The Protector

by Duncan Falconer

  ‘Salam alycom,’ Mallory said as he pushed himself up, grabbed the side of the trunk, and got out. He stretched to relieve the stiffness in his back.

  ‘Alycom al salam,’ Muhammad said, placing a hand on his chest as he bowed slightly. ‘Welcome, welcome.’

  Mallory forced a smile and nodded.

  ‘Hello,’ Muhammad said, grinning and bobbing his head in a servile manner. He extended an arm towards an open door. ‘Hello,’ he repeated, indicating they should go that way, using the word with more versatility than Mallory was used to.

  As Stanza climbed out of the trunk Mallory took a look around the dingy room that was filled with junk of all descriptions, none of it valuable. Stanza brushed himself down and shook the cousin’s offered hand. The man bid him hello and indicated the open door again. Muhammad shuffled towards the door and Abdul indicated that the others should follow.

  Muhammad led them along a short corridor to a doorway with a curtain across it. The air here smelled like a strong mixture of mildew and kerosene fumes, an aroma explained by the contents of the room that Muhammad invited them into. He held back the curtain to reveal a dark interior more than amply furnished with cushions of every size and colour, though black and burgundy were the most prevalent. Rugs covered every inch of the floor and a good portion of the walls. The tobacco-stained ceiling was streaked with cracks. Everything was bathed in an orangey glow from a benzene lamp on a large circular copper-tray centrepiece that was suspended a few inches off the ground on a wooden frame. Muhammad was evidently proud of his living quarters and confidently invited his guests to choose a place to recline.

  The sound of cutlery tinkling against glass came from behind another curtain suspended across a corner of the room. Mallory and Stanza lowered themselves onto a cushion each and stretched their feet towards the copper tray while Abdul and Muhammad, who were having what appeared to be an intense conversation, sat opposite. The curtain moved aside and a heavily veiled woman in an abaya stepped out of a tiny kitchenette, carrying a tray on which were four small glass cups that were half filled with sugar. A little teapot stood beside them.The woman’s dark eyes were barely visible through the narrow slit of her headpiece and she avoided eye contact with everyone as she placed the tray on the table and filled the cups with a tan liquid. No sooner had she completed that task than she went behind her curtain and drew it back across.

  Muhammad smiled broadly once again as he invited Mallory and Stanza to indulge in the tea. After the two westerners picked up their cups Abdul and Muhammad took up theirs, resuming their conversation. Mallory was certain that he heard the name Tasneen mentioned a couple of times whereupon Abdul glanced at him.The two men eventually faced the westerners.

  ‘My cousin welcomes you to his house,’ Abdul said.

  Mallory and Stanza nodded politely.

  Muhammad’s smile disappeared while he sipped his tea and did not return when he replaced the half-empty cup back on the tray. He asked Abdul something and the reply was accompanied with a shrug. Then Abdul indicated Stanza with a jut of his chin whereupon Muhammad’s gaze fell on the journalist. Muhammad said something while looking at Stanza and Abdul nodded.

  ‘Muhammad asks if you have any money with you.’

  ‘What does he want money for?’ Mallory asked.

  The men exchanged glances while Abdul relayed the response. The cousin appeared annoyed as he rambled on, using hand gestures to emphasise certain points. When he stopped he looked between Mallory and Stanza.

  ‘My cousin asks . . . how can you negotiate without money?’

  Stanza was the one who now looked irritated. ‘We don’t need money to begin negotiations. When we finally agree on a price the funds can be transferred.’ Stanza looked at Muhammad in a wearily superior manner. ‘Why is he asking me about money? Has he made any contact with the kidnappers?’

  Abdul talked at some length with his cousin before facing Stanza, his fingers scratching an itch at the end of his stump. ‘Muhammad has made contact with someone who can take us to a member of the Black Banner Brigade. He needs to find out which hostage you are interested in.’

  ‘What do you mean, which hostage?’

  ‘I did not tell Muhammad Lamont’s name over the phone. But you have also called him by another name.’

  ‘Stanmore, yes. But they will know him only as Lamont, unless Lamont has told them his real name . . . How many hostages do they have, anyway?’

