As Mallory walked on deliberately slowly so as not to catch up with Stanza he contemplated his immediate future. There was nothing else for it but to head home, and as soon as he could. Tasneen was the only reason to hang about and frankly that looked more of a non-starter now than it had before he’d left for Fallujah. He couldn’t go on with Tasneen without telling Abdul anyway, which she probably wouldn’t want. As for Stanza, Mallory thought it best to avoid him too. The journalist was no doubt confused about one or two things, especially the sudden appearance of a million dollars, and Mallory wasn’t sure if he should try and explain it to him. He decided ultimately to leave any decision-making until the following day and to sleep on it. Things might make more sense once he was cleaned up and rested. It had been a long day, to say the least, and at the end of it he was thankful to be alive.
Abdul sat in the taxi, staring into space as it cruised through the streets of his city that was already waking up. Since seeing Stanmore’s severed head he had been trying to retrace every thread of the story from the night of the kidnapping to the point where his motivation became a quest to rescue the hostage in order to cleanse his soul. He had obviously drawn several wrong conclusions about his own role as well as those of various others and was still having difficulty interpreting Allah’s overall plan. Allah must have disapproved of Hassan killing the American’s Iraqi lover but that did not necessarily mean that He approved of Abdul executing Hassan. Abdul had obviously failed to see how he would have been no different from Hassan had he killed Mallory for the same reason. Fortunately for Abdul as well as for Mallory, Allah had intervened in time. And if Mallory was not meant to die then neither was Tasneen, something Abdul was hugely relieved about. He was going to need help sorting it all out and the first and only person who came to mind was Tasneen. She would figure it out with him. He would have to tell her everything, though, from the night Lamont had been kidnapped to the present. He thought it best not to tell her about his plans to kill her. He would have to tell her how he had nearly killed Mallory, but then, if he did that he would have to say why and then she would suspect that he had also planned to kill her. Honour killings for such reasons usually included both parties. Perhaps he could gloss over the attempted execution of Mallory. It might not affect the story all that much.The important part was about Lamont.
Abdul was feeling strangely better. Just the thought of having Tasneen to talk to again was a tonic. She was wonderful - although not entirely so, of course. Abdul would have to tell her that he knew about her and Mallory. That would put her on the spot but she deserved that much of a punishment. That was fair, he thought. She couldn’t get off completely free.
Mallory closed his hotel room door, picked up his two backpacks and, looking clean and fresh despite a swollen nose and tiny scabs all over his face, marched down the landing towards the emergency stairs. He had not been to sleep but a long hot shower followed by a swift cold one and a change of clothes was almost as good.The salts in the water had revealed a dozen more cuts and abrasions, some of them requiring plasters, but apart from a few bruised ribs and the nasty bump on the back of his head he’d fared pretty well, considering everything he’d been through.
He noticed Stanza’s door was open slightly and carried on past it, praying that the man would not come out at that moment. He suddenly thought of his relief who was going to turn up to find a most bizarre atmosphere indeed.
Stanza sat in his chair, staring at his desk where the bundle wrapped in its soiled cloth rested. He hadn’t noticed until he put the bundle down and sat in the chair that fluids had been leaking from it and had dried into crusty scabs all over his hands and lap where it had rested throughout the taxi ride. He had been unable to bring himself to go into the bathroom and clean up. He felt drenched in despair, not only for Stanmore but for himself. The last twenty-four hours symbolised his life of partial achievements. He’d gone to Fallujah to bring back Stanmore and had returned with only a portion of him.
He tried to think of a single moment during the last month when he’d been in control of his destiny or his purpose on this earth and couldn’t come up with one. He couldn’t blame anyone else, either. When he thought of Mallory or Abdul nothing remotely flattering came to mind but he couldn’t honestly reproach them.There were some questions he’d like answers to, though. Parts of his adventure had been so surreal that he wasn’t sure if they had actually happened. If Stanmore’s head hadn’t been sitting there, leaking on his desk, he might have doubted whether that part of it too had been real.
