The Protector

by Duncan Falconer

  Mallory should be the first to suffer because Tasneen would have to know that he had been punished before her own sentence could be carried out. She would have to recognise the enormity of her sin and be aware that her partner in this crime had paid the ultimate price. Abdul would give her time to ask Allah for forgiveness before he sent her to Him.

  The horror of what Abdul had to do was vivid in his mind but he believed in its necessity wholeheartedly. He had a great deal to do during these coming days. So much that it began to seem impossible to achieve. But it was not impossible. He had dealt with Hassan, a test of fire that he would have believed beyond him had he consciously made it his mission when he’d set out that night. He would find the American hostage, he would kill Mallory and then Tasneen: when it was over he would have truly reached manhood and would be free of the chains of his youth, his soul cleansed of sins, and free to pursue a purified life.

  Abdul took a deep breath and scribbled a few lines on the page. He decided to reveal that he would be staying with Muhammad in Fallujah while he, Abdul, was with his reporter boss. Muhammad would use Abdul’s visit as an excuse to call her anyway. It was of no consequence if she knew where he was. He no longer needed to deceive her about anything. Before her execution he would tell her the truth about his hand and inform her that he had killed Hassan in revenge. She would depart this world knowing she was leaving behind not a little brother but a man.

  Abdul put the pen down, leaving the page on the table, and got to his feet, feeling in his pockets for his car keys, gun and identification card. Satisfied that he had everything he needed he went to the front door. Then he paused to look up at the Koran on the shelf. He took it down, held it most reverently, closed his eyes while he asked Allah for the strength that he would need, kissed it and returned it to the shelf.

  He closed the door behind him.

  Stanza drew the cord tight on his backpack and wondered if there was anything else that he needed to take. He had his satellite and mobile phones, tape recorder, camera, plenty of pens and notebooks, his toothbrush and toothpaste, a flashlight and all of the bureau’s money - six and a half thousand dollars - except for a thousand left behind as a reserve. He checked his watch and looked outside to see that the light was fading. The tingling fear had not left him since Abdul had called to say they were going into Fallujah that night. Sometimes it got so bad that he had to sit down and go through his mission to reassure himself. He knew it was madness, that he was taking a great personal risk. But then, great things were never achieved without those elements being present. He told himself he had to keep that in mind. It was the madness of his adventure that would later be interpreted as dedication to his work and set Stanza apart from all the others. He was going into the gorgon’s lair for sure, but what he would retrieve would be the envy of everyone in his profession. There wouldn’t be a journalist or media organisation in the entire world who would not know his name.

  It was the moment of truth. Stanza could grab the chance for fame and glory or let it pass. Few people ever got such opportunities and if Stanza turned away from it his life would effectively be over. At the end of the day the choice was between possible death or certain oblivion for if he ignored this opportunity he would fall into the void. In the end, actual death was better than that.

  A knock startled him into standing up. He walked to the door, opened it and Abdul marched straight in. Stanza’s stare was fixed on the young Arab as he followed him into the room. ‘Is everything OK?’ he asked.

  When Abdul looked at him his lips formed a thin, reassuring smile. ‘Are you ready?’

  ‘I am,’ Stanza said, nodding slowly and deliberately.

  Abdul could see that Stanza had wrestled with the decision and that his courage had emerged victorious. But he wondered how long it would last. ‘Good.’

  ‘How long do you think it will take? I know we can’t know for sure - but an estimate?’

  ‘I am hoping that one day will see our first contact made,’ Abdul said. ‘After that . . . it depends on the result of the meeting. If we are lucky we can return tomorrow.’

  ‘Good.’ Stanza nodded. It was precisely what he wanted to hear. ‘You have a route?’

  ‘Yes.We head up the motorway and before the main checkpoint we turn off and head east, then north. I have directions.’

  ‘Why do we need to avoid the American checkpoints? ’ Stanza asked. ‘Surely they would be points of safety for us.’

  ‘The answer is simple.They will not let us through. We do not live there so we cannot pass.’

  ‘And the insurgents’ checkpoints? How do we deal with them if we meet them?’

