To prevent this, Marla signed up for the Army reserves. That way the factory couldn’t increase her hours because it would conflict with her instruction at the army base. This would allow her to spend more time with little Mae.
Marla made the decision to join one day after the Military Police Company was notified of its next destination: Iraq. The news item had appeared on page 6 of the Lorton Chronicle. In September 2003, Marla waved goodbye to Mae and climbed aboard a truck at the base. The girl, hugging her grandmother, cried at the top of her lungs with all the grief a six-year-old can muster. Both would die four weeks later when Mrs Jackson, who wasn’t as good a mother as Marla, pushed her luck by smoking in bed for the last time.
When she was given the news, Marla found she was incapable of returning home and begged her astonished sister to make all the arrangements for the wake and burial. She then requested that her tour of duty in Iraq be extended, and went on to devote herself wholeheartedly to her next stint – as an MP in a prison called Abu Ghraib.
A year later, a few unfortunate photos turned up on a national television programme. They demonstrated that something inside Marla had finally cracked. The good mother from Lorton, Virginia, had become a torturer of Iraqi prisoners.
Of course, Marla wasn’t the only one. In her head, losing her daughter and her mother somehow became the fault of ‘Saddam’s dirty dogs’. Marla was given a dishonourable discharge and sentenced to four years in prison. She served six months. After she got out of jail she went straight to the security firm DX5 and asked for work. She wanted to return to Iraq.
They gave her work, but she didn’t return to Iraq straight away. Instead she fell into Mogens Dekker’s hands. Literally.
It had been eighteen months and Marla had learned a great deal. She could shoot much better, knew more philosophy, and had experienced making love with a white man. Colonel Dekker had been turned on almost instantly by the woman with the big strong legs and the face of an angel. Marla had found him somewhat comforting, and the remainder of her comfort derived from the smell of gunpowder. She had killed for the first time and she liked it.
A lot.
She also liked her crew… sometimes. Dekker had chosen them well: a handful of assassins with no conscience who enjoyed killing under the impunity of a government contract. While they were on the battlefield, they were blood brothers. But on a hot sticky afternoon like this, when they had ignored Dekker’s orders to get some sleep and instead were playing cards, things took a different turn. They became as irritated and dangerous as a gorilla at a cocktail party. The worst one was Torres.
‘You’re messing me around, Jackson. And you haven’t even given me a little kiss,’ said the small Colombian. It made Marla especially uneasy when he played with his small rusty razor. Like him, it was apparently harmless but capable of slitting a man’s throat as if it were butter. The Colombian was slicing small white strips off the edge of the plastic table where they were sitting. There was a smile on his lips.
‘Du scheiβt’ mich an, Torres. Jackson has a full house and you’re full with shit,’ said Alryk Gottlieb, who was constantly battling with English prepositions. The taller of the twins had hated Torres with a vengeance ever since they had watched a World Cup match between their two countries. They had said things to each other, fists had flown. In spite of his six foot two frame, Alryk didn’t sleep well at night. If he was still alive, it may only have been because Torres wasn’t sure he could take down both twins.
‘All I’m saying is that her cards are a little too good,’ Torres shot back, smiling even more.
‘Well, are you going to deal or what?’ said Marla, who had cheated but wanted to remain cool. She had already won almost two hundred from him.
This streak can’t last much longer. I’ll have to start letting him win, or one night I’m going to end up with that blade in my neck, she thought.
Slowly Torres began to deal making all sorts of faces to distract them.
The truth is, the bastard’s cute. If he wasn’t such a psycho and didn’t smell weird, he’d turn me on big time.
At that moment the frequency scanner, which sat on a table six feet from where they were playing, started to beep.
‘What the hell?’ said Marla.
‘It’s the verdammt scanner, Jackson.’
‘Torres, go look at it.’
‘The fuck I will. I bet five bucks.’
Marla got up and looked at the screen on the scanner, a machine the size of a small video recorder that nobody used any more, except that this one had an LCD screen and cost a hundred times more.
