The Protector

by Duncan Falconer

  He sighed. If only he believed that garbage he would be a better journalist. But Stanza’s salvation lay not in trying to gain back the ground he had lost but in forgetting the past and forging himself a new reputation. He needed a rebirth. His past had not been forgotten by his bosses because he had not replaced it with anything better. He decided that he didn’t need anything more for his first article. His arrival and the shooting on the BIAP road was it. ‘I arrived.’ A bit Dickens, perhaps, but that was the point entirely.

  Stanza closed his eyes and tried to forget the rest of the world for the moment. He needed to heal and sleep was the key. But try as he might he could not break away from his pain or his problems and so he just lay there until exhaustion finally led him into unconsciousness.

  Mallory left his room, walked along the landing and before reaching the lifts pushed through a heavy wooden door bearing an illustration of a stick man running from a flame down a flight of stairs. He continued along a short corridor to another door that led into a dank, poorly lit concrete stairwell that stretched out of sight above and below. The air was warm and smelled of cigarette smoke and urine. He jogged down the steps to the floor below and in through an open door. A short corridor led to another door which he pushed through and emerged onto a carpeted, palatial landing identical to the one above. He carried on past the lifts and towards the open door of a suite that had been converted into an office. As Mallory entered what had originally been the suite’s bedroom a burst of cheering and clapping went up from the three white men already there, one seated behind a desk, the other two in comfortable low armchairs opposite.

  ‘’Ere ’e is!’ declared Des, the sinewy large-eyed man behind the desk who was wearing a broad grin. ‘It’s Bernie the bolt. Sit yersel’ down, cherub. We ’ear yer dented yer new client five minutes after pickin’ ’im op at the airport.’

  Mallory sat down tiredly in the remaining empty seat and forced a smile while preparing himself to absorb the well-rehearsed abuse that he knew was about to come his way.

  ‘Give ’im a chance, lads. Let’s ’ear your version, Bernie,’ Des said.

  ‘Nothing much more than that, really,’ Mallory sighed. ‘Got whacked by PSDs on the BIAP.’

  ‘Bad, is ’e?’ asked Dunce, an ape of an ex-paratrooper from Cardiff who sat nearest the balcony window that was slightly open so he could blow cigarette smoke outside.

  ‘He’ll live,’ Mallory said.

  ‘What ’appened, then, laddy?’ Des asked with his habitual interrogative expression, his unusual eyes slightly out of sync with each other. He was a salt-of-the-earth Northerner, mid-forties, very experienced on the private security circuit and former Royal Artillery, which was why he talked loudly all the time. ‘Com’ on, out wi’ it.We ’eard that soon as the shootin’ started you dragged the poor booger in front a’ ye to save yersel’. That right?’

  Every comment from Des was accompanied by grins and chuckles from the other two.

  ‘PSD. Is that right?’ Dunce asked.

  ‘Yep,’ Mallory said. ‘Usual nonsense. Only this time they aimed inside the cab.’

  ‘Foockers, ain’t they?’ Des said. ‘Shoot back, did yer?’ he asked, knowing it would have been suicide but he liked to wind anybody up in any way possible. ‘Tell me yer put som rounds inter ’em . . . Ey, wait a minute.Yer grenade.You ’ad it out, didn’t ye? Tell me yer did, lad, and all’s forgiven.’ It was one of those conversations that Mallory knew was pointless to take seriously in any way. Des had got the others in their usual giggly mood and was determined to have a laugh at Mallory’s expense. Mallory had pretty much expected it on walking into the room but the truth was that he didn’t mind it at all. In fact, there was something therapeutic about the way Brits gave each other stick, especially about their misfortunes. It appeared heartless to some, especially to foreigners, but not to Brits, especially those who had served in the military. It was character-testing - and a bloody good laff, of course.

  ‘’Ey. Harpic ’ere were shot at yesterday ’n all,’ Des shouted. ‘Client shat ’isself, din’t ’e, Harpic?’

  ‘Fuckin’ right,’ Harpic croaked in his Luton accent. Harpic was nicknamed after the well-known toilet-bowl-cleaning product because it claimed to ‘clean round the bend’ - which was how Harpic was often described.

  ‘O’ course,’ Des went on,‘stupid bastard were drivin’ down wrong foockin’ lane towards a Yanky checkpoint int’ t’ GZ. Weren’t yer, Harpic, yer daft bastard?’

