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

Not military, that was all I could tell. But not every military force in this area dressed the part. The man was carrying something out in front of him – was that a rifle, pointing at the ground? I lifted the gun again, ready to take him out if he turned my way. But he didn’t. He just continued moving, something about his gait telling me it was a man, tall and rangy, floating steadily across the ground as if he were on wheels, but careful of where he was treading.

Then I realized the rifle was actually a heavy stick, and he was probing the path in front of him, testing for holes and obstacles. He was followed closely by another figure and another, a line of similar shapes, all treading in his footsteps. But these later ones moved differently, and I realized they were mostly women, some with smaller ones that had to be children.

Nobody spoke, nobody looked our way. Some of the female shapes carried small bundles slung across their fronts and I guessed these were babies. But they made no sound, either, silenced by some deep-seated instinct for survival. It was like watching a silent tableaux of spirits walking by, there but somehow disconnected from the world Isobel and I were in; the living passing from one world into the next.

They moved on what was plainly a predetermined path, treading with care as if stepping through a minefield, yet unable to alter course because they’d consigned their fate to whichever god they favoured and the man out front.

The line finally began to thin out and ended with a short gap and an elderly figure scurrying along to keep up, turning occasionally to look behind, the nominated back-marker with the unenviable task of making sure he spotted trouble before it came rampaging out of the gloom to engulf them.

‘You’ve not seen this before?’ Isobel had moved silently up the hill to join me, wary of spooking the people in the trees.

‘Plenty. But not like this, at night.’

‘They’re Syrians. They’ll have crossed the border just east of here, guided by smugglers. The man in the lead will take them only so far, then tell them to keep going west before ducking out and leaving them to their own devices. We should get back to the car in case they’re spotted by the border patrols. That many people will be leaving a big heat signature.’

We slipped away and moved back down the slope to the car, and sat down to wait for daylight and keep our eyes and ears open.

SIXTEEN

We were woken before first light by the roar of large engines passing close overhead. It had grown too cold to stay outside during the night so we’d climbed into the jeep and settled down for a restless sleep on the Suzuki’s utilitarian seats. It wasn’t the best place from which to keep watch, but we hadn’t got much choice.

The helicopter was moving slightly north of our position, its downdraft fanning the foliage of the olive trees and kicking up a swirl of dust and dried leaves from the ground. I figured it was down to a couple of hundred feet, but not quite close enough to leave us exposed. But that could change in an instant if he took a chance on coming any lower.

I peered up and for a moment saw the vague silhouette of what looked like an Agusta against the sky. I didn’t like the look of that; the local forces had Agusta machines along with a few other models, and a beast that size wasn’t something you hired by the day if you were on a private hunting trip.

As it moved towards the upper slopes I wondered if it was carrying border guards searching for the group of ghostly individuals who’d passed us during the night. If so I felt sorry for them; they’d come so far and were now about to be corralled and herded into a camp somewhere before being processed, their journey cut short and their future even more uncertain.

Then the Agusta dipped its nose and slowed to a hover, setting up a dust storm further up the slope. There were trees all around and I wondered what they were doing. I soon had my answer: coils of ropes dropped to the ground from the fuselage, followed by black figures rappelling down. Their silhouettes were etched momentarily against the sky along with the assault rifles on their backs, and the speed with which they moved showed this was no first-time thing or a training exercise. The pilot had all along been scouting a clear location where he could drop the men.

Just to be sure, I said, ‘Did your people say what they were sending to pull us out?’ I had to shout because of the engine noise, but I knew they would never hear me. I was sure Isobel’s people wouldn’t send anything so large or obvious, especially in this region. Exfils or extractions in hostile areas are supposed to be as unobtrusive as you can make them and often carried out at speed and with the ability to drop out of sight if necessary. Sending in what amounted to a gunship was altogether too big a toy to join the party and would eventually draw the attention of someone who was paid to do something about it.

Isobel shook her head. ‘Nothing that big. A scout, maybe, like a Gazelle. It’s billed as an aid mission flight – and that’s definitely not it.’

It was all I needed to know. If it wasn’t our ride it had to be Lebanese government forces, Hezbollah … or someone else in the region with some muscle and the freedom to go wherever they pleased and frighten the neighbours.

‘Come on – let’s go,’ I said. We grabbed our bags and moved down the slope among the trees. I immediately felt exposed, which was always the case when under the