‘Seems OK; it’s restarting,’ Marla said, returning to the table. ‘I’ll see your five and raise you five.’
‘I’m out,’ said Alryk, leaning back in his chair.
‘Chickenshit. Doesn’t even have a pair,’ said Marla.
‘You think you’re the one running the show, Mrs Dekker?’ Torres said.
Marla didn’t mind the words as much as his tone. Suddenly she forgot about letting him win.
‘No way, Torres. I live in coloured land, bro.’
‘What colour? Shit brown?’
‘Any colour except yellow. Funny… the coward’s colour, same as on the top of your flag.’
Marla was sorry as soon as she said it. Torres might be a filthy degenerate rat from Medellín, but for a Colombian his country and his flag were as sacred as Jesus. Her opponent pressed his lips together so tightly they almost disappeared and his cheeks turned slightly purple. Marla felt both scared and excited; she enjoyed putting Torres down and drinking in his rage.
Now I’ll have to lose the two hundred bucks I won from him and another two hundred of my own. This pig is so pissed off he’s likely to hit me, even though he knows Dekker would kill him.
Alryk looked at them, more than a little worried. Marla knew how to take care of herself, but at that moment she felt as if she were crossing a mine field.
‘Come on, Torres, raise Jackson. She’s bluffing.’
‘Leave him alone. I don’t think he plans to shave any new customers today, right, fucker?’
‘What are you talking about, Jackson?’
‘Don’t tell me it wasn’t you who did the white prof last night?’
Torres looked very serious.
‘It wasn’t me.’
‘It had your signature all over it: a small, sharp instrument, low in the back.’
‘I’m telling you, it wasn’t me.’
‘And I’m saying that I saw you arguing with the ponytailed white dude on the ship.’
‘Come off it, I argue with a lot of people. Nobody understands me.’
‘Then who was it? The simoon? Or maybe the priest?’
‘Sure, it could have been the old crow.’
‘You’re not serious, Torres,’ Alryk cut in. ‘That priest is only a warmer bruder.’
‘Hasn’t he told you? This big-time hit man is scared shitless of the priest.’
‘I’m not scared of anything. I’m just telling you, he’s dangerous,’ Torres said, pulling a face.
‘I think you swallowed the story that he’s from the CIA. For Christ’s sake, he’s an old man.’
‘Only three or four years older than your senile boyfriend. And as far as I know, the boss can break a donkey’s neck with his bare hands.’
‘Damn right, fucker,’ said Marla, who loved bragging about her man.
‘He’s much more dangerous than you think, Jackson. If you’d taken your head out of your ass for one moment you’d have read the report. That guy is Special Ops pararescue. There’s nobody better. A few months before the boss picked you up as the group’s mascot, we did an operation in Tikrit. There was a Special Forces para in our unit. You wouldn’t believe the things I saw that guy do… they’re not normal. Those dudes have death stuck all over them.’
‘Paras are bad news. Hard like hammers,’ Alryk said.
‘Go to hell, the two of you, fucking Catholic babies,’ Marla sai
d. ‘What do you think he carries in that black briefcase? C4? A gun? You both patrol that canyon with an M4 that can spit out nine hundred bullets a minute. What’s he going to do, smack you with his Bible? Maybe he’ll ask the doctor for a scalpel to cut off your nuts.’
‘I’m not worried about the doc,’ Torres said, waving his hand dismissively. ‘She’s just some Mossad dyke. I can handle her. But Fowler-’
‘Forget the old crow. Hey, if all this is an excuse for not admitting that you took care of the white prof-’
‘Jackson, I’m telling you it wasn’t me. But trust me: nobody here is who they say they are.’
‘Then thank God we have an Ypsilon protocol on this mission,’ Jackson said, displaying her perfectly white teeth, which had cost her mother eighty double shifts in the diner where she worked.
‘As soon as your boyfriend says sarsaparilla it’s time for heads to roll. The first one I’m going after is the priest.’
‘Don’t mention the code, fucker. Go ahead and raise.’
