Scar Tissue

by Ollie Ollerton

  As Abbott approached, Potter stood up and the two shook hands. Abbott took a seat opposite, then decided he didn’t like sitting with his back to the room and shifted around so that he was seated beside Potter.

  Potter looked at him. Like a man whose personal space was being invaded and, rather than sit side-by-side, moved around himself, rolling his eyes at the game of musical chairs.

  ‘You got in OK, then?’ he asked Abbott when they were both settled.

  Abbott eyed the glass of beer on the table in front of Potter, feeling an almost indecent rush of anticipation at getting one of his own. No doubt about it, the fires inside were well and truly lit tonight. ‘The ID did the trick,’ he told Potter. ‘They didn’t check more than that.’ He raised his hand to call for his own beer, twirling his finger in the internationally recognised signal for ‘two more here, please’.

  Potter nodded. ‘They’ll be checking more thoroughly in the days to come.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘Word is that Condoleezza Rice is paying a secret visit. Security’s tightening. Place is in a state of panic and you can bet there’s a bit of housecleaning going on.’

  ‘Noted,’ replied Abbott, thinking, Better have a shave, then.

  ‘I was about to ask how you are, but …’ Potter gestured as though Abbott told his own story, ‘I guess “not good” is the answer.’

  ‘Why? You don’t think I’m catwalk ready?’ said Abbott, wondering how long it would take the beers to come. ‘It’s the eyebrows, isn’t it? I haven’t had them threaded in at least a fortnight.’

  ‘Nah, you just look … a bit shit, really.’

  From most people, it might have been considered a personal comment, but not from Potter. He and Abbott went back to when Potter had been a fixer for Hercules, a security company that had employed Abbott and his team on a couple of occasions before they took the Lone Ranger route, and Potter had been their liaison.

  He’d gone freelance not long after that. He and Abbott had stayed in touch, Potter constantly trying to tempt Abbott back onto the market.

  Point being, he knew Abbott.

  ‘Might have something to do with the fact that I’ve not long flown in from Singapore and haven’t stopped since.’

  ‘Yeah, it might be that,’ said Potter, looking meaningfully at the drink that was placed in front of Abbott. His own drink went untouched and he watched as Abbott lifted the glass of amber liquid to his lips and drained half of it in one go. ‘Might also be that.’

  ‘This?’ Abbott took another greedy gulp and then wiped suds from his chin with the back of his hand, not really caring how he looked doing it. ‘I’ve got a handle on it. I’m a bit hung-over now, but that’s all. A bit hung-over. Very tired. Back in Baghdad and I haven’t even told you what I’ve found out since I’ve returned.’ He banged the glass back on the table and held Potter in a long, challenging glare.

  Potter sat back, hands up. ‘OK, OK. Point taken. You got the stuff OK?’

  ‘I got the stuff.’

  ‘Car OK?’

  Abbott gave a chef’s finger-kiss. ‘You the man.’

  ‘Cool, well, I put my ear to the ground like you asked,’ said Potter.

  By now Abbott had drained the last of his drink and had already raised his hand and made the twirling motion for a second time. ‘And?’

  ‘Nothing. No sign of Nathan,’ said Potter, holding up a finger to signal that only one extra beer was needed. ‘No kidnapping reports that fit the bill. You know, Abbott, it’s not exactly uncommon for squaddies to go off the grid.’

  ‘We’re not pushing the panic button without good reason, Potts. There are other extenuating factors. Do you remember Stone on my team?’

  Potter’s eyes dropped and he nodded slowly. ‘Funny you should say that. I heard something of Stone today, in fact. Something I wanted to ask you about.’

  ‘You mean the fact that he’s dead?’

  Potter nodded slowly, eyes steady.

  A burst of laughter came from a nearby table. Abbott waited for it to die down. ‘Did you hear how?’

  ‘An accident. What was it? Car?’

  ‘Uh-uh. Drowned. Best swimmer in my team. Drowned.’

  ‘Sounds like you don’t buy it?’

  ‘I’m saying it feels unlikely.’

  ‘Good swimmers drown, Abbott.’

  ‘Or maybe are drowned.’

