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

“You did not follow my instructions,” said the man. His voice was louder, as though he had taken a step forward.

“What?”

“Clean-shaven, I said. Shave your beard on the day you travel. What you did, shaving several days ago, it tells everyone you are going somewhere.”

“I told people I was getting hassled by the police. Listen, akhi —”

“Have you forgotten this also? No Islamic language. Not with me, not with anyone. You are an ordinary tourist.”

“Okay, yeah. Look, I’ll shave first chance I get.”

“Who shaves on the first day of their holiday? You must learn to think about these things. And your clothes. Dress like a tourist, this is what I said. Put a camera around your neck, carry a guidebook in your hand. If the sun is shining, wear shorts. Why do you have a Turkish newspaper with you? Do you speak Turkish?”

“I found it on the metro.”

“This is not a game. If I give you an order, you must obey it without question. I have been doing this for a long time. The only reason I am still alive is because I do not make mistakes. You checked into the hotel?”

“It didn’t feel right,” he said. “The receptionist was asking lots of questions.” A silence. “She wanted to take a copy of my passport,” he added.

“This is normal. So where are you staying?”

“I haven’t found anywhere yet.”

“And your bag?”

“I left it somewhere.”

“You left it somewhere? You are being very vague. Where?”

If this had been a training exercise, thought August, right now would have been the moment to put his hand up and admit that he had learned a valuable lesson about preparation.

“Well?”

He had to break the pattern of question and answer. He made a series of fast assumptions: that 34c was an IS recruit, that IS recruits came from difficult backgrounds, that people from difficult backgrounds were sometimes unpredictable. They had tempers, they said the wrong things. For the most part, before leaving for Syria, they had struggled to make a success of life. They hadn’t progressed through a series of issues like footholds on a rock face – anti-colonialism, the problem of Palestine, the limits of peaceful demonstration, American atrocities in Iraq – to emerge clear-eyed at the logical summit of extremism. Driving vehicles into crowds and throwing gay people from buildings didn’t emerge at the end of an argument that began with the desire for justice. It emerged at the end of an argument that began with an argument – about how everything was shit, about how life was unfair.

“Well what?” August said, raising his voice. “Why all these questions? What’s my bag got to do with anything? I’m here just like you said, I’ve taken big risks travelling, I haven’t slept for three days and I want to know what’s happening next. What’s it matter where my bag is?”

By the time he heard a noise – gravel, a twig, the sound of breathing – the man must have covered half the distance between them. August started to move. A dark shape appeared in the corner of his eye, closer than he would have thought possible, and from nowhere a hand took hold of his neck and forced his head back towards the gravestone. His fingers splayed in the dirt. He felt around for a stone, for a stick, for anything. The man’s hand was cold and enormously strong. The only thing August could hear was the wind, searching the trees for something it had lost. He didn’t care what happened. This wouldn’t be the worst place to die. There had been moments over the past few months when the idea had seemed almost desirable. Here there were trees, there was grass. At dawn there would be birdsong. No doubt there would be those who found it ironic that a traitor should come all this way only to end up in a corner of a foreign field where the dead were laid out according to nationality, as though a sign reading “England” or “Denmark” or “France” meant anything to the people lying all around him. He wondered what her grave was like. He’d never even been to see it.

“Come on,” he said. “Get it over with.”

It was a long time before the man spoke.

“I have money and a phone for you,” he said. He took his hand from August’s neck. “Check the phone at least two times a day, morning and evening. Not from your hotel, go somewhere busy. You will not use it for anything else. Is that clear?”

“What about the thing I’m here for?” August said. At the bottom of one rabbit hole and he started looking for another. “Don’t make me sit around waiting for —”

“It will be a few days, no more than that,” the man said softly. It sounded as though he was smiling. “Until then, remember what you are: a British tourist in Istanbul. You have no religious affiliation, you are not political, you do not possess any strong opinions. Explore new places, learn new things. Take a ferry ride on the Bosphorus. Have you heard of Atatürk, of Mimar Sinan, of Suleiman the Magnificent? There is a place in the Grand Bazaar where they make excellent coffee, where you can sit in peace and listen to workmen tapping at brass ornaments two streets away. See if you can find it. Discover the best borek and tell me where it is made. Remember to check the phone. You will hear from us when we are ready.”

A few steps, first on gravel and then on soft earth. When August turned around he saw that a mobile phone and five hundred lire had been placed on the other side of the path.

4

file excerpt from investigation into august DRUMMOND

INKWELL/001

top secret

foia exempt

subject:Operation INKWELLdate:1 October 2012

1. The purpose of this Note For File is to record the opening of Operation INKWELL. The operation will be run by the Gatekeeping team, and its objective