  ‘Fuckin’ soljer waved me in ’at way, din’ ’e?’ Harpic said defensively, giving a sniff at the end of the sentence. ‘Client shat ’imself, all right. ’E ’ad to wipe ’is arse with a trauma dressin’ while I went ’n ’ad a go at the wankers who shot at us.’

  ‘I’d advise yer boss to keep a trauma dressin’ strapped to ’is arse all the time, the way you drive rount Baghdad, yer mad bastard,’ Des said. A hooting laugh came from Dunce.

  There was a knock on the door and a rotund Iraqi stepped in, looking most apologetic for intruding on the group.

  ‘Jamel, me ol’ codger,’ Des boomed.‘What yer want, lad? We’re in top-level meetin’ ’ere.’

  ‘Hello, hello, hello,’ Jamel said, a forced grin on his face. He was a stoutly built Iraqi who looked as if he had not missed many meals in his life. ‘Sorry, Des,’ he then said sombrely, the smile fading as he bowed his head, his right hand spread over his heart in a sign of deference. ‘Please, I want pill,’ he said.

  ‘Pill? What’s that, the morning-after pill?’ Des said, then burst out laughing. ‘You been fuckin’ aroun’ wi’ Akmed again?’

  Dunce was drawing on his cigarette and snorted so abruptly that mucus shot from his nose. He did his best to catch it as it ran down his chin.

  Jamel forced a smile though he didn’t have a clue what Des was talking about. ‘I need pill, Des.’ Jamel held his stomach with both hands while putting on a pained expression.

  ‘For your fat?’ Des asked. ‘You know why yer fat, don’t yer, Jamel? Yer mouth is bigger ’n yer arse’ ole, that’s why yer fat.’

  Dunce snorted once again but this time held his nose.

  Jamel grinned, again not knowing what Des was talking about. ‘I’m going to toilet too much, Des. Give me pill, please.’

  ‘Oh. Diarrhoea? Yer know why yer’ve got diarrhoea, don’t yer? Same reason. Yer mouth is bigger ’n yer arse’ ole. ’Ow long yer been shittin’, then? ’Ow long on toilet?’ Des said, pausing between each word.

  ‘All today,’ Jamel said.

  ‘Well, if yer still shittin’ by tonight, come see me and we’ll stick a cork op yer arse, OK?’

  Jamel maintained his smile,oblivious to Des’s meaning, and nodded. ‘Thank you, Des,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Are all the cars filled op wi’ benzine?’ Des asked.

  ‘Yes, Des. Yes,’ Jamel insisted.

  ‘I’m gonna check, you know I will,’ Des said with a sudden serious look as if talking to a child. It was impossible to imagine Des with a natural expression.

  ‘All cars full,’ Jamel insisted.

  ‘Spare tyres pomped up? You remember what happened on the way back from Basra last month and we ’ad a flat, don’t yer? Put the spare on and it were flat too. Eh? Eh?’

  ‘Very sorry, Des,’ Jamel said, bowing slightly several times. ‘Not happen again.’

  ‘OK. There’s a good lad. Shoot off now, then, and don’t eat anythin’ and we’ll see yer later, all right?’

  Jamel remained grinning at them, unsure what Des had said. Understanding Des was a common problem among the Iraqi staff, even those who could speak good English. In fact, they did not believe he was English at all and called him The Scottish.

  ‘Jamel,’ Des said with emphasis and Jamel gave him his fullest attention. ‘Foock off and com back later, me ol’ flower, OK?’

  Jamel suddenly realised that the meeting was over and that he wasn’t going to get his pill. ‘Oh. Hello, hello,’ he said as he took a step
back towards the door. When Des nodded at him to indicate that he was going in the right direction, Jamel put his hand across his heart again and smiled and nodded, saying ‘Hello, hello’ to everyone as he backed out of the room.

  Mallory had not been in Iraq very long before he’d noticed a flagrant misuse of the word ‘hello’ by most if not all the locals, especially those who could speak hardly any English at all. It was used in its correct form as a greeting but the same person might also use it as a reply to a query about their health and well-being and, most notably, it was often used in place of ‘goodbye’. To the uninitiated it could prove highly confusing and irritatingly extend what would normally be a brief encounter.

