Chris Ryan - The One That Got Away - Junior edition

Then he picked up all the things they’d taken off me — watch, ID discs, boot laces and so on — and handed them back. ‘These are yours,’ he said.

I was so confused. What was the point of taking it all off me in the first place? There’d been so many changes of mood.

First the farm boy, definitely friendly.

The driver of the truck had turned hostile, telling me I had no business to be in Syria.

Then the policeman on duty had saved me from the mob.

Next the guys inside the station had tried to steal all my kit.

Then the guy who made me write down my details seemed to be back on my side.

A few minutes later my escorts were giving me apples to eat.

Then it was into the mock-execution, and more sick jokes about going to Baghdad.

No wonder my head was swimming.

I started getting my kit back in place. I put away the maps and knife, and got the ID discs back round my neck. By then my feet had swollen up so much that I couldn’t get my boots on, so I didn’t bother threading the laces.

At last we came to a big modern building, probably ten storeys high. There were guards in green uniforms and armed with AK-47s on the gates, on the walls, everywhere. It wasn’t the sort of place you could break into, or out of, in a hurry. Before I had time to wonder where we were, the gates swung open in front of us, and we drove into a courtyard.

All my escorts got out. When I tried to move, I found that my knees and ankles had locked solid. The older guy saw me struggling and clicked his fingers. The other two lifted me out of the car and practically carried me up a long flight of steps to the glass doors. They can’t have enjoyed it much, because I absolutely stank.

After a few steps my legs began to function again, more or less. We shuffled into a big reception area, where everything looked efficient and well-guarded. We got into a lift and went up a few floors. As the doors opened, we were met by a smartly dressed, clean-shaven man in a dark blue blazer, stripey tie and blue shirt. Beside him, hovering respectfully, stood another man, about the same age, but chubbier and less smart.

The boss-figure in the stripey tie was an impressive character: in his mid-forties, he had a good haircut and possessed obvious authority. I hadn’t a clue who he was and he didn’t tell me. Only later did I discover that he was head of the Mukhabarat, the Syrian Secret Police.

The boss smiled, reached out, took my hand, and said in English, ‘Welcome to Damascus. Welcome to Syria.’

The chubby man, who was an interpreter, said, ‘Come in, please.’ He ushered me in.

Where was the catch? What were they up to? I was desperately trying to think through all my options — and think fast — so that I didn’t get caught out.

I followed them through into some kind of office and sat down on a sofa. I could see the boss sniff, not liking the smell of me. Now that I was somewhere clean, I could see what a terrible state I was in: my hair was matted, my hands and face were filthy. There was brown, dried blood on my DPMs. The boss himself took off the shamag, which was still wrapped round my head. He spoke sharply to the interpreter, clearly saying, ‘Get this stuff off.’ Someone else helped me out of the dishdash. Another guy brought in my bag and put it under a table.

‘Would you like to get cleaned up?’ the boss asked through the interpreter.

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Good idea.’

‘Come with me.’

The interpreter’s English was first class, and he seemed very friendly. I tried to appear grateful; but I still had no idea what was going on, and I expect I looked shell-shocked. I had time to glance round the walls and noticed a gold-plated AK-47, as well as pictures of Hafez al-Assad, the Syrian President. A large, leather-topped desk stood in one corner, covered in ornaments and paperweights. Two or three settees were set out around a coffee table. The whole room spoke of money and good organization.

We walked out of the office, through a living room and into a bedroom, where some exercise machines were set out. Then we went into the bathroom, which had a big corner bath, a shower, a toilet, a pedestal basin with a mirror on the wall above it, and shelves full of toiletries. Everything was clean and glitzy, with gold-plated taps.

The boss walked around, fitting a new blade into a safety razor and getting some shampoo ready. Someone turned on the bath, and through the interpreter he said, ‘This is all my stuff. Just use it, please.’

He went out and left me alone. It was only then that I looked in a mirror and saw my face. What a sight! I was gaunt as a skeleton; under ten days’ growth of beard my cheeks were hollow, and my eyes seemed to have sunk into their sockets. My hair was matted with every kind of filth.

I felt stunned, unable to make out what was happening. One minute I’d been gearing myself up for prison; now I was being taken care of in a high-class apartment. But whatever else lay ahead, there was no reason not to have a bath. I started slowly undressing, and took off my shirt.

Looking in two mirrors at once (one in front, one behind), I caught sight of my back, and I could hardly believe it. My ribs, spine and hipbones were all sticking out, as though I’d been starved for weeks. I could see every rib going round and joining my backbone. It was a shock to realize that I’d been living off my own body. In walking nearly 300 kilometres, and shuddering with cold for countless hours, I’d burned away all the muscle which I’d built up during my time on the SP team.

In the mirror I saw a young boy coming in holding a tape measure, and the interpreter behind him.

‘What’s going on now?’ I demanded.

‘We’ll just take your sizes,’ said the interpreter, and the boy started measuring me.

What’s this for? I was thinking. A coffin? But I didn’t ask — partly out of fear that I would learn something bad.

The boy soon legged it, and as I was getting my trousers off, in came another guy with a cup of Turkish coffee. I drank a mouthful of it, but it tasted like cough medicine and made me gag. ‘Water!’ I croaked, and made drinking motions.

I edged myself over the bath and lowered myself in carefully, backside first, keeping my feet out of the water. Then I gradually submerged them. As the heat hit the cuts, the pain was horrendous. After a few seconds I lifted them out again, then tried to lower them back into the water. I lay there with my legs up as I washed myself and shampooed my hair. Soon the water was absolutely black, so I got out, pulled out the plug, and started to fill the bath again.

I got back into clean water, and again the pain in my feet was terrific, as if needles were being driven into them. Apart from the cuts along the sides, they were discoloured, with red and blue patches. All I could do was lie there and bite my tongue. After a while the burning ache subsided, and I started to enjoy the hot water.

The interpreter came in and sat down by the bath with his notepad. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Can you tell me what happened?’

Play it like you’re frightened , I thought. ‘I’m a medic,’ I told him. ‘I was brought in from the TA, and I was on board a helicopter going in to retrieve—’

‘The TA?’

‘The Territorial Army. The reserves. As I said, I was going in to retrieve a downed pilot, and something happened. There was a big bang, the helicopter crashed, and I just ran for it. We came down, and I was really scared. I didn’t wait for anybody else…’ Keep it light , I was thinking. Pretend to be nervous .