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

would pay you lots of money, that they’d get you out of Turkey, that in time you’d be allowed enough freedom to rebuild your life.” I pick up the rock and throw it back in his direction. “It makes me look like a sentimental fool, but when you were telling your story about the man in the brown suit, I even thought, why don’t we arrange to meet in another twenty-five years to see how things have panned out? The Duke of York, was it? A Sunday evening at eight? We’d both have been old men by then, so I’d carry a copy of the Racing Post under one arm to help you recognize me. You could have told me whether you’d made the right decision, and I was so confident you’d think it had been that I was going to promise you could stick a beer bottle in my eye if you regretted it.” He’s trapped – I’m on one side, the cemetery wall is on the other. The only way out is a patch of open ground, but he knows I’ll bring him down before he gets halfway across. I take a step towards him and suddenly I can see his shape in the darkness. There’s no longer any need to raise my voice. “But none of that’s going to happen, is it? Even if I let you out of here alive, you’d be in prison within the week. There’s no way you could survive on the run with no money and no one to help you. Look at you – you’re already starving. And now you’ve got injuries that need to be treated. It was one thing when nobody knew you were here and you could wander around as you pleased. But the Turks know about you, the Americans know about you, the British know about you. You won’t be able to get into Europe. And if you go in the other direction your friends in Daesh will want to know why you stole their money.” I reach out the metal spike. His flesh is soft to the touch. He’s breathing heavily and the smell of his sweat is overpowering. He raises his head to speak.

DAY 5

“It’s pretty around here.”

“I can never tell when you’re joking, August.”

“What’s that one called?”

“I suppose you didn’t come here as a tourist.”

“I’ve lost count of the number of people who’ve told me which sights to see. Is it the Blue Mosque?”

Elif sighs. “He’s late,” she says. “Do you think he’ll turn up?”

It turns out a shrug engages significantly with bruised muscle, with torn skin, with a headache. By the end I’m not even sure it’s recognizable as a shrug.

“I don’t know.”

We’re sitting on a bench near Sultan Ahmed Square. The light rain is keeping most people away.

Elif glances across at me. “I hope you’re going to see a doctor. Either here or in London. I won’t ask what happened to your hands.”

I hide them in the pockets of my raincoat. “Are you keeping him yourself to ask a few questions first, or handing him straight to Lawrence?”

“To be honest with you,” she says, “I’m not sure Lawrence is allowed to speak to me any more. There are rumours he’s been reassigned.”

“Probably a good thing. They’ll want the heavy hitters to deal with this, and he’s been out of his depth for a while. Who’s been sent in his place?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I was wondering what to expect.”

“Nothing very much. We sit and wait. If he turns up, they take him away. If he doesn’t, we take you away. That’s about it.”

“Who did you speak to, Elif?”

She shrugs. She’s better at it than I am.

“Oh, I see.”

She’s better than me at most things, it turns out. I’m surprised it took me so long to get there.

“What?” she says. But she’s smiling.

“You’ve pulled a last-minute switcheroo, as your new friends would say. It’s very diplomatic of you to keep quiet about it. Honestly, though, it’s fine with me.”

“Do you remember what you said on the phone, August? You said, imagine his value if he agrees to cooperate. Imagine his value if he spills chapter and verse about the internal workings of IS. Imagine all the secrets he could tell. You told me to think big. Those were your words. Well, that’s what I did. The Americans simply have a lot more to offer than you British.”

“Listen, I’m sure it makes sense. As long as our deal stands.”

“Your friend will be released tomorrow morning. You have my word.”

“Is he okay?”

She shrugs again. “These are not … comfortable places.”

“As long as Youssef is alive and can walk,” I tell her, “you can hand the other guy to the Iranians with my blessing.”

“There may not be that much difference. The Americans made it clear to me that they’re not going to go easy on him. I mean, they’re not planning to throw him in Guantánamo. But he’s going to have to work very hard to convince them he’s sincere and not just looking for a way out of a tight spot. He’s going to have to answer every one of their questions and confess every last secret. Then they’ll start with the lie detector tests.”

“Good. It’d stick in my throat if he landed in clover.”

“The CIA man they’ve sent doesn’t seem to mess around.”

“He’ll have his hands full.”

“If your guy wants the Virginia farmhouse and white picket fence he’s going to be giving lectures to the new intake at Langley for the next twenty-five years.”

“Twenty-five years? Imagine that, if he turns up in a baseball cap, speaking with an American accent.”

“Turns up where?”

“Nothing.”

“Do you think he’ll be willing to cooperate with them?” she asks.

“You know what? To be completely honest with you, I wouldn’t have thought so. But then again, take a look at that.”

The figure limping towards us through the light rain is dressed in a jacket and tie. The right side of his face is badly bruised. Elif gets to her feet and holds