  ‘But that’s who we are looking for,’ Abdul said. ‘We have to meet them sometime and begin our negotiations. ’

  Stanza had come to the same conclusion but wanted to hear it from Abdul. His confidence in the young man had increased but the fear would not leave him.

  ‘I am in as much danger as you,’ Abdul said, reading Stanza’s concerns.

  Stanza looked at the young Arab. ‘Why are you doing this?’

  Abdul was not sure how to answer. He did not care to reveal his reasons to the American but he still felt an explanation was needed. ‘Guilt,’ Abdul said. ‘Anger.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘I have no purpose. Up until now I have only been a victim.’ Abdul felt his stump. ‘I want to become involved . . . This is a beginning perhaps.’

  Stanza was still not clear about Abdul’s reasons but the young man appeared sincere enough.

  ‘Are you ready?’ Abdul asked.

  ‘Let’s do it,’ Stanza said, removing his jacket from the back of the chair, pulling it on and picking up his backpack. As the two men stepped towards the door there was a distant boom, followed by a low rumble that gently rocked the balcony windows. Stanza paused for only a second before walking out of the room. He locked the door and followed Abdul along the landing.

  Tasneen closed the apartment door and tiredly pulled off her jacket as she headed for the kitchen to make herself a much-needed cup of tea. She saw the sheet of notepaper on the coffee table and at first ignored it. But as she turned on the electric kettle she had second thoughts and went back into the living room. On reading the few lines she was instantly filled with dread. Fallujah had been on everyone’s lips that day at the Palace: the general consensus among the Americans seemed to be that not only was the battle imminent but the town with its estimated thousand insurgents was going to be levelled.

  Tasneen scrambled for her phone and dialled Abdul’s number. It rang for a moment until the irritating female voice broke in to inform her that the phone she was trying to call was either switched off or out of the coverage area.

  She paced the room, wringing her hands, and then scrolled through the phone list until she came to her code name for Mallory. She waited impatiently for it to ring.

  ‘Mallory here,’ he said almost immediately.

  ‘Bernie. It’s Tasneen.’

  ‘Tasneen,’ he said, delighted.

  ‘Bernie, where’s Abdul?’

  ‘Abdul? I don’t know.’

  ‘What’s he doing? I must talk to him.’

  ‘I haven’t spoken to him since yesterday.’

  ‘You must know where he is?’

  ‘What’s wrong, Tasneen?’

  ‘Don’t you know he’s in Fallujah? I just got home and found a note from him.’

  ‘Fallujah?’ Mallory said, obviously astonished.

  ‘Why is he going there?’

  ‘I have no idea. Are you sure?’

  ‘I must find him. If he’s not going with you, what is he doing?’

  ‘Look. No one’s going to Fallujah. Certainly not Abdul. Stanza’s said nothing to me.’ But as soon as the words left his lips Mallory knew he was wrong. Stanza had been acting weird all day. Then there’d been the sighting of Abdul that morning. Mallory had known that something was up but frankly hadn’t cared enough to find out what.


  ‘Abdul would not make it up, Bernie. Not something like this.’

  ‘Can I get back to you?’ Mallory said, heading for the door.‘I’ll find out what’s going on and call you back.’

  ‘Please, Bernie,’ Tasneen said pitifully.

  ‘I will. Soon as I know. I’m going now. Bye.’ Mallory ended the call as he walked out of his room towards Stanza’s. Perhaps Stanza had sent Abdul to Fallujah for something. The man was stupid enough to do that.

  He knocked on Stanza’s door and when there was no immediate answer he knocked again more loudly. ‘Stanza,’ he called out. ‘It’s me. Mallory.’

  Mallory dug out his phone, brought up Stanza’s number and hit the send button. The line rang and then suddenly stopped as if the phone had been turned off. Mallory dialled Abdul’s number and, according to the young lady’s recorded voice, it was either switched off or beyond signal range.

