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

‘Then he has my profound respect. How are his knees?’

That made him laugh. He said, ‘Not good. Too many jumps. He’s still tough as leather but he walks like a duck.’ He rattled off a translation for the benefit of his colleagues, who gave what I guessed were whoops of Lebanese one-upmanship. The older man peering into the jeep turned and joined in, giving a descending whistle noise while with his free hand he mimed a high dive towards the ground, before turning and walking away to much laughter from the other men.

The sergeant handed Isobel her authorization document and said, ‘Travel safely, m’sieur, madame. Be aware it is dangerous to leave this road, especially towards the border. We cannot help you if you do.’ Then he stepped back and waved us on. Isobel thanked him politely and edged us carefully past the Humvees and we were through.

‘The Foreign Legion?’ She stared at me. ‘That was one heck of a bluff.’

‘It wasn’t.’

‘Seriously? Why the hell did you join them? Were you on the run?’

‘It’s a long story.’ It was one I didn’t want to go into, another part of my life and long gone. Thankfully she didn’t push me on it and we sank into a long bout of silence, both relieved that the roadblock had gone as well as it had. It took another ten miles of silence before the tension began to evaporate.

Eventually Isobel slowed before turning right onto a rough, rubble-strewn track climbing into the hills. There were no signs so I guessed this wasn’t going to end up at a decent four-star hotel with room service and a pool. The jeep’s suspension creaked and groaned as we climbed, the wheels dipping into crevices which couldn’t be avoided, and I hoped it didn’t give out on us out of sheer fatigue. We were already beyond help unless a friendly truck driver happened along.

‘What are we supposed to do with this when we’re done?’ I asked, nodding at the dashboard. My tip had been generous as she’d asked, but not big enough to buy a replacement.

‘We dump it,’ Isobel said. ‘Hadid has a side deal on used cars and this one’s not registered to him. If asked he’ll say it was stolen by militants. They’re always on the lookout for vehicles and run a trade in knock-offs to fund local operations.’

The track wound around the side of the hill, and as we climbed I spotted the top edge of a square structure standing out against the surrounding sandstone. It must have been the only building for miles and I wondered who had built such a place out here. It wasn’t exactly on a major bus route, although there wouldn’t be much of a problem with noisy neighbours.

‘Is that it?’ I asked. ‘The safe-house?’

Isobel nodded. ‘Home from home. It used to belong to a local government minister. He thought it would be a good place to establish a base for weekend hunting parties. Migrant bird hunting is a big thing around here. When he realized nobody else was interested because of the risks involved with the changing situation he abandoned the project. MI6 bought it through a middleman in case it ever came in handy. It’s a bit obvious but nice and remote and it’s only for one night. We get airlifted out in the morning.’

The track wound its way across a momentarily flat area, then lifted us up a steep gradient riddled with potholes and cracks that made the suspension of the jeep groan even louder. Two hundred yards later the scenery changed dramatically and Isobel swore and pulled to a stop, a vague ghost of trailing dust brushing past us in the air and momentarily shrouding us like a veil.

‘Christ,’ Isobel muttered and cut the engine. ‘If I’d known the family was coming to stay I’d have dusted first.’

The side of the hill all around the house was a mass of makeshift shelters, weather-worn tents hung with washing, and campfires. And people. Hundreds of people. There were men, mostly old, but hugely outnumbered by women and children. A mist of dark grey smoke from the numerous fires drifted over the scene, eddying and swirling with the movement of the breeze and lending it the kind of surreal quality any Hollywood filmmaker would have given their right arm to be able to emulate.

But you can’t replicate that kind of scene. It was misery in the flesh, a setting right out of the news but with the added quality that only seeing it first-hand can bring, rather than through the lens of a television camera.

Neither of us spoke; it was all too sudden and shocking. I’d seen worse, but usually when I’d been expecting it. And even though I knew perfectly well what the refugee situation was like all over the Middle East, my guard had been let down while focussing on getting away from the men who’d tried to kill me.

Then the smoke at one end of the encampment shifted and swirled, like a curtain moving aside. It revealed among the flood of humanity three men in military uniform emerging from one tent and pushing into another. They were accompanied by several soldiers armed with automatic rifles, shoving aside anyone taking too long to move out of their way.

The people outside the tent could only comply and stare, their faces dull and empty of expression. Any instinctive protest at the invasion was no doubt suppressed for fear of drawing the attention of the soldiers when all they wanted to do was sink into this unwelcoming landscape and find somewhere to hide.

The soldiers reappeared and moved to the next tent, flanked by their guards. There was something about the way they were focussed which indicated they were looking for someone specific but I didn’t think it was us. At least I hoped not.

When the three men came out this time they were bundling a man before them. He struggled to get free, but one of the armed soldiers