How to Betray Your Country by James Wolff (pocket ebook reader txt) 📗

“I fell over. There is no problem here.”

The torch bobbed closer.

“English? American?” one of the policemen asked.

“English.”

“What happened?”

“I fell over.” He gestured weakly. “The rain.”

Which might have been the end of it, if Youssef hadn’t come around the same corner, stopped abruptly at the sight of the policemen and taken two steps backwards. It was clear from the expression on his face that he thought August had gone looking for them.

“What country?” one of the officers asked him.

“Spain.”

“You are Spanish? Come here.” When Youssef was close enough one of them reached for the metal bar sticking out of his pocket. He spoke in Turkish to his colleague and then asked, “You know him?”

It wasn’t clear who he was talking to, or what answer would make them go away quickest. August wanted this to be over. He wanted to sit on his bed and open a bottle. He didn’t want to stand in the rain being questioned while holding the fluttering remains of a bloody napkin to his head like a rosette pinned to a prize-winning vegetable. He didn’t want to feel responsible for what might happen to Youssef.

“Yes, he’s my friend,” August said reluctantly. Of the two of them he was the professional. Better that he handle it.

“So why you are not walking together?”

A reasonable question. Perhaps he should have said they didn’t know each other. Too late now. “We arranged to meet here at” – he glanced at his watch – “nine o’clock.”

The one asking the questions frowned. “Here?”

An alleyway with no visible sign, no shops, no other people in sight.

“We were originally going to meet on İstiklal, you see,” August said, before remembering it was on the other side of town, “but because of … because of the weather we changed it. It’s quieter here, no crowds. My friend doesn’t like crowds, do you? He’s always been like that, since… Well, it’s personal. We’re good friends. Very good friends, very old friends. School friends. Not school, more like university. University mates. What was the question again?” He felt dizzy. It dawned on him that this wasn’t going well. That blow to the head must have been harder than he thought. He wanted to lie down and close his eyes. If the principles of a good cover story were that it was simple, logical and dull, this one was a failure on all counts. Perhaps the rosette was a consolation prize, he thought – perhaps he wasn’t such a champion vegetable after all. He had to find a way to stop talking.

“You are friends,” the policeman said, nodding. August realized his awkwardness had led the officer to conclude they were a couple. If you allow them, he thought, people will usually let you know what they are expecting to hear – they will lead you to the right cover story. But Youssef had decided to take a different approach.

“I have never seen this man before in my life,” he said. “Can I go?”

“Passport,” said the officer.

“I do not have it with me,” said Youssef.

“You speak Spanish?”

“Officer, there’s no problem here,” said August. “My friend and I are just on our way —”

“I am not your friend.”

“You’re right, you’re a lot more than that. It was just a silly argument. Let’s have some dinner and get out of this rain.”

“What are you talking about? I am not going anywhere with you.”

“It’s my treat, Youssef —”

“I told you before, I do not want anything from you!”

The second officer slapped Youssef across the face and he rocked backwards against the wall.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” said August quickly, stepping between them, “you don’t have to do that. There’s no problem here. We just want to go. I’m feeling dizzy, I might throw up. God, all this blood everywhere. I need my friend to help me. Please.” He reached out and took hold of Youssef. “Come on, old friend.” He would give it one last try. If Youssef preferred to take his chances with the police that was his choice. He tightened his grip and pretended to stumble in order to jolt Youssef loose from the wall. The first policeman pulled his colleague to one side. August leaned in, once they were a few paces away, and said in a low voice, “They won’t do anything as long as we stay together.”

The two officers followed at a distance until they reached August’s hotel. In the room on the third floor Youssef stood at the window, watching the street below, waiting for them to leave.

“I’ll swap you a whisky for a cigarette,” said August.

There were aspects of the pain he felt that turned out to be welcome. It made everything else seem unimportant; it pulled down the shutters on the world outside. He set about counting his injuries greedily like a shopkeeper emptying the till after a busy day: an open cut above his eye, a bruise across his shoulder, a stiff neck, a twisted ankle. He had the beginnings of a headache too.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, lighting Youssef’s cigarette.

Youssef didn’t reply. His attempt at a mugging had resulted in physical defeat and a humiliating encounter with the police. August realized that to get him talking he would have to meet Youssef on his own frequency and slowly dial him down to a manageable level.

“I hope your stomach hurts as much as my head does,” August said.

Youssef shifted his feet for a better view of the street.

“I guess I should be grateful you don’t know how to fight.”

Youssef’s head turned one way and then the other, looking for the policemen.

“It’s hard to see how you ended up losing,” August said, “considering you attacked me from behind with a weapon, like a coward.”

Youssef’s eyes briefly flicked back.

“Are we even?” August said. “Do I need to watch my back every time I step outside? I’d happily pay for that not to be the case. My wallet’s over there. Take what you want.”

“I am not a beggar.”

“No, you’re a thief.”

“Then you should have let them take