A Hostile State by Adrian Magson (reading eggs books txt) 📗

‘As far as I know, nothing. I’d only just arrived in the country.’ I decided to change the subject. ‘What’s it like here?’

‘Everything’s been fine until just recently. Just your common-or-garden level of harassment and threatening looks from anyone in a uniform and a few without. The natives are friendly enough, and being called terrorists by the international community doesn’t seem to bother them. In fact I think they regarded it as a badge of honour. But when my government decided to freeze their assets it seems to have hit a sore point. Now I’m not so sure it’s a good place to be.’ She gave me a sideways look. ‘So what happened with the shooter?’

‘He retired.’

She let that one lie and checked her watch. As she did so I looked towards the entrance. I’d become aware of a change in the street noises outside; there was less voice chatter than when I’d first come in and the traffic had dropped to zero, which was unnatural. We were sitting in a market town where busy and noisy was a way of life. A couple of women pedestrians hurried past, heads down, and across the other side of the street a man stuck his head out of a pharmacy doorway, took a look both ways, then ducked back inside and slammed the door.

That wasn’t good.

‘Damn’, said Isobel calmly. ‘I was followed for a while this morning but I thought they’d given up. They’ll have probably blocked the street at both ends.’ She reached for her rucksack. ‘Do you have a vehicle?’

‘A couple of blocks away. Nothing I can’t leave behind.’ I’d got my rucksack tucked between my feet and anything I’d left in the Land Cruiser was disposable and free of makers’ labels. When you’re on your way out of a situation in a hurry you have to reckon on leaving behind more than you came with, as long as it doesn’t compromise you or point to your origins. I knew I was clean.

‘Good.’ She lifted out what looked like a bottle in a paper bag, and placed it on the table. The clunk I’d heard as she sat down. She nodded towards the rear of the room, to one side of the bar. ‘See that door? We’re going to walk across and go straight through. There’s a rear door opening onto an alleyway. Outside will be a small jeep. I’ll drive because I know the town and the area out of here. Are you all right with that?’

The way she said it suggested I had little choice but that was fine by me. I’d come here for one rush job and there hadn’t been much time to study this particular area in case of a quick exit. ‘I’m good. What about the barman – you trust him?’

‘Hadid? He’s OK, I promise. It’s his jeep. I called him earlier and said I had to take a trip out of town. Would you mind paying – and leaving a really generous tip?’

I nodded and we both stood up. Isobel grabbed the bottle and led the way out towards the rear. Hadid watched us all the way from the corner of his eye and gave the faintest of nods as we passed by, then turned to the coffee machine and hit the steam button, sending a cloud of vapour into the air and shouting what sounded like a string of cuss words to attract attention away from our exit.

Isobel placed the bottle behind the bar and I did the same with a handful of notes.

Seconds later we were walking down a passageway and out into a shadow-filled alleyway lined with garbage bins, wooden crates and a couple of small dogs having a fight. A dun-coloured Suzuki jeep stood outside and Isobel climbed behind the wheel, dumped the rucksack by her feet and started the engine. It clattered a bit but sounded fine to me. As long it was moving we were in with a chance.

‘Are you all right to drive?’ I asked, and nodded at her leg.

‘The bloody animal kicked me, it didn’t disembowel me. Hold onto your seat.’ With that we took off down the alleyway towards an intersection at the far end. The dogs abandoned hostilities and scooted out of our way with casual ease.

‘In case you’re wondering, Hadid doesn’t drink alcohol. But whisky is a commodity to be traded here and every now and then he needs to offer something to smooth the way past some nonsense or other. This is one of those times.’

I found myself breathing in as the door handles of the jeep seemed to skim the walls on either side, and prayed no innocent householder stepped out for a stroll. Isobel seemed perfectly relaxed, however, steering with ease and pounding the horn while humming a tune I didn’t recognize.

‘Is he likely to talk?’ I shouted over the racket as the engine noise boomed back off the buildings. It was like being in a fairground ride from hell and I could see the end of the track coming up way too fast.

She shook her head. ‘No. He hates the regime and everything they stand for. And I think he’s got a crush on me, the dirty old bugger.’ She grinned and continued to lean on the horn as, without slowing she charged out onto the main street at the intersection, narrowly missing a donkey pulling a cart with huge rubber tyres. She bounced us off a kerbstone before correcting and straightening our line of travel while I held on and hoped we didn’t run into a roadblock.

NINE

Moscow

The atmosphere in the fourth-floor meeting room in Building No 3 in Moscow was different to previous days; it now held an aura that the attendees found uncomfortable. They had been summoned at short notice by an irate Konstantin Basalayev, his voice on the phone containing a level of chill that did not bode well. The fact that he had called them personally rather than using