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

up a hand to keep him at a distance. He doesn’t acknowledge my presence. Three men get out of a large black Suburban parked thirty metres away. Two of them approach the vizier and perform an impressively quick, thorough and discreet search. The third, a short Chinese-American man, leans against the car with his arms folded, watching events and smiling broadly. As the vizier is led towards the car, I can hear him say to the man waiting for him, “There’s nothing like an American car for power and…” but the end of the sentence is lost in the noise of traffic. Whatever he says makes the man leaning against the car laugh. He opens a reinforced rear door. Before they disappear from sight I see the vizier laughing, his teeth bared, and for a brief moment he looks directly at me.

Elif turns and buttons up her coat. “The thing about seven days hasn’t changed,” she says. “That wasn’t part of our deal. You have to leave by midnight the day after tomorrow or you’ll be arrested.”

“Can I ask you a question? Off the record?”

“What?”

“You’d like us all gone and out of your hair for good, right?”

“What do you think?”

“Now that the Americans have taken the Daesh emir, and that by all accounts Lawrence is going to be recalled to London before long, that just leaves me and Youssef.”

“What’s your point?” she asks.

“I can go to the airport and get on a flight to London.”

“I wish you would.”

“It’s not so easy for Youssef.”

“Where’s this going, August?”

“In theory, if you wanted to find someone reliable with a boat who could do a run to Greece, where would you look?”

“Are you really asking me that question?”

“Yes.”

She shakes her head. “In theory? And strictly between us? There is a man called Ibrahim who runs a salvage yard on the Asian side of the Bosphorus Bridge. He’s mostly retired, but if you can pay enough then he’s the person I’d trust. Why? What are you going to do?”

DAY 6

We meet at a ferry terminal late in the afternoon. He’s lost weight and the tremor in his hand has got worse.

“They let you keep the tie,” I say.

“I had to hide it in my shoe.”

“It seems that everyone’s wearing one these days. I’m beginning to feel seriously underdressed.”

“You always look terrible,” says Youssef. “A tie is not going to change that.”

“Here, take this.” I press the rucksack on him.

“What happened to your hands?” he asks.

“Take it.”

“What is it?”

He opens the rucksack and takes out a waterproof plastic container.

“Put it away,” I tell him. “You’ll know best, but it might be sensible to divide it up and hide it in several places. It’s in different currencies.”

“This is a lot of money.” He looks at me. “How much is there? I’ll pay you back.”

“It’s not my money. Believe me, it’s much better off with you than with its original owners.” He starts to speak, but I hold up a hand to stop him. “We haven’t got long and there are things to discuss. This is the name of the guy taking you to Greece tonight.”

“What?”

“It’s all arranged and paid for. He’s meeting you at ten – don’t be late. And don’t annoy him. He seemed like a good guy, I think he’ll get you there in one piece, but I don’t want him to throw you overboard because you get on his nerves.”

“If he has met you and he is still willing —”

“There are a few other things in here you may need,” I tell him. “Maps, a first-aid kit, cigarettes, sea-sickness pills, three phone handsets, an emergency space blanket —”

“Like an astronaut —”

“— and I’ve made a list of lawyers and NGOs who help asylum seekers in the countries along the way.”

“It is like my mother has packed a bag. Why are there so many maps of Germany?”

“Why do you think? Your wife and daughter are in a town called Altenburg, near Leipzig. The quickest way to get there —”

“What? They are alive?” He starts to cry.

“There’s no time for that, Youssef. Come on, pull yourself together. The authorities have let you go, but I can’t guarantee they won’t change their minds. And you’ve got a ferry to catch.”

He starts to put everything back into the rucksack.

“What’s this?” he asks.

“Oh, just a bad joke. You remember, ‘They took some honey, and plenty of money —’’’

“‘— wrapped up in a five-pound note.’ You have put a jar of honey in the bag for me?”

“I don’t know what I was thinking, it’ll just weigh you down. Better leave that with me.”

“No chance, dickhead. Get your own honey.”

The ferry horn sounds.

“Okay, Youssef. Time to go.”

“What about you? What are you going to do?”

DAY 7

It’s not that I don’t want to leave. There’s certainly nothing to keep me in Istanbul any longer – no job, no vizier, no Youssef. And I have no illusions about the desirability of even a single night spent in a Turkish prison. I’m almost at the bottom of this particular rabbit hole, and although I don’t expect to emerge into bright midday sunshine, I have sensed a slight shift in the intensity of the darkness around me that allows for the possibility, no more than that, of warmth and light. That’s all I want – to feel warmth and light again. On the bedside table are four bottles of beer, no doubt a gift from Lawrence, and the small box of pills from the neighbourhood pharmacy. But I know that the light they provide will be fluorescent and the warmth will be temporary and the truth is that I feel just about well enough without their help for this last thing I have to do.

It’s going to be difficult to slip away from the hotel unnoticed, though, despite the crowds of people on the streets celebrating New Year’s Eve. Elif might have said she’d give me until midnight, but by eight o’clock I’ve had two calls from reception to ask whether I need any help