by Gordon Brown
The dust around them is thick with blood.
Chapter 3
I stare at the bodies. Taylor is face up with the hilt of a pickaxe rising from his stomach. The girl is topless. Her tongue lolls from the side of her mouth. Her small breasts are lathered in blood. Some of my vomit has puddled in one of her shoes.
The fat officer is back in my face. ‘Why did you kill them?’ Two locals are watching the scene from the door.
I shake my head. ‘I didn’t.’
‘They’re dead and you’re here.’
‘He’ – I point at the dead body – ‘was my employer. I’m his security guard.’
‘Easy to kill him then. He would trust you.’
He’s interrupted by the roar of a supercharged engine accompanied by the scream of tires digging through dirt. The noise echoing along the walls.
A black SUV races into the road. It kicks up a dust storm as it brakes. The fat officer spins to the noise, gun at the ready. His fellow officers are on the move. Spreading out. Eyes on the new arrival. Trained well.
The passenger door at the back right of the SUV opens and a man emerges, dressed in a suit too dark and heavy for the environment. From the front passenger door a human tombstone steps out. He cradles a semi-automatic machine gun.
The man in the suit walks towards the fat officer. The officer lowers the gun. They meet near the bumper of the SUV and go into a lengthy conversation. At one point one of the locals standing at the metal door is ordered over.
The man in the suit pulls out a laptop, placing it on the SUV’s hood. All three look at the screen for five minutes. The suit closes the computer. The man from the door is sent packing. A bit more chat and the fat officer steps to one side as the suit walks towards me.
‘Free him!’ says the suit. The officer next to me looks to his boss for an instruction. He receives a nod. Reluctantly he reaches behind me and frees my wrists.
‘Come with me.’ The man in the suit’s accent is West Coast. Californian but with a hint of something more southern.
‘Why?’ I ask.
‘Have you seen Midnight Express? Trust me, it’s got nothing on what they’ll do to you if you hang around here.’
‘Who are you?’
‘Later.’
I weigh up my choices. There are no choices. I walk with my savior.
We approach the SUV. It’s pumping cold air into the night. The A/C is on full blast. The driver ignores me. Next to him the tombstone has slid into the passenger seat. In the back a small man with a white linen suit looks out of place in the black interior.
I slide into the middle seat next to him. My savior gets in beside me. As he closes the door, he snaps at the driver. ‘Get us the hell out of here.’
The driver selects Reverse and swings the SUV around. He flicks to Drive. He guns the engine just as three more identical SUVs rush past us heading for the crime scene.
‘Close,’ the man in the white linen suit says before sighing.
I chirp up. ‘Who are you?’
‘Your friendly neighborhood rescue squad.’
‘What in the hell went down?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘Taylor and the girl are dead.’
‘Yup.’
‘And that’s OK?’
He shakes his head. ‘Far from it. Now shut up and give us a little quiet. You can talk all you want when we get back to the ranch.’
His voice is a tone too high for comfort. Makes him sound like he’s squeezing the words out through a straw. I sit back, the aromatic mix of vomit, sweat and road dirt emanating from me. I rub at my head.
I wish I had some morphine on me.
The ride is smooth. The car’s suspension evens out all but the deepest potholes. The blackened windows show little save a succession of lights flicking by. I close my eyes and try to put some perspective on what’s going on. I’ve seen dead bodies before. I’ve even woken next to them. But I’m surprised I’m in the car. Given the IP had just found the bodies, my first port of call should have been the local station. My rescuers hold some sway.
‘Anyone have any Tylenol?’
No answer.
The car hits a set of speed bumps. It slows. The driver’s window slides down. A soldier appears with a flashlight. The driver shows a card and the soldier checks us out. His eyes rest on me, then on the blood. He backs out and signals a gate to open. We move forward, only to stop a couple of car lengths later. The gate behind us slams shuts as another opens in front. Twenty yards more and stop. The driver opens the window. Another soldier asks for ID.