  Mallory’s feelings of concern deepened. Something was going on that he was not privy to and he felt that he was being tugged in several different directions. On the one hand he shouldn’t have cared because he had his own mission to complete. But on the other, Abdul’s life could be at risk and Mallory had responsibilities on that score, his own as well as those he had to Tasneen. The other issue was of course Stanza’s security but Mallory wasn’t particularly bothered about that - beyond a niggling sense that it was one of his professional duties. The first thing to do was find out where the pair were. He scrolled to another number and called it.

  ‘Kareem? It’s Mallory. I’m looking for Abdul.’

  Kareem explained how he had dropped him off at Abdul’s apartment and when Mallory asked him if he knew anything about a trip to Fallujah Kareem said that he knew nothing. Kareem had not talked to Stanza all day but he did have one bit of bad news: Farris was leaving with his family for Jordan in the next couple of days. Mallory had no interest in Farris at that moment so he ended the conversation and went to the rail to look down into the lobby. Stanza’s absence from his room was bothering him since there was nowhere to go in the hotel, unless the journalist had made some friends. Stanza didn’t go to the gym and usually had one of the drivers bring him food from outside at around this time. Kareem hadn’t heard from him and Farris was out of the loop now, it seemed. As for his work, Stanza was not booked on an embed - Mallory would have known about that - and he could not have taken an Arab with him anyway.

  The little creep of a reporter was up to something but worse, he was avoiding Mallory and Mallory resented that hugely.

  Mallory’s phone chirped and he snatched it up to look at the screen before answering, expecting it to be Abdul or Stanza. In fact, it was Des. This was not a good time. He hit the receive button and put it to his ear. ‘Mallory.’

  ‘Where’ve you been?’ Des asked. ‘I’ve been calling you for ages.’

  ‘You know how the phones are.’

  ‘You still want the embed, yer need to get to helipad in twenty minutes. Go like mad ’n’ you could make it.’

  Mallory suddenly didn’t know what to do. ‘Have you seen my journalist?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Stanza. The one who got shot.’

  ‘No, mate. Do yer want this embed or what?’

  Mallory squeezed his forehead with his fingers as he fought to make a decision. Then something else dawned on him. ‘Shit, I don’t have a driver.’

  ‘Right. One o’ mine is just leaving the hotel. I’ll give ’im a call and tell ’im to meet yer outside the far checkpoint. If yer run yer might make it.’

  ‘OK . . . OK. Bye.’ Mallory killed the call and stood tensely, trying to decide what to do. This was what he had been waiting months for. It might be his last chance. God only knew what would happen to Fallujah after the Americans went in.The cemetery could get blown to bits. The town could get shut down for months or even longer. He could search for Abdul and Stanza all night and not find them. Or if he did and they were doing nothing more than having dinner in the Palestine Mallory would be furious. And - worst-case scenario - if indeed they had gone to Fallujah, which Mallory still could not believe, it was out of his hands anyway.

  ‘Bollocks,’ he said as he hurried back into his room, snatched up his backpack, and broke into a run towards the emergency stairs.

  Abdul’s car was parked away from any others in the hotel-complex car park, beneath a couple of parched eucalyptus trees, and Stanza paused in front of it.

  ‘You sure you’re OK to drive?’

  ‘It’s an automatic,’ Abdul said as he put the key in the door.

  Stanza did not look any more convinced.

  ‘If we get stopped I will have to do the talking,’ Abdul said. ‘I also know the way.’

  Stanza’s expression did not change - Abdul could easily mediate and navigate from the passenger seat.

  ‘Then you drive,’ Abdul said, shrugging with indifference.

  ‘What the hell. Go ahead,’ Stanza said as he moved to the passenger door. ‘If I get crazy with your driving we can always stop and swap over.’

  As both men opened their doors a dark muscular-looking Mercedes sedan cruised into the car park, the wheels that supported the four tons of armoured glass and bodywork crunching over the gravel. It stopped a short distance in front of Abdul’s car, bathing the two men in its powerful headlights.

  Abdul and Stanza squinted at the vehicle as the engine died, leaving the headlights burning. Both rear passenger doors opened and two men climbed out. One stayed beside his open door while the other walked to the front of the Mercedes. He gave a discreet hand signal and the headlights died.

  ‘Jake,’ the man said.

