? We had a deal, you gave us your word. You can’t do something like this and just walk away.

Nobody is walking away, says the vizier. He is your prisoner. And this money is your deposit. Come back before dawn with the same amount again and you can take him. I give you my word. You are still getting him cheap and we both know it. Now pick up your friend and go.

• • • •

Each minute is packed so densely with fear that time bulges and swells and distends out of all recognition. Later on he hears the front door open and close. He waits to hear the creak of the floorboards. There are possibilities, none of them good. They’ve come back with the money, they’ve come back with a weapon, they’re not coming back at all…

The footsteps climb the stairs, pad once around the room and then leave.

He has been given another bottle of raki but instead of drinking it he fashions a blade from its metal cap. He tests its sharpness against his throat. If there was a hard edge and room to swing the bottle he’d smash it into pieces. He pours some of it over his clothing. His best idea so far – his only idea – is to pretend to be unconscious. The vizier might expect something like that, after what happened last time, and IS will come in numbers. But if they think he’s passed out they may just place him in their vehicle as he is, and his priority must be to get out of this house alive. He can worry about the rest later.

The footsteps return. It occurs to him that whoever it is, their tread is hesitant, cautious, as though uncertain of their surroundings. It might be IS. They might be hesitant because they don’t know where the vizier is. But would one of them come here on their own?

He taps on the side of the fridge. A pause, and then two steps in his direction. He taps again and there is a soft tap by way of reply.

Hello?

Someone pulls hesitantly at the door.

Who’s that?

Who