A garage door opens and we glide in. No one moves until the door closes behind us. Then, as if choreographed, all four open their doors at the same time to exit.
‘Out.’ My savior stands clear.
I decide to follow orders.
We are in a gray cube of concrete. Two more black SUVs are parked to the back of the lot. I’m beginning to think that the dealer with the franchise for these things is on a bonus. The man in white linen leads off. We cross to a small door. My savior steps forward, placing his hand on a gray box. A small whirr. A click. The door swings open.
We walk into a whitewashed corridor, me the sandwich between Tombstone and the driver.
The space is barely large enough to hold us. A second door is guarded by another gray box. My savior places his hand on it. Same procedure and we’re through.
The room beyond is dark but, as we walk, the ceiling lights spring to life. The place is full of empty tables and plastic chairs. Dust lies everywhere, the walls are unpainted. There’s a heavy smell of old sweat.
My savior pushes me towards a chair. ‘Take a seat and we’ll see about a doctor.’
White Linen and my savior do the box thing on another door. As they vanish, the driver and Tombstone pull up a couple of chairs and sit to stare at me.
I settle back to wait. Tombstone occupies himself by mining his nose. The driver closes his eyes. I touch my head. It’s messy. Head wounds can be tricky – I’ve had experience.
Years ago I was training in northern Canada. An army exercise to accustom new recruits to the cold. I was buddied-up with a fellow grunt. We were told to find a spot and bed down for the night. It was dark by the time we found somewhere suitable and we decided to pitch the tent beneath an old cedar tree. In the middle of the night I got up for a piss. I walked straight into a branch – knocking myself out. The next morning, I woke up feeling fine. An hour later I collapsed as I packed up the tent. Head wounds can do that.
Tombstone stops mining for a second and I smile at him. He rams his finger back in his nose.
The door opens. A man in a white lab coat walks in carrying a large brown case. He sports a heavyweight beard to make up for the lack of hair on top.
‘Is that him?’ he says, pointing at me.
Tombstone nods. The lab coat walks over.
‘My name’s Kelly – Medical Corp on assignment. Head wound, I hear.’
He grabs my head and twists it around.
‘I feel a bit faint,’ I say.
‘Not surprised. Don’t pass out on me. I’ve been told to fix you up. Take these.’
Warm pills, their coating melting from the heat of his hand, are shoved at me.
‘Get him some water,’ he says to Tombstone without turning.
Tombstone heads for the water cooler. He returns with a plastic cup.
I pop the two pills. ‘What are they?’
‘Painkiller and anti-nausea.’
He finishes the examination and stands back. ‘You should be in hospital. You might have a fractured skull.’
The door opens again to reveal my savior. ‘And?’
‘Hospital,’ says the lab coat.
‘Not going to happen,’ replies my savior. ‘We need him here. Just fix him up.’ He exits.
The painkiller is good. The headache is fading. I no longer feel like I’m going to keel over. The doctor cleans the wound and wraps my head in cloth. He hand
s me a small pile of pills. ‘One an hour. Any more and you’ll lose the power of speech.’
He leaves. Tombstone stands up, indicating I should do likewise. We walk through the door, into another gray corridor. At the far end he plays with the ubiquitous gray box and we enter a new world.
At one time the room has been a large single entity. Now it’s divided into a sea of glass walls. The place is alive with activity. White coats dominate. Computer equipment fills each room. There could be a hundred or more people working.
Tombstone walks through the room, ignoring it all, while I snap my head left and right to take in what’s going on. Tomb-stone stops at another door. ‘In here.’
He opens the door and pushes me into a room that contains two chairs and a small table. The door closes behind me.
As interrogation rooms go it’s old school. A large panel of mirrored glass indicates the presence of a viewing room. Two CCTV cameras, one facing each chair, sit at the junction of ceiling and wall. The table is bolted to the concrete floor. It has metal rings welded to the underside for feeding prisoners’ chains through. The chairs are fixed to the stained floor by heavy-duty bolts. The door to the room has no handle. The tabletop is dotted with cigarette burns. A smell of bleach adds to the sense of menace. I was taught to spray it around for just that reason
My adrenalin is souring and, combined with the painkiller, I’m starting to feel sleepy.