  Stanza strained to see who it was but could only make out that the man was Caucasian and was wearing a tailored jacket with a crisp white open-neck shirt beneath.‘Who am I talking to, please?’ he asked, somewhat pathetically. The man standing by the open rear door moved away from the car a little and Stanza saw some kind of rifle in his hands.

  ‘Name’s Bill Asterman,’ the man at the front of the Mercedes said in a distinctly Midwestern American accent. ‘I’m from the embassy.’

  ‘The American embassy?’ Stanza asked.

  ‘That would be correct,’ Asterman said dryly.

  Stanza looked around, wondering if other embassy guys were standing in the darkness. It was very sinister. ‘What . . . what can I do for you guys?’ The man’s features became a little more visible. He looked middle-aged with that polished clean-cut bearing one associated with Secret Service types.

  ‘Where are you headed, Jake?’ Asterman asked.

  ‘How do you know me? My name?’

  ‘Jake Stanza of the Milwaukee Herald . . . That’s not a secret, is it, Jake?’

  ‘Well. That . . . that’s me.’

  ‘I asked where you were headed?’

  ‘Headed?’ Stanza repeated, sounding pathetic even to himself, unable to be more assertive.

  ‘Yeah. As in where are you going?’

  ‘I’m . . . I’m er, heading out, with my translator.’

  ‘Yes. But where is “out”? Where are you going?’ Asterman’s voice was a patient monotone.

  ‘Do you mind if I ask who wants to know?’ Stanza ventured bravely.

  ‘I’m an official of the US government. Your government . . . We have responsibilities to you, Jake. But you also have responsibilities to us . . . So why don’t you just tell me where you’re headed?’

  Stanza wasn’t sure of his ground. He’d never come across government types like this before. ‘The convention centre . . . We’re heading over there for a meeting.’

  Asterman took a packet of cigarettes from his pocket, toyed with it for a moment then brought both hands up to his face. A second later a flame appeared illuminating his cropped blond hair and when his hands went back down he had a cigarette in his mouth. One of his hands went back into his pocket while the other returned to his mouth to remove the cigarette and allow a long stream of smoke to escape. ‘The conven
tion centre? There are no pressers today. Who you meeting?’

  The man had all the airs and attitudes of an interrogator and Stanza had the sudden feeling that this stranger actually already knew a whole lot about what Stanza was really doing. ‘Why are you so interested?’ The journalist tried to lighten his tone by forcing a smile but he could not sustain it.

  ‘That’s my job, Jake . . . So, if you don’t mind, I’ll ask you again. Where are you going?’

  ‘I told you,’ Stanza said, clearing his throat nervously.

  Asterman took a slow draw on his cigarette and blew the smoke out towards Stanza through pursed lips. ‘I’ll tell you something, Jake. In my job I rarely ask questions I don’t know the answer to.’

  Stanza told himself to get a grip: he was perfectly within his rights to go wherever he wanted in Iraq. He was the press, after all. ‘OK,’ he said, putting a little starch into his backbone. ‘You wanna know where I’m going, then you say you know where I’m going. Fine. I don’t know why it’s any of your business but I’m going to Fallujah.’

  ‘Why are you going to Fallujah?’ Asterman asked in the same monotone. It was beginning to irritate Stanza.

  ‘I’m a journalist. Dozens of journalists are going to Fallujah. There’s a damned battle about to take place there,’ Stanza said. The growing irritation in his voice was a substitute for genuine confidence.

  ‘But are you going to Fallujah just as a journalist?’ Asterman asked.

  ‘Why else would I be going there?’

  ‘What’s the story, Jake?’

  ‘What the hell is this all about? Huh? I don’t have to tell you anything.’

  ‘And you know why that is, Jake?’

  Stanza gritted his teeth. ‘Because you know everything? You tapping my phones and my e-mails? Is that it?’

  ‘You’re aware of our policy about negotiating with kidnappers,’ Asterman said.

  ‘I’m aware of your policy. But that’s all it is: a policy, not a law.’

  ‘Where did you get the idea that you could do whatever you wanted in this country?’Asterman asked.