  Potter pulled a face like he was considering the possibility. ‘Stone had enemies. Plenty of people would have wanted that fucker dead. Put it this way, I can’t say I was crying into my coffee when I learned that he’d shuffled off this mortal coil.’ Potter looked at him with slightly challenging eyes. As well he might; your teammates were like your mum and dad: It was one thing slagging off your own, quite another when an outsider did it. Abbott didn’t bite, though, no doubt confirming Potter’s suspicion that he and Stone had long ago fallen out.

  Instead he said, ‘Go on. What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, you know he was doing really well, right?’

  Abbott shrugged. ‘He was definitely heading in that general direction when I left, yeah.’

  ‘And you didn’t have the option of joining him on his trip along the road paved with gold?’

  ‘I preferred to slum it in Singapore.’

  Potter leaned forward. His face was pleasant. His words were not. ‘You know, a man could get pissed off giving so much help to a guy who’s holding out on him.’

  Abbott sighed and sat back in his seat. It was one thing taking the high hand with Cuckoo, he realised, quite another doing it with an old head like Potter. ‘Oh, come on, Potts. It’s just stuff, you know? Stuff I don’t want to talk about. Maybe not ever, but certainly not now. You want me breaking down? A full-on PTSD episode here and now?’ He was laying it on thick but hey, you had to do what you had to do.

  ‘All right, mate, all right,’ said Potter, dropping it.

  ‘Sorry. And thank you. And don’t ever think that I take any of the stuff you do for me for granted, because I really don’t, you know.’

  ‘Fine. All right. Stop before I burst out crying.’

  ‘OK, moving on. Tell me about Stone.’

  ‘Well, he formed his own firm, called—’

  ‘Executive Alliance Group.’

  ‘You knew.’

  ‘That’s the direction I was talking about. Went well, then, I assume.’

  ‘Just a fucking bit. He stole a huge contract off Hercules.’

  ‘Go on, what contract?’

  ‘Farlowe Global.’

  Ouch, thought Abbott, pulling a face. Of all the industrial contractors operating in Iraq, Farlowe were the biggest, and currently in the process of developing a vast portfolio of industrial and residential projects, as well as moving into energy services, primarily oil and gas, but renewable energy sources, too. As such, they had a huge complex in the Green Zone, second in size only to Saddam’s palace, as well as a bunch of satellite offices, both inside the zone and out, as well as further afield in Iraq.

  Abbott had no idea how many Farlowe personnel were deployed in the whole of the country, but it was enough to populate a small town, maybe even a big town, which meant that they needed a fuckload of security personnel. The contract, therefore, was immense.

  ‘Yeah. Exactly.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m not privy to that kind of information.’

  ‘Ballpark.’

  ‘Oh, God, fuck, you know, a big six figures.’

  ‘Fuck me.’

  ‘Fuck you? Fuck me. I was out on my ear.’

  ‘Come again? Hercules fired you because Executive Alliance Group stole a contract?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Potter. ‘Bear with me. We’ll get there.’

  ‘OK, but how did Executive Alliance Group even have the resources to fulfil a contract like that?’ asked Abbott. Last he knew of it, EAG was but a glint in Stone’s eye, an idea born at a large kitchen table inside Mahlouthi’s villa. Sud
denly it had the capability to fulfil a security contract with Farlowe Global.

  ‘Well, this is the clever bit,’ explained Potter. ‘EAG swiped the contract out from under the nose of Hercules, which was suddenly a firm without a portfolio. In Iraq, at least. As you know, they’d been doing stuff in Somalia, but in Iraq it was pretty much Farlowe only. Without Farlowe, Hercules was left high and dry. No way could they win anything big enough to support the kind of infrastructure they had. What’s more, they – by which I mean “we”, because I was still there then – leased our Green Zone HQ from Farlowe, who wanted it back. And guess who they gave it to?’

  Abbott looked at him. ‘No. Surely not.’

  ‘Yup. EAG moved in, took over the whole shooting match. A bunch of senior personnel left but otherwise it was business as usual. All they changed was the sign above the door. OK, they changed a bit more than that, but you know what I mean.’

  ‘And this was just Stone, was it? What about Biscuits and Badger? At one time there was talk that we’d all be involved.’