The door opens. My savior enters. ‘Coffee?’
‘I’d love one.’
He nods at Tombstone who wrestles himself from his chair, feet dragging. He’s making it clear he’s not happy.
My savior sits opposite me. ‘So let’s start with the basics. Your name is Craig McIntyre. Ex US military. 1st Infantry Division, 4th Brigade, 2nd Battalion, 16th Infantry Regiment. You spent three months in Iraq in 2003 in Ramadi before being sent home on the Permanent Disability Retirement List. Mental problems.
‘Hometown is Los Angeles. Mother’s a Brit and father’s from New York. Married with no kids and now working for Steel Trap Security. Entered Iraq six days ago. Given the job of babysitting Tom Taylor – now dead, along with an as yet unidentified female. Did I miss anything?’
I shake my head.
‘Good.’
Then he punches me.
Chapter 4
The blow knocks me off the chair. Tombstone chooses that moment to return, places the coffees on the table and helps me back onto my perch. My savior rubs his knuckles. ‘Tom was a friend of mine,’ he explains.
I’m still stunned from the punch but I give him my best ‘fuck off and die’ look. He blanks it.
‘So what went down?’
‘I was mugged. Woke up to find two dead bodies next to me. That’s it. I had nothing to do with their deaths.’
‘We know.’
I let my mouth hang loose for a moment. ‘And the IP?’
‘They also know you didn’t have anything to do with the killings.’
‘How do they know that?’
He turns to Tombstone. ‘Get me the laptop.’
Tombstone vanishes again. He comes back with a laptop, flipped open.
My savior spins the screen towards me. ‘Watch.’
A black and white movie fires up. Only this is no early Charlie Chaplain but a view of the road I was mugged on. I’m standing against the wall, the old man approaching. Tom Taylor appears from the door, the keys fly out, I walk forward, the old man approaches and bang, I’m on the ground. The old man rifles around me, lifts my gun and the money clip before vanishing.
I see myself lying on the ground for a few minutes before the metal door opens again. Taylor walks out with the young girl on his arm. He looks up and down the road and spots me sprawled out. The young girl hangs back as he approaches me. A new face appears at the door. I recognize him as one of the local gawkers.
As Taylor bends down to touch me, the young girl walks over to the edge of the road. She reaches down, picks up the broken pickaxe, wanders over to Taylor and taps him on the shoulder. He spins round and she shoves the wood into his stomach.
He staggers forward, latching onto her dress, pulling it down over her breasts. She doesn’t seem to notice. He works his hands up, around her neck. They both go down. His hands stay on her throat until she stops moving. He flips on his back, shudders and all is still.
I stare at the blank screen as the video finishes.
My savior plays with the laptop. ‘Look closer.’ The scene rewinds. My savior fiddles with the controls. He zooms in on her face. ‘Do you know her?’
‘No.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Damn sure. Anyway, why would anyone have CCTV in the back end of nowhere?’
My savior stands up. He digs out a packet of Marlboro. ‘Smoke?’`
I shake my head and he lights up.
‘I’ll level with you.’ The first plume rises from his lungs. ‘Tom was using a brothel and wasn’t being too discreet about it. That CCTV has caught a few naughty boys – not just Tom. Our Iraqi friends are not too wild about us lifting you but the CCTV footage convinced them to let us talk to you first. But they’ll be back. Not least because the cars you saw pass us on the way here were out to limit the damage. That means the locals won’t be happy. They don’t take well to us screwing with their crime scenes.’
‘So who are you? CIA? Military? Freelance?’
‘I work for the government.’
‘So does my aunt but she can’t remove a suspect from a crime scene, interrogate him and slug him on the chin.’
He smiles. ‘So you don’t know the girl?’