  Abdul said something to Muhammad who shrugged as he rattled off a list of nationalities that Mallory and Stanza did not understand for the most part. Abdul repeated them as best he could in English: ‘British, French, Italian, German, Portuguese,Armenian,Turkish, Kenyan, Somalian, Nepalese, Chinese, Japanese, Americans and dozens of Iraqis.’

  Muhammad said something as he picked up his tea.

  ‘He . . . ’ Abdul began. Then he took a few seconds to rethink his words. ‘He asks how much he is to get. He thinks it should be a percentage of the ransom.’ Abdul looked down at his stump as if distancing himself from the question.

  Stanza looked at Mallory, then back at Muhammad. ‘Can you believe these fuckin’ monkeys?’ he said.

  Abdul looked up at Stanza sharply.

  ‘How can this guy ask for a percentage?’ Stanza asked. ‘Is he one of the kidnappers?’

  ‘My cousin has nothing to do with kidnapping. But Muhammad believes that if he is to risk his life for the American he should get something for it.’

  Muhammad said something which Abdul repeated. ‘Are you getting paid for coming here?’ he said.

  Stanza sighed.‘I will pay him. But not a percentage.’

  Abdul spoke to Muhammad who looked away as if he had been insulted.

  Stanza threw up his hands.‘OK.What the hell. Sure, why not? Take a piece of the action. It’s not my money and I’m sure Stanmore’s old man would agree. What percentage does he want?’

  Abdul asked his cousin who replied after a moment of thought. ‘He thinks ten per cent is fair,’ Abdul said.

  ‘Ten?’ Stanza said, breaking into a laugh. ‘These fuckin’ people . . . OK. It’s a deal. Who the fuck cares? Just do me a favour. Can we put his money to one side for now? Your cousin will get paid, I promise him that. Can we get this ball rolling now? I’m here to get Stanmore, not spend my time haggling with your cousin over his goddamned fee.’

  Abdul said something to his cousin who thought about it for a moment before replying. When Abdul responded there was a hint of frustration in his voice. Muhammad eventually nodded in agreement and got to his feet, said ‘Hello’ to Mallory and Stanza and left the room by another door that appeared to lead to the front of the house.

  Stanza and Mallory both looked at Abdul for an explanation.

  ‘He has gone to contact those who have Lamont.’

  ‘Just like that,’ Stanza said. ‘What they got, some kinda store down the road with a hostage section?’

  Mallory dropped his head into his hands, suddenly feeling exhausted.The stress of the evening was catching up with him. He felt it was going to be a long night and he just wanted to lie back and sleep.

  A distant explosion rocked the building enough to fill the air with dust from the many cracks in the walls and ceiling. Stanza looked at Mallory, then at Abdul, both of whom appeared to have ignored the blast. A shot was fired close by, then another in the distance, followed by more. Then silence.

  Stanza ran a hand through his hair and massaged his neck. ‘I’m bushed,’ he said to no one in particular. Then he lay back, rested his head on a cushion, stretched out his legs and closed his eyes.

  Mallory contemplated doing the same but then felt Abdul’s stare on him. When he looked up the young Arab looked away. Again he sensed something odd about the man. He’d caught Abdul looking strangely at him a couple of times now and each time the Arab looked away as if he was hiding something.

  Mallory slid down the cushion until his head was resting on it. He closed his eyes and decided to rely on his
hearing for security for the moment. He reasoned that snatching a rest was only sensible as there was no way of knowing when their next opportunity might be. But as soon as he began to relax a distant voice warned him to be cautious, a voice clearly recognisable even though he had not heard it for many years. It was that of his first troop sergeant at 42 Commando, Muggers Mugrich - the unsmiling one, as he’d been known.

  It was strange how that particular man’s image had emerged from the lower reaches of Mallory’s memory. He had not seen or thought about Muggers for years. Shortly after Mallory’s arrival in the troop, his first draft since passing out of commando training, it had been tasked with taking part in one of the last tours of Northern Ireland, a pointless task to all concerned as the IRA had long since been defeated. Most of the deployment duties consisted of long walks across stretches of the border where little of any great significance had happened for an age. The last incident had been so far back, in fact, that the intelligence officer whose job it was to provide such historical background information during the operational briefing wasn’t quite sure what it had been.The military wing of the IRA had seen the last of the wind removed from their sails when their essential funding and support from the USA was brought to an abrupt end after the 9/11 terrorist attack. What little was left of their struggle was diminished as much by the rising tide of Islamic terrorism as by their own internal corruption.

