Paphos People

TORTURED

Reedman had managed to evade capture for over a week and why not, he’d been trained to blend in with the background wherever he was. The troops were looking everywhere for him. He’d been picked up once in the street, he had feigned blindness and they flung him down to the floor when they realised their mistake. With a couple of kicks from the heavy army issue boots they had left him. He had whimpered as they kicked him and begged for mercy. His command of the local language was good enough to fool the soldiers and his dishevelled unshaven appearance helped alleviate the risk of discovery.
Carefully picking himself up he had made his way to the safe house prepared for this situation. Letting himself in, he made a quick inspection. A standard formula laid down long ago, money, canned food, tea, coffee, no booze mores the pity. Preparing a meal from the unappetising choice available, he assessed his situation. Mission accomplished, being hunted down by enemy troops he had to escape to the border. He could not rely on help from HQ, he was on his own. Looking around the house he found various clothes, local wear inconspicuous ordinary looking. After shaving his beard into a reasonable eastern European style and a shower he would pass as a working class man able to move around reasonably safely.
He went to the garage, what car would there be? Something standard he hoped, full of petrol, road legal, not attracting attention. Opening the door he was puzzled, nothing. Leaning against the wall was an ancient bicycle. Bloody cutbacks! But it was in reasonable condition and should take him the fifty odd miles to the border.
The journey to the border was fairly straightforward climbing steep hills then coasting down the other side, through villages stopping for refreshments. Quite pleasant really he mused, a touring cycling holiday in eastern Europe. Many tourists paid good money for this.
As he came around a sharp bend, a road block was set up, obviously looking for him. Unable to avoid it he decided to bluff his way through.
“Papers” was the stern demand from the soldiers.
He handed over the documents he had picked up from the house.
“Where are you going?”
“To work”
“Where?”
Looking straight ahead he could see a huge factory, pointing he said
“There”
“At this time?” persisted the questioner.
“Yes I know I am late and you are making me later”
His papers were thrust back at him. The soldiers parted and he rode through them.
“HALT!”
He stopped and turned his head. Four guns were pointed at him.
“Which side of the road are you riding on?”
Realising his elementary mistake and unable to escape four rifles at that range he returned.
“Who are you?” he was asked in perfect English. He looked puzzled and raised his eyebrows in a questioning expression, just as the butt of the rifle came down on the back of his head.........

Is that enough or do you want me to continue to torture your patience and creative intellect with this puerile clichéd tale of every spy film you’ve ever seen? Or is enough enough?