‘Nobody’s going to raise,’ Alryk said, motioning to Torres. The Colombian held back his chips. ‘The frequency scanner isn’t working. It keeps trying to start.’
‘Fuck. Something’s wrong with the electricity. Leave it alone.’
‘Halt die klappe Affe. We can’t have that thing turned off or Dekker will kick our ass. I’m going to check out the electrical panel. You two go on playing.’
Torres looked as if he was about to continue the game, but then he gave Jackson a cold stare and got up.
‘Wait up, white man. I want to stretch my legs.’
Marla realised that she had gone too far in messing with Torres’s manhood, and the Colombian had placed her high up on his list of potential hits. She was only a little sorry. Torres hated everybody, so why not give him a good reason?
‘I’m going too,’ she said.
The three went out into the boiling heat. Alryk squatted near the platform.
‘Everything looks OK here. I’m going to check out the generator.’
Shaking her head, Marla went back inside the tent, wanting to lie down for a while. But before going inside she noticed the Colombian kneeling at the end of the platform and digging around in the sand. He picked up an object and looked at it with a weird smile on his lips.
Marla didn’t understand the significance of the red lighter decorated with the flowers.
42
THE EXCAVATION
AL MUDAWWARA DESERT, JORDAN
Friday, 14 July 2006. 8:31 p.m.
Andrea’s afternoon had been a series of close calls.
She had barely managed to escape from under the platform when she heard the soldiers getting up from the table. And not a moment too soon. A few more seconds of the hot air from the generator and she would have passed out for good. She crawled out through the side of the tent opposite the door, stood up, and walked very slowly towards the infirmary, doing her best not to keel over. What she really needed was a shower, but that was out of the question, since she didn’t want to go in that direction and run into Fowler. She grabbed two bottles of water and her camera and left the infirmary tent again, looking for a quiet spot on the rocks in the index finger.
She found a hiding place on a small slope above the canyon floor and sat there watching the archaeologists’ activities. She didn’t know what stage their grief had reached now. At some point Fowler and Dr Harel went by, probably looking for her. Andrea ducked her head behind the rocks and tried to piece together what she had heard.
The first conclusion she came to was that she couldn’t trust Fowler – which was something she already knew – and she couldn’t trust Doc – which was something that made her even more uncomfortable. Her thoughts about Harel hadn’t gone much beyond the tremendous physical attraction
All I have to do is look at her and I’m turned on.
But the idea that she was a spy for Mossad was more than Andrea could handle.
The second conclusion she reached was that she had no choice but to trust the priest and the doctor if she wanted to get out of this alive. Those words about the Ypsilon protocol had totally undermined her sense of who was really in charge of the operation.
On one side there’s Forrester and his stooges, all of them much too meek to pick up a knife and kill one of their own. Or maybe not. Then there’s the maintenance people, tied to their thankless work – no one pays them much attention. Kayn and Russell, the brains behind this madness. A group of hired soldiers, and a secret code word to start killing people. But to kill who, or who else? What’s clear, for better or worse, is that our fate was sealed the moment we joined this expedition. And it seems fairly certain that it is for worse.
Andrea must have fallen asleep at some point because when she woke up, the sun was going down and a heavy grey light had replaced the usual high contrast between sand and shade in the canyon. Andrea was sorry she had missed the sunset. Each day she tried to make sure she went to the open area beyond the canyon at that time. The sun would dive into the sand, revealing layers of heat that looked like waves on the horizon. Its final burst of light was like a gigantic orange explosion that remained in the sky for several minutes after it had disappeared.
Back here in the canyon’s index finger, the only twilight scenery was large, bare sandy rock. With a sigh she reached her hand into her trouser pocket and pulled out her packet of cigarettes. Her lighter was nowhere to be found. Surprised, she began searching her other pockets until a voice in Spanish almost made her heart leap into her throat.
‘Looking for this, my little bitch?’
Andrea glanced up. Five feet above her, Torres was lying on the slope, his arm outstretched, offering her the red lighter. She guessed that the Colombian must have been there for a while – stalking her - and it sent a shiver up her spine. Trying not to betray her fear, she stood up and reached for the lighter.