  ‘But you bowed out?’

  ‘Events overtook me.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know. Stone was CEO. He was the public-facing figure. That’s all I knew, because of course it wasn’t long after that that I was packing my own cardboard box and heading for the exit.’

  ‘Being senior personnel?’

  ‘Yeah. And thus associated with the previous regime. Maybe. A bit of that. Also a bit too much wondering aloud and to the wrong people how a pissant start-up like EAG can completely muscle in on a huge operation like Hercules.’ He indicated his glass. ‘Too many of these in here one night. Too much of just saying what everybody fucking thinks anyway. And on that note I happen to know that EAG is also under investigation by the CIA and UK military intelligence. But they’re keeping it on the down low.’

  ‘Oh yes. And what is the general thrust of their investigation?’

  ‘Well, if it was me, I’d be thinking about kickbacks and insider information. Maybe something even more damaging than that. Anyway, to come back to my original point, you can’t do any of that without making enemies. Which means that Stone had plenty of people who wanted him dead.’

  Abbott felt himself slipping into the alcohol, knowing he shouldn’t but unable to resist. He squeezed the bridge of his nose in order to summon rational thought. ‘None of which helps me get close to knowing where Nathan is,’ he said. ‘A guy contacts Nathan. A guy dies. And I’m none the wiser.’

  ‘You carry on with the spadework,’ said Potter. ‘Less of this.’ He mimed drinking. ‘And more of this.’ He mimed digging. ‘In the meantime, I’ll make some inquiries of my own.’

  Abbott’s shoulders slumped. ‘It could be that this is all about me, Potts,’ he said, wanting to test on Potter what Cuckoo had suggested. A fear that he barely dared give voice to.

  ‘Well, if Stone’s been in touch with Nathan, then quite possibly,’ said Potter.

  ‘And that maybe Nathan’s being used in some way. Used as bait.’

  Potter pulled a non-committal face. Instead, the thought simply settled over Abbott like a cloak and he took an unhappy pull of his beer, saying a silent sorry to his son, missing, doing God knows what, God knows where. Paying, as he always had, for Abbott’s shortcomings.

  ‘So what now?’ asked Potter. ‘I can make some inquiries on your behalf, but what will you be doing in the meantime?’ he spoke with a meaningful look at Abbott’s glass.

  ‘Nathan’s missing,’ hissed Abbott. ‘I won’t be spending my time getting bladdered, all right? Can you get me an interpreter? Ask him to meet me tomorrow?’

  Potter agreed and Abbott gave him the address of the street in Kadhimiya. The two drank some more, making what amounted to small talk for a while, until Potter, with a wide yawn, announced it was time to go.

  He meant them both, of course, and grimaced when Abbott announced that he planned to have one more for the road. Shaking his head but too drunk himself to raise much concern, Potter left with promises to do his best, and Abbott waited until he’d gone before availing himself of the Country Club’s famous take-outs – two bottles of red – in order to continue the night’s drinking back at the Al Mansour, telling himself that he’d drink one bottle.

  Which he did, as he opened Nathan’s laptop and began another, ultimately fruitless search of its contents.

  And then he started on a second bottle. He was on his third glass and beginning to find it difficult to focus on the laptop screen when there came a knock at the door. His Sig was on the tabletop beside the computer. He snatched it up, stood and swallowed, gathering himself as though under scrutiny before walking steadily – correction: trying to walk steadily – to the door.

  ‘Who is it?’ he asked, the words only just identifiable as proper words. He stood by the side of the door, in case anybody on the other side put a round through it. At the same time, his Sig was raised, pointing at the window and the fire escape. The window was open, allowing in a cool November-night breeze. The cream linen curtain rippled slightly. He pictured killers on the fire escape outside, assassins in the corridor outside his room.

  And then came a small voice. ‘It’s me, mister.’

  Abbott put his eye to the peephole. Outside, the corridor was empty apart from a little Arabic boy, just nine or ten, so he took the chance, opened the door, peering quickly up and down the hall at the same time. The boy stood with his hands behind his back and his chin raised, waiting for Abbott’s attention.

  ‘Yes?’ said Abbott. He heard the slur in his voice but took heart from the fact that the kid was young and probably wouldn’t twig that he was drunk.