‘No idea who she is.’
Another lungful of smoke drifts to the ceiling. ‘Doesn’t it strike you as a bit crazy that she would ram a pick axe into his stomach?’
I shake my head. ‘Look, figure it for yourself. Your boy Tom got a bit frisky in the club. Forgive me speaking ill of the dead but he wasn’t the friendly type. She has a bit too much of the illegal hooch. He pushes it too far. She hits fresh air, then decides she doesn’t want to go wherever it was they were going.’
‘Don’t buy it.’
‘OK. What do you think?’
‘I’ll have a better idea when my colleagues get through. I’m just the vanguard on this one. If I were you I’d settle in for the wait.’
He takes one more draw, leaving me to breathe in the second hand smoke. I pull out a pill and pop it. It’s been no time at all since the last one but I need it.
I know the routine so I need to get comfortable. I try lying on the floor, lying on the table, lying against the wall and finally lying across the table again – this time with one leg on the floor, one knee on a chair. It takes another pill to make this comfortable.
Somehow three hours crawl by.
The door opens. Tombstone blocks the view. ‘Up.’
I follow him back through the glass maze, into an elevator. We rise.
In the rarefied atmosphere of the higher floors the world has carpet and soft furnishings. Tombstone escorts me to a set of over-polished oak double doors. He knocks – surprisingly gently. A voice tells us to enter.
White Linen sits behind an oversized desk. ‘Take a seat, Mr McIntyre.’ Then to Tombstone. ‘That’ll be all.’
I drop onto a leather couch.
He settles back in his chair. ‘Coffee?’
‘Please.’
White Linen pours from a glass jug sitting behind him. ‘Milk?’
‘Black.’
He pushes the china cup across his desk and I stand to retrieve it. The closed shutters behind him can’t hide the fact that we’re enjoying the first rays of a new Iraqi day.
He throws a manila folder towards me. I catch it and find a single typed sheet inside. A brief summary of the events of the last few hours.
‘We’ve arranged for you to take your leave.’
‘Not before time. I’ve a job to get back to – not to mention a hospital visit.’
‘You’l
l be doing neither. When I say you’re leaving, I mean you’re leaving Iraq.’
‘Am I hell!’
He reaches into a drawer in the desk. He takes out an envelope. Tosses it to me. I rip it open. Inside is my passport, a few hundred dollars and a letter. The letter is my dismissal, a simple statement of termination with no references, from Steel Trap Security.
‘Your bag’s downstairs. There’s a car waiting to take you to the airport. Unfortunately, we’ve had to send you the long way home but it was prudent to put you on the first flight out of here.’
I sit forward in my seat.
‘Who the hell do you think you are?’
‘Your friend, Mr McIntyre. The IP are looking for someone to hang. You’re the perfect candidate. But I’m convinced there’s more to last night than you’re letting on, so giving you to our hosts won’t help me unravel this. You need to go home. We’ll pick up on this somewhere more congenial.’
This time I lean forward. ‘You have it all on tape. I did nothing.’
He leans back in his high-backed chair. ‘We’ll provide an escort to see you safely back to US soil.’
I sip the coffee and work through the options. With no job in Iraq and the IP on my tail I think I’m in for Hobson’s choice, but I’m damned if I’m just going to roll over. ‘And what do I do when I get back? This is the first legit job I’ve had in years and it took a lot of persuading and a crap salary to get me here.’
‘Not my problem. You’re the one who screwed up. If you’d been on the ball you wouldn’t have been mugged by a geriatric and Tom might still be here. You’re lucky we’re giving you a way out.’
He hits a buzzer. Tombstone appears.
White Linen points to me. ‘Mr McIntyre is leaving. Take him to the car pool. Mr Cameron will join you. I want you to drive and take no shit at the airport. If need be call in our boys, but get Mr McIntyre safely on his plane.’
He turns back to look at me. ‘Nice to meet you.’
He lifts a file from the corner of his desk, opens it and begins to scribble some notes.
