How to Betray Your Country James Wolff (fun to read txt) 📖

There is also a lot of money floating around, a hell of a lot – it’s what happens when governments want to do something but don’t have a clue what that something should be. And who can blame them? Islamic State is collapsing, the Kurds are seizing territory, the opposition is splintered and Assad looks like he’ll be here until long after we’re all gone. It’s difficult for anyone to find answers in all of that. Are you following me?”

“Literally and figuratively,” August said.

Beatrice threw a puzzled glance over her shoulder. “Good. Where was I? Yes, enormous implications for our national security but no obvious military solutions. What does that mean? It means that it’s up to us to establish a digital toehold in Syria that will give the government the ability to expand back into the strategic space as and when the opportunity arises. Now, for us to get into pole position in this very competitive bunfight it’s going to take aggression, imagination and determination. What it’s not going to take is turning up three hours late or having a day off to visit museums. Don’t look at the wires and the puddles and come to the conclusion that you can get away with behaviour like that here, August. Don’t come to the conclusion that we’re not a deadly serious outfit. Mark my words, the surest sign of a company in its death throes is freshly painted walls, fancy artwork and a long-term contract with a landlord. What you see here, on the other hand, is a company moving fast and breaking things. Bottom of our priority list is making ugly stuff look pretty for the sake of it.”

“And I thought you were in PR,” said August. “Isn’t that all about making ugly stuff look pretty for —”

“There’s a danger that we might get off on the wrong foot,” said Beatrice. She turned to face him as they reached the last stair, her smile gone. “I want to like you, August, I really do. And your application was very impressive. But there’s something not quite right in the air. So let’s write today off, how about that? A freebie, on me. Go back to your hotel, find someone to iron your shirt, have a shave, get a good night’s sleep and we’ll start over at nine on the dot in the morning with a brand-new attitude. We’ll pretend this conversation never happened. Is that acceptable? Any questions?”

“Just one,” said August. “Since we’ll be starting from scratch in the morning. What’s the company called?”

6

August found a local bar, sat at a corner table with a view of the door and quickly drank three glasses of beer. He took his time over the three after that. The only other customer was a tourist smoking a hookah in the doorway. He made a precise adjustment to the coals and drew deeply on the pipe, making the water bubble, as though he was conducting a science experiment and had inserted himself into the process. August checked his phone. He wanted the man from the cemetery to call. He was dimly aware that the course of action he was considering was not sensible, just as someone waking at night might be dimly aware of a shadow in the doorway – in this case a shadow with a voice but no discernible edge, a shadow that bristled with competence, purpose and violent energy. The sensible thing would have been to call the embassy and hand over responsibility to them. Let them identify him, let them establish what he was up to and how to stop him. But distraction from grief was August’s only objective, and momentum the sole principle guiding his decisions – he was like a stone skimming across a body of water, willing himself to keep going, aware that the moment he stopped moving he would begin to sink. If anything, he wanted to go faster.

The phone rang just before seven o’clock.

“You are alone?”

That voice again, deep, calm and transmitting on a frequency all its own.

“Yes.”

“You slept last night?” the man asked.

“A few hours.”

“In a hotel.”

“It’ll do for now.”

“Which one?”

“I don’t think I should say on the phone. You know, in case someone’s listening.”

A brief pause as the man absorbed August’s refusal to answer the question. He had constructed the barest of legends. He had no real information about 34c to work with, and so he had taken elements from those IS recruits he had met in the course of his career, particularly those who were converts, and decided that in his case there had been problems with his parents and run-ins with the police, that there had been drink at one point and drugs at another, that he was impatient, didn’t appreciate being asked questions and lost his temper more quickly than anyone around him liked. Being awkward was the key to survival. It would allow him the freedom to refuse to answer questions or follow instructions. Just as importantly, it would make him look less like a spy. What kind of spy was argumentative and contrary and always spoiling for a fight?

“What did you do today?” the man asked.

“Just looking at stuff really.”

“Where did you eat?”

The basic tool of the interrogator, asking questions that required a precise answer.

“I found a McDonald’s,” he said. “By a metro station, Sultan something.”

“Sultan Ahmed. You did not want to try Turkish food?”

“I don’t like kebabs.”

“You are in the wrong country.”

“Am I?” He sighed loudly. “You tell me. I didn’t think I was here for the food.”

August was in a hurry; he had to keep pressing. He might have put questions of personal risk – of kidnapping, of injury, of death – to one side, but he couldn’t ignore the possibility that something might happen to bring all this to a sudden end. That was what concerned him most. MIT was a competent intelligence agency; they would have sources, they would have SIGINT. It was only a matter of time before they realized something was going