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get the hell out of here before some curious truckie begins to figure out what’s going on.’

4
Sunday, 29 September, early a.m.
Amman
    SAM WAS AWARE of being awake and of not wanting to be. His leaden limbs and thick head demanded more sleep. He had no idea where he was. A memory of the piss-smelling truck and a needle in the arm, then a vague recollection of a different vehicle. Of an endless journey in acute discomfort on an extremely bumpy road. Of retching on an empty stomach.
    But now he felt soft bed-springs beneath his back and heard voices. He half-opened his eyes and saw two faces he didn’t recognise. At least two. Could have been more. Might just have been one, multiplied by the kaleidoscope someone seemed to have lodged in his eyeballs. He blinked and twisted his head to get a clearer focus. It
was
two faces and he still didn’t recognise them. But something in his head told him they were going to kill him. The needle in the arm was a mere preamble. A trial run. Maybe he was dead already.
    He tried to swallow but his throat felt as dry as the Iraqi desert he remembered pissing on some time back. Then logic kicked in. He couldn’t be dead, because surely when you’re dead things like being thirsty don’t happen any more.
    One of the faces pressed closer. An Arab face,scrutinising him like he was a laboratory rat. The injection . . . the Iraqis were using him as a guinea pig for their weapons trials . . . the fluid shot into his veins some vile chemical concoction . . . and now he was in some secret lab the bastards had kept hidden from the UN inspectors.
    A hand reached towards him and a finger pushed his eyelids fully open one by one. From somewhere close he heard a gentle English voice ask, ‘What was it d’you think?’
    â€˜Can’t tell. Some barbiturate probably.’ It was the Arab who’d answered.
    â€˜Sam . . .’ Again, the English voice. But truly English this time. None of your phoney Sandhurst. ‘Sam, you’re okay. You’re in Jordan. Can you hear me?’
    He turned his head to focus on the face that was speaking his name. It was thin, lean and tanned, with straight fair hair, a beak of a nose and grey eyes that were observing him with a cool concern.
    â€˜Hello,’ Packer croaked, his voice sounding as if it wasn’t his.
    â€˜I’m Quentin Mowbray. Station officer in Amman. You’re free, old man. We got you out.’
    â€˜Out?’ Sam’s mind wasn’t registering.
    â€˜Out of Iraq. You’re in Jordan.’
    No. A trick. He couldn’t risk believing this. But
Mowbray
. The name was right. Quentin Mowbray, station head in Amman.
    â€˜You’re free, old man. Not a prisoner any more.’ Mowbray spoke loudly, as if addressing a geriatric.
    â€˜It’s true?’ Sam croaked.
    A wet wave of emotion threatened to overwhelm him, but he held it back. Don’t let go. Names proved nothing. If the Iraqi Mukhabarat had known who he was, they’d surely know about Mowbray too. This room could wellbe in Iraq, his tormentors playing cruel games with him, wanting him to think he was among friends so he would open up and tell them at last what that dead messenger had whispered to him.
    â€˜How did I get here?’ he asked, testing them. The haze was beginning to clear.
    â€˜They drugged you with something,’ Mowbray hedged. He indicated the Arab and added, ‘This man’s a Jordanian doctor.’ Then his eyes narrowed so Sam would understand to be careful about what he said in his presence. ‘He wants to examine you.’
    â€˜Yes, my friend. If you don’t mind.’ The doctor’s voice was flat and dispassionate. ‘Do you have any pains?’
    Who wouldn’t have pains, after what you lot have done to me?
Sam wanted to say, but he held his tongue, badly wanting to believe that he truly was free.
    â€˜Back’s sore,’ he answered carefully,