‘Didn’t your mother teach you how to speak to a lady, Torres?’ Andrea said, controlling her nerves enough to light the cigarette and exhale the smoke towards the mercenary.
‘Sure, but I don’t see no lady here.’
Torres was staring at Andrea’s smooth thighs. She was wearing a pair of trousers that she’d unzipped above the knees to convert them into shorts. With the heat, she had rolled them up even further, and the white skin above her suntan seemed sensual and inviting to him. When Andrea noticed the direction of the Colombian’s gaze, her fear increased. She turned towards the end of the canyon. One loud scream would be good enough to get everyone’s attention. The crew had started digging some test pits a couple of hours before – almost the same time as her little trip under the soldiers’ tent.
But when she turned, she couldn’t see anyone. The mini-excavator was sitting there by itself, off to one side.
‘Everybody’s gone to the funeral, baby. We’re all alone.’
‘Shouldn’t you be at your post, Torres?’ Andrea said, pointing to one of the cliffs, trying to appear nonchalant.
‘I’m not the only one who’s been somewhere they shouldn’t, right? That’s something we need to correct, no question about it.’
The soldier jumped down to where Andrea was standing. They were on a rocky platform no bigger than a pingpong table, some fifteen feet above the canyon floor. An irregular pile of rocks was heaped up towards the edge of the platform, which had served to conceal Andrea earlier, but now blocked her escape.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Torres,’ Andrea said, playing for time.
The Colombian took a step forward. He was now so close to Andrea that she could see the beads of sweat covering his forehead.
‘Of course you do. And now you’re going to do something for me, if you know what’s good for you. It’s a shame that such a fine-looking girl has to be a dyke. But I think that’s because you’ve never had a good stiff one.’
Andrea took a step back towards the rocks, but the Colombian placed himself between her and the place where she had climbed
on to the platform.
‘You wouldn’t dare, Torres. The other guards could be watching us right now.’
‘Only Waaka can see us… and he’s not going to do a thing. He’ll feel kind of jealous, can’t get it up any more. Too many steroids. But don’t worry, mine works fine. You’ll see.’
Andrea realised that it was impossible to get away, so she made a decision out of pure desperation. She tossed her cigarette to the ground, planted her two feet firmly on the rock and leaned forward a little. She wasn’t going to make it easy for him.
‘Come on then, you son of a whore. If you want it, come and get it.’
A sudden gleam ran across Torres’s eyes, a mixture of excitement at the challenge and anger at the insult to his mother. He lunged forward and grabbed Andrea’s arm, pulling her roughly towards him with a strength that didn’t seem possible in someone so short.
‘I love that you’re asking for it, bitch.’
Andrea twisted her body and hit him hard in the mouth with her elbow. Blood spilled down on to the stones and Torres let out a grunt of rage. Pulling violently on Andrea’s T-shirt, he ripped it at the sleeve, revealing her black bra. Seeing this excited the soldier even more. He grabbed both of Andrea’s arms, intending to bite her breast, but at the last minute the reporter took a step back and Torres’s teeth shut on nothing.
‘Come on, you’re going to like it. You know you want to.’
Andrea tried kneeing him between the legs or in the stomach, but anticipating her moves, Torres turned aside and crossed his legs.
Don’t let him throw you to the ground, Andrea said to herself. She remembered a story she had followed two years before on a group of rape victims. She had gone with some other young women to an anti-rape seminar led by an instructor who had almost been raped when she was a teen. The woman had lost an eye but not her virginity. The rapist lost everything. If he throws you to the ground, he has you.
Another violent grab from Torres ripped off the bra strap. Torres decided that this was enough and added more pressure to Andrea’s wrists. She could barely move her fingers. He twisted her right arm violently, leaving the left one loose. Andrea now had her back to him, but was unable to move because of the Colombian’s pressure on her arm. He forced her to bend over and kicked her ankles to open her legs.
Contract with God aka The Moses Expedition Page 17
