Sarah was always up for adventure. She loved watching the 007 movies; wanted to be Bond, getting into scrapes, following clues, a nose for a story, not afraid to take chances. But sometimes taking chances can take you too far...Here she was, in the back of a taxi, careening through the desert, without a clue where she was heading.She had flown in from Dubai on an early flight. Her driver had not been waiting for her, so she had flagged down a local car. Big mistake.The driver had now stopped talking. He had been interrogating her since the airport, but now all was silent. He was convinced she was not who she said she was. And he was right.She’d told him she was a travel agent, here to learn about the delights of Jordan and the famous Dead Sea. The reality was, she was a journalist. But no right-minded journo put that in the occupation box when they filled out their entry visa while travelling in the Middle East.She looked out the window, hoping to see some landmark, but outside was just scrubland, craggy hills in the distance, and a billow of dust behind them, because this wasn’t tarmac they were driving on anymore.She grasped her clamshell mobile phone, willing it to ring, but there was no signal. This was the early noughties; no smartphones, no GPS, no way of tracking her from here.Eventually, in the middle of nowhere, a building and a bridge came into view.The driver screeched into the car park, flung open the door, and told her to get out. To get out of the country, and not come back.Confused, Sarah grabbed her laptop case and stepped out of the car, only to be met by two uniformed officers carrying machine guns.“Come!” one of the officers barked. He waved his gun and motioned for her to enter the building. Above the door, written in Arabic and English, were the words: King Hussein Bridge – Jordan / Israel Border.This was not quite the story she had been sent here for.The taxi driver was already gone.