  ‘Good lad, is our Jamel,’ Des said after the Iraqi had gone. ‘Now, Bernie, me lad. You all right, are yer? Cuppa tea?’

  ‘I thought you’d never ask,’ Mallory said.

  ‘Harpic. Get the lad a cuppa. ‘E’s ’ad ’ard day.’

  ‘I’m off,’ Dunce said, getting to his feet and moving his large frame between the desk and the chairs as he wiped his hands on his backside and followed Harpic. ‘See you lads later,’ he said as he left the room.

  ‘See you at scoff,’ Des yelled after him. Then he leaned back in his chair, grinning one of his classic grins, his eyes like golf balls and looking at Mallory. ‘So. ’Ad a bit of a rough day, ’ave yer?’ he asked.

  ‘Not really,’ Mallory said stretching out his own feet.

  ‘Ow’s the client? Aw right, is ’e?’

  ‘He’s fine. Took a round in the thigh. The event itself has probably left a deeper scar.’

  ‘I’ll bet,’ Des said. ‘Can’t take gettin’ shot, these boogers, eh? Make such a song and dance about it.’

  Harpic walked in with four mugs of tea on a tray and put them on the desk. ‘Where’s Dunce?’ he asked.

  ‘Hidin’ in t’ top drawer of desk but ’e don’t want to be disturbed,’ Des said.‘E followed yer out, yer blind bastard . . . Now,’ Des continued, suddenly serious and looking directly into Mallory’s eyes. ‘What’s your plan for Fallujah?’

  For a split second Mallory thought that Des meant Mallory’s private plans until simple reason reminded him it was not possible for Des to know anything about them.

  ‘Your man’s not gonna be fit to get op there, is ’e?’ Des said. ‘’Ave yer got any slots for the embed?’

  ‘Everything’s a bit up in the air at the moment,’ Mallory said.‘Have you heard anything that might give a clue as to when the Yanks are going in?’

  ‘Bush called me this mornin’ but ’e tol’ me not to tell anyone. O’ course I don’t foockin’ know when they’re goin’ in, yer twat, but it’s got to be sometime in the next few weeks. They ’aven’t put ten thousand men and a couple ’undred tanks around the bloody town to keep wind out.’

  Mallory took a sip of his tea while his mind buzzed about Fallujah. He needed more information. He had decided that embedding with the troops was not the best option for him simply because he would not have the freedom to go anywhere alone. But then, his other choices were probably worse. If Stanza was fit enough in time to go Mallory would be stuck with him as well as with the US Marines.

  ‘I’ll be honest, Des, I don’t know what we’ll do. It depends on how my new guy’s health stands at the time.’

  ‘Yeah, I s’pose you’re right. Bit soon, really, seein’ as he was only shot yesterday.’

  ‘What about yourself?’ Mallory asked.

  ‘What, Fallujah? One producer wants to go but ’er correspondent’s crappin’ ’isself at the thought. ’Ope they both don’t want to go or I’ll get mesel’ in a tangle.’

  Des was working as a consultant to a handful of small media outfits who had arrived in Iraq looking for inexpensive security coverage.That meant no full-time security but Des was available as a consultant and also as a body if needed - at extra cost. It was workable most of the time since all the low-rent setups usually wanted was advice on how to operate, occasional threat updates and a hand to hold if everything went wrong, such as the threatened civil war that had been rumoured for months. But if more than one media company wanted Des to take them out somewhere at the same time he had to do some juggling.

  ‘Let me run somethin’ by you,’ Des said. ‘If your guy ain’t able to make it, would you take one o’ mine if needed?’

  ‘How am I gonna do that? If my guy doesn’t go I still have to be here for him.’

  ‘I thought you were goin’ ’ome soon,’ Des said.

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Why don’t you let your relief com on in? But instead o’ you goin’ ’ome, you stay ’ere and ’elp me out. Same money you’re gettin’ now.’

  Mallory was immediately attracted by the idea, its advantages being the let-up in pressure from the London office and an increase in his freedom of movement. Mallory could take Des’s client to Fallujah, escort him to the embed rendezvous and then slip away.The client would be with half a dozen other media types as well as the Marines to look after him. It was a very possible plan.

  ‘You know, Des, you might have something there,’ Mallory said.

  Des grinned.

  ‘Why don’t you keep me in the picture, let me know how things are developing and we’ll see what we can do. But I like it,’ Mallory said.