  ‘Are you drunk, mister?’ said the kid.

  Abbott frowned at him. ‘Always, mate.’

  The kid looked pleased about that. He spoke in a polite voice. ‘Mr Mahlouthi wonders if you would join him at his residence. He would very much like to talk to you.’

  Mahlouthi. Mahlouthi and a body in the street.

  ‘No,’ croaked Abbott.

  ‘Mr Mahlouthi would very much like to see you, mister,’ repeated the boy insistently.

  ‘Well, then, Mr Mahlouthi is fresh out of good-luck tokens, then, isn’t he? Because I’m not going anywhere.’

  ‘Mister—’ started the boy.

  ‘Do you know what fuck off is?’ snapped Abbott. He was swaying in the doorway now. A guy who was drunk and in charge of a gun and yet somehow, pathetically, also failing to intimidate a little kid.

  ‘I’ll tell him you said no.’ The little kid smiled, then dashed away down the corridor, out of sight.

  Abbott closed the door, went back to his boozing.

  CHAPTER 29

  It had been the end of June when it had happened. Abbott was still at Mahlouthi’s then. He and Fi were long divorced, of course, and it was already well over a year since he’d last had any contact with Nathan.

  Meantime, the maintenance was killing him. Abbott, never good with money at the best of times, was struggling. He was one of those guys who spent what he made and was having no difficulty spending it just because he was in Baghdad. The whole team were doing their fair share of drinking and drugging.

  Of course, he didn’t realise it at the time, but the drink and the drugs were his way of coping with the situation and with other people. It was the crew at the ex-pats’ AA in Singapore that had led him to thinking that. It hit him like a bolt of lightning at the first meeting. One of them – it might even have been Rodney out of Only Fools and Horses – had talked about drinking to ‘self-medicate’. It was the first time Abbott had heard that particular expression, the first time he’d thought of drink as an actual medicine. Something you took to ease the pain. It struck a chord.

  So that was it, looking back. That was one of the reasons he drank and still did. To take himself out of life and away from himself. To ease the pain. To ‘self-medicate’. Funny how knowing that didn’t seem to help him stop, but it was a bit of comfort at least.

&nb
sp; But there was another reason. Or perhaps another way of putting it would be to say that the medicine had another side-effect to which Abbott was partial. It made him feel normal. So while the sober version of him made the right noises about comradeship, the band of brothers and all that jazz, he never really felt it on the inside. Drunk, he did. He actually briefly felt at one with the team. He felt like he’d happily die for these guys.

  Waking up sober, of course, he’d realise it was just a trick of the alcohol but during the night-time, he was just one of the lads. And if anybody noticed that he usually kept himself to himself during the daytime, well, they didn’t say so, putting it down to ‘just Abbott’. He was a good soldier, he knew. A good man to have at your side during a contact, and being a good soldier trumped every other consideration. You could be any weirdo you wanted, as long as you were a good soldier. As long as you held up your end in the field.

  Was that the reason that Mahlouthi had called him into the office that day – his distance from the others? Either way he was asked to report. Abbott’s quarters and those of the three other guys were across the villa from Mahlouthi’s area, which was like a house within itself. To get to it meant traversing almost the entire length of the complex, then crossing a pool area to the portico that marked the entrance to Mahlouthi’s inner sanctum, an area that he shared with his three wives.

  It used to be the case that the pool area was open, but the first thing that Abbott and co. had done was insist that it was covered. Some people looked at the pool and saw a lovely sun trap, a place to relax with a drink and a J.K. Rowling novel. The four ex-SBS blokes saw the perfect entry point for an assault, complete with abseil ropes.

  He made his way across, nodding at one of the wives who sat by the pool. She frowned at him as though she blamed him personally for the glass that now comprised the ceiling of the pool. Them’s the breaks, he thought, and climbed the steps to enter Mahlouthi’s quarters. Unlike the rest of the villa his area seemed to be swathed in linen, which swayed gently in the air-conditioning. Walking through to Mahlouthi’s office and knocking gently on the door, he felt like he was inside a 1980s pop video. Half expected Simon Le Bon to appear.