  But Muggers treated the operation the same way he did every task, even the most boring exercises, and that was as if the screaming hordes might come over the top at any second. It was considered a certainty that if any member of the patrol fell asleep on sentry duty Muggers would catch them - and when he did, woe betide that individual. Harsh as his punishments often were he was a likeable character who offended few because he was always right and fair and, after more than twenty years in the mob, there wasn’t much he didn’t know about the business. Mallory had almost nodded off only once in his entire military career. Muggers caught the young Marine as his heavy eyelids were starting to close. ‘Fight it, laddy,’ Muggers said softly from behind him and Mallory’s eyes snapped open. ‘Think of something violent that makes you angry. Like someone attacking your mother, or your sister. It’ll get your blood up and put a touch of adrenalin into your system and you won’t sleep for a while.’

  Mallory never forgot the advice and it had served him well on many an occasion. But despite his memory of it he drifted away on the feelings of nostalgia it brought with it and while mentally reliving those good old days he forgot to think of something that made him angry. Mallory had no idea precisely how long he had been asleep. What woke him up was another soft voice coming to him as if from the end of a long tunnel.

  ‘What?’ Mallory said, his eyes opening abruptly to see the dull cracked ceiling with its flickering patterns created by the light of the benzene lamp.

  ‘I asked if you had any family.’

  Mallory fought to marshal his senses and remember where on earth he was. ‘Family?’ he said as he realised that he was in Fallujah and the voice was Stanza’s.

  ‘As in wife and kids,’ Stanza said.

  Mallory looked over at the man who was lying fully stretched out on the rug, staring up at the ceiling. ‘No,’ he said. Mallory looked around the room to discover that they were the only two in it. He got quickly to his feet.

  ‘Not even a girlfriend?’

  Mallory went to the curtain in the corner and pulled it aside to reveal that the tiny kitchen space was empty. He went to the door Muhammad had left by and opened it enough to look into a dark empty hallway with the front door at the end.

  ‘If you’re looking for Abdul he’s gone,’ Stanza said. ‘His cousin came back for a couple of minutes. They had a brief talk, kinda secretive, and then they both left.’

  Mallory lowered himself into the chair Abdul had been sitting in and felt the shape of his pistol inside his front pouch.

  ‘Do you have a girlfriend, then?’ Stanza asked.

  Mallory wondered why Stanza was intent on pursuing such a trivial subject in the light of their situation. Then again, trivia was probably what they should be discussing at such a time. They had relinquished control of their lives and were at the mercy of so many different forces that it made a mockery of the central concept of Mallory’s job, which was risk management. ‘No,’ Mallory said. An image of Tasneen’s pretty face came into his mind’s eye. At that moment his pursuit of her seemed as ridiculous an adventure as the one he was currently involved in.

  ‘I suppose it’s difficult in your job,’ Stanza said.

  ‘Is it any easier in yours?’

  ‘I don’t go away as much as I imagine you do.’

  ‘You have a wife and kids?’ Mallory wasn’t particularly interested, but since they were on the subject he felt he might as well ask.

  A smile twisted Stanza’s face.‘No. Never been lucky in that department. Almost. Had a wife, that is, but never got far enough to contemplate kids. I don’t think I’d make a good father.’

  Mallory thought about asking why and then decided not to.

  ‘I’m too selfish,’ Stanza said anyway. ‘That’s also what went wrong with my relationships . . . all of ’em. Too tied up in my own world. The irony was I was never that interested in journalism. Not really. Not passionately like some. But I did want to succeed. So I kept on trying and didn’t have time for anyone else . . . Is that a pointless life or what? Eh?’ Stanza glanced over at Mallory to see if he had been listening.

  Mallory had been only half-attentive - he’d drifted away to reflect on his own life. But he caught Stanza’s question and look. ‘My philosophy has always been never to regret anything,’ Mallory mused. ‘You take the right fork and even though it wasn’t ideal you might not have survived the left . . . For what it’s worth, that’s my philosophy.’