  ‘I’ll let you know soon as I do, me old chum,’ Des said.

  Mallory’s phone rang in his pocket and he pulled it out to check the small screen. When he saw the name he sprang to life, put his mug down as he got to his feet and headed for the door. ‘Got to grab this. See you later,’ he said as he went out of the door and pressed the ‘receive’ button.

  ‘Hello?’ he said as he walked along the landing to put some distance between himself and the office.The line was bad, the signal jumping from weak to strong and back again. Mallory cursed the Iraqi phone network and called ‘Hello’ into the phone several times in case he could be heard even though he couldn’t hear much himself. Then, as if his prayers had been answered, the line suddenly became clear and he heard the sweet voice that was music to his ears.

  ‘Tasneen. How are you?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she answered. Her voice sounded like a song of springtime.

  ‘What’s going on? To what do I owe the pleasure?’ he asked.

  ‘I wanted to tell you how sorry I was for not talking to you very much this morning,’ she said.

  ‘You don’t need to. I understood perfectly. I’m not a complete idiot, you know.’

  Tasneen laughed. ‘I know that. You’re not an idiot at all. But thank you for making how we met seem so normal to my brother. I know it was normal, but you know what I mean. You put it very nicely.’

  Mallory was beaming because she sounded so friendly. ‘Well . . . I’m sorry too that we didn’t have time to talk. I didn’t think I was going to see you again . . . You at work right now?’

  ‘Yes. I got in a little while ago . . . I also want to thank you for something else.’

  ‘This is my lucky day. What else did I do that I was not aware of?’

  ‘Well . . . you made Abdul feel so much better.The offer of a job. I don’t know if you meant it or not but just by suggesting it you made him feel, well, useful, I suppose. Ever since you spoke with him he has been in the best mood I have seen him in since his injury.You can imagine that my brother does not feel on top of the world right now. He feels hopeless about his future. You made him feel better, that’s all.’

  Mallory’s job idea had been a top-of-the-head ploy but as a means to see her again it was working like a charm.‘I wasn’t joking,’ Mallory said. He was the team’s security adviser but he did have some influence with the general running of the bureau. The problem was, as always, a question of money but he was confident that he could figure something out.

  ‘Then you were serious?’ Tasneen asked, her voice hopeful. In fact, there was such a tone of excitement in her words that Mallory was suddenly struck by a pang of guilt at the possibil
ity that he might not be able to deliver.

  ‘His English is really quite good,’ she went on. ‘And it will be even better . . . When were you thinking of hiring him?’

  Mallory struggled with his conscience. ‘Why don’t you give me a few days to work it out?’ he said. ‘I assumed he would need to fully recover first, anyway. Can Abdul read and write English as well as speak it?’ Mallory asked.

  ‘Not very well,’ Tasneen said regretfully. ‘Is that important?’

  It would improve his chances, Mallory thought to himself. And it was a way out if all went pear-shaped. ‘I shouldn’t think so.’

  The line went suddenly bad and Mallory could not hear her. ‘Say again,’ he said loudly. ‘You were cut off.’

  ‘We should get together and talk about it,’ she shouted. ‘These phones are terrible.’

  ‘How would we do that?’ he asked.

  ‘Don’t you have a restaurant at the hotel?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ll come over for lunch.’

  ‘Sounds perfect,’ Mallory said. ‘When?’

  ‘I’ll call you,’ Tasneen said, her voice breaking up.

  ‘OK,’ Mallory said. But then the line went completely dead, a repetitive beep indicating that the signal had been lost.

  Mallory thought about calling her back but decided against it and leaned on the landing rail to contemplate the brief conversation. It appeared that he was developing a social life of sorts, and all because Stanza had been shot. Fate was a strange beast, to be sure. Mallory was confident he could wangle a job for Abdul. The need for an interpreter was obvious since Kareem was not working out as originally hoped. It was the Herald being cheap again, trying to double up on jobs. From a security point of view it wasn’t smart - but then, when did the media ever put security as a priority? After the event, was Mallory’s immediate and damning answer to his own question. It could become problematic if the newspaper wanted to get rid of one of the drivers to make room for Abdul on the payroll, especially when Mallory explained that the young man only had one hand. It looked like it was going to depend on how easily Mallory could manipulate Stanza.