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

of rock on one side and a steep drop into a dried-out river gulley – a wadi – on the other. If we tried to push our way through the narrow gap and misjudged it, this little Suzuki would ping off the heavier vehicles and we’d end up with our faces buried in the rock wall or lying upside down in the wadi being shot up by the soldier manning an FN MAG machine gun on one of the Humvees.

‘They’re not after us,’ Isobel said calmly, and began to slow down. ‘They’re regular army. It’s a security thing they have to do all the time. Are you carrying a weapon?’

‘Yes.’ I didn’t tell her I actually had two because one was plenty enough to worry about in this situation. Anything more would be showing off.

‘Better pray they don’t decide to search us, then. Let me do the talking.’

We drew to a stop behind half a dozen other vehicles, a mix of trucks and small, battered sedans. The south-bound queue looked a lot longer, and a group of soldiers was clustered on the other side of the two Humvees checking documents and drivers. The men nearest to us didn’t appear quite so busy but their body language showed they were on edge as they quickly checked the trucks in front of us and waved them on, spending a little more time on the cars.

Then it was our turn and the soldiers spread out around us with professional ease. I wondered what they were looking for. I guess we’d soon find out.

A man with three dark stripes on his uniform stepped up alongside and eyed the Suzuki carefully. He even gave one of the tyres a kick as if it might be up for sale. I put him in his forties, a career soldier and nobody’s fool. The dark stripes made him a sergeant 1st class and I guessed this little exercise was his team’s current assignment for the day.

Isobel wound down her window and said a soft hello in French. She received a half smile in return which almost reached his dark eyes. He replied in French and asked where we were going and what was our reason for being here. So far so calm.

‘I’m a regional organizer for the UN aid missions here,’ Isobel replied carefully, and produced a sheet of official looking paper. ‘We’re trying to monitor the refugee situation in this area, as agreed with your government through Prime Minister Saad Hariri.’ She smiled and added, ‘I realize, of course that he is no longer in charge, but I understand the new administration wishes for that agreement to continue. So do we.’

In true military fashion the sergeant didn’t look impressed by the name-dropping. He was either allied to a different section of the various power groups in this country or he simply didn’t give a damn because he had a job to do. He looked at me. ‘And this man? Who is he?’

‘He’s my guard,’ Isobel said, and waved a dismissive hand. ‘I was advised by Major General Imad Osman of the police that I should travel with him because of the troubles.’ She finished with a faint snort of derision which I took to signify that she had no need of a guard and that I was surplus to requirements but what could she do?

The sergeant sniffed and studied me for a moment. While he did that another soldier, an older man with the wizened toughness of a long-time veteran, wandered up to the rear of the Suzuki and peered in the rear window. He rubbed a hand on the dusty glass for a better view, and I was beginning to wonder if the chit-chat with his sergeant had been a ploy to put us off-guard.

I turned my head to see what he might be looking for and hoped there wasn’t anything back there to make him go for his gun. Then my blood ran cold. Lying on the back seat where it had slid out from my bag was the spare magazine for the Hi-Power.

‘American?’ the sergeant asked me in English.

‘Absolutely not,’ I said, laying on a touch of outrage. ‘Français.’ Luckily, I had a passport to back that up. But if the other man spotted the spare magazine no passport on earth was going to help us. I tapped Isobel on the leg and gestured to the rear, and she pretended to be adjusting her seat belt to have a quick look. She was quick on the uptake and with amazing coolness took the scarf from around her neck and tossed it into the back, covering the magazine.

‘It’s so hot,’ she murmured to no-one in particular.

‘Military?’ The sergeant flicked his eyes to her, then back on me. I made sure to keep my hands in full view all the time.

‘I was, a long time ago.’ It was pointless denying it because who else but someone with military experience would be employed as a guard in this country? In any case, most three-stripers the world over can spot a former soldier at fifty paces. It’s in the stance, the eyes and the body language, and almost impossible to eradicate completely.

‘With?’ Damn, he wasn’t going to let this go. I glanced at Isobel, but she was calmly fanning her face as if this kind of delay was all in a day’s work when you knew the country and nothing to worry about.

‘The Legion.’ I wasn’t concerned about him being able to check it out because I knew the French Foreign Legion doesn’t reveal that kind of information to outsiders.

‘Really?’ His face cracked with the beginnings of a grin. ‘My uncle was with them for ten years. Which brigade were you with?’

‘The best – the 13th Demi.’ A bit of bragging between army units never goes amiss and it would come across to him as completely natural.

He pulled a mock-sympathetic face and said. ‘No, sorry, my friend, but my uncle was in the best – the 2nd Foreign