  ‘Yeah . . . Basic, but I guess it works,’ Stanza said.

  ‘Well, maybe if I reach your age I’ll have managed to work out something a little deeper, but that’s where I’ve got to so far.’

  A sound came from the front hallway and Mallory got to his feet while Stanza sat up.

  The door opened and Muhammad looked alarmed as he eyed the two men. He immediately stepped aside to make way for a fierce-looking Arab dressed in a dark, soiled dishdash with a well-worn leather jacket over the top. He was carrying an AK47 and his stare flicked to Mallory’s hand as it moved to his pouch.

  The man took a couple of steps into the room and looked around quickly. Stanza got to his feet as Abdul, looking as if he had seen a ghost, walked in behind the stranger. Behind him was another Arab who moved like a beast in search of raw meat. He was far more tense and murderous-looking than his colleague and his leathery face was covered with a wiry black beard.The hatred in his narrow dark eyes was unmistakable. He gripped a Russian PK belt-fed machine-gun rifle, heavier than his comrade’s AK47, and looked as though he would like nothing better than to cut loose with it.

  The first Arab, who was clearly the senior of the two, said something while keeping his gaze fixed on Mallory.

  ‘He asks who is the one he should talk to about the hostage,’ Abdul said.

  Stanza forced a smile as he stepped forward to offer his hand. ‘My name’s Jake Stanza,’ he said.

  The Arab ignored the hand while he studied Stanza from head to foot. He said something else, his voice cold and assertive.

  ‘He asks what you want,’ Abdul said.

  Stanza cleared his throat.‘I’d like to interview Jeffrey Lamont. Would that be possible?’

  Abdul translated and the Arab replied. ‘Is that all you want - to talk to him?’

  ‘N-no . . . no,’ Stanza stuttered in an effort to correct any misunderstanding. ‘I have the authority to negotiate a payment for his release. A ransom.’

  Abdul translated and the Arab scrutinised Stanza before replying.

  ‘He will take five million US dollars,’ Abdul said.

  Stanza nodded. Sweet and to the poin
t. But now that he was finally in the position he had been looking forward to he felt insecure and unsure how to conduct himself. ‘Fine . . . Fine. That’s a lot of money,’ he said. The only concept of negotiating that Stanza had was, ironically, one of the basic Arab rules of bargaining: don’t settle for the initial price.

  The Arab’s expression remained icy as he uttered a few words.

  ‘What do you offer?’ Abdul translated.

  Stanza rubbed his brow nervously. ‘I was thinking in the region of a couple of million. But . . . Well, I’ll gladly put that to my people. I’m only the go-between,’ he stammered, forcing a smile that quickly became a nervous grimace.

  Abdul repeated Stanza’s words and the Arab replied. ‘He doesn’t think you are in a position to negotiate, which is not a healthy position to be in.’

  ‘B-but I am. I am.’

  Mallory looked at Stanza, realising that his life was now in the hands of this twat. This was not a factor he had considered before and he decided that he wasn’t about to let Stanza take him down with him. ‘Ask him for proof that the hostage is still alive,’ Mallory interjected.

  The Arab looked at Mallory as Abdul interpreted the question.

  ‘Would you like an ear or a finger?’ Abdul translated the response.

  ‘That’s not proof of life,’ Mallory said. ‘Stanza - ask him something,’ he ordered.

  ‘Ask what?’ Stanza was flustered.‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘A proof-of-life question.’The irritation in Mallory’s voice was clear to all.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I don’t know, for fuck’s sake. The name of his pet fucking goldfish. Something that only his father would know.’

  Stanza rubbed his forehead as he struggled to think. ‘Ask him what his favourite beer is.’

  ‘For God’s sake,’ Mallory said, looking up at the ceiling. ‘We are fucking dead.’

  ‘His father owns a brewery,’ Stanza shouted.

  ‘They could get that off the bloody Internet,’ Mallory retorted. ‘Something only his old man would know. His mother’s pet name or maiden name.You’ve come here to negotiate for a man’s life and you don’t know the first bloody thing about it.’