He wondered what to do with it. It obviously had to end up back in Wisconsin but it wasn’t really the sort of thing that one boxed up and took on a plane. Bureaucracy needed to be involved. The embassy was the obvious choice. He could look for that prick Asterman and give it to him.
Stanza sighed. This had to be the lowest point of his life.
There was a knock at the door which he thought he had imagined until a voice called out his name. ‘Jeff? You in there? It’s Aaron . . . Aaron Blant.The Post.’
‘It’s Jake, you prick,’ Stanza wanted to say. But he didn’t speak or move.
Blant stepped into the corridor, leaning forward until he saw Stanza sitting in his chair. Then he froze, momentarily horrified by Stanza’s condition, caked in dirt and scabs. ‘You OK, Jeff?’
Stanza raised his red-ringed eyes to look at him.
‘I came by last night but you were out . . . I might have a fixer for you . . . You sent an e-mail.’
Stanza looked away without acknowledging the man’s presence.
‘You OK?’ Blant asked again.
Stanza exhaled heavily.
Blant put his hand on Stanza’s desk and into a puddle of viscous liquid. He quickly withdrew his fingers, unsure where to wipe them. ‘I guess you heard about Lamont,’ he said as he realised the offending liquid was leaking from the stained bundle.
Stanza blinked.
‘Did you see the video? They released it yesterday. Cut the poor bastard’s head off two or three days ago.’
Stanza rolled his eyes and sighed again.
Blant noticed Stanza’s scabby hands and lap. ‘You sure you’re all right? You don’t look so good.’
Stanza looked at his palms and thought he should wash them.
‘OK, well, I’m gonna go,’ Blant said, holding his sticky hand away from his clothes and looking forward to getting to a sink.‘If you need anything let me know.’ Blant sniffed the traces of a foul smell in the air and his nose led him back to the bundle. He looked at Stanza, about to say something. Then he changed his mind and left the room.
Stanza got slowly to his feet, opened the balcony doors, walked outside and looked out onto the city. It might still be an interesting story, he thought. He’d clean up, make himself some coffee and start writing. And he wouldn’t tell Patterson until he’d filed it. That was a reaction he would look forward to. Stanza felt strangely confident - or, more to the point, fearless. There was nothing anyone could do or say to him now. He had been through a test of fire and had emerged the other side cleansed in a way. But it would remain to be seen what he had become. He was different, though: he knew that much.
Then it stuck him. He wasn’t going to write a news story. He’d write a book. That was his future. He’d tell the world the whole story from beginning to end - his story, his beginning - including all the characters and their roles in his life. Screw the Herald. He’d stay in Iraq on the Herald ’s tab, researching all he needed. Then he’d fly to some remote island and write a goddamned book.
He felt better already.
Des pulled the car over to the kerb outside the departure terminal of Baghdad International Airport where several sniffer dogs were playing with their handlers and took the engine out of gear. ‘Well, me old cock. ’Ave a good flight.’
‘Thanks for the lift.’
‘No drama, me lad. You survived the BIAP for another day. Now all I ’ave to do is survive the trip back.’
‘When are you home?’
‘Another month. Might ’ave a couple more clients by then. Would yer be interested in working for me?’
‘Same job?’
‘Sure. Lookin’ after media twats. Not brain surgery, is it? As long as we don’t lose any. Trick is to scare ’em into not going out the ’otel. And when they’re feelin’ brave give ’em a bit o’ food poisonin’.Yer know t’routine, lad.’
Mallory grinned as he held out his hand. Des took it in both of his and gave it a good shake.‘Mind yersel’, yer mad bastard,’ Des said.
‘You too.’
Mallory opened the passenger door and was about to climb out when Des grabbed his arm. ‘There ’e is, the bastard. At it again.’
Mallory glanced at Des and then in the direction he was looking. A short Arab in a smart, expensive suit was dragging a suitcase on wheels away from an immaculate black Mercedes sedan towards the departure lounge entrance, followed by two men who looked like bodyguards.
‘That’s Feisal, from the Ministry of whatever, the bloke in the ’otel I was tellin’ yer about. The one who takes money to Dubai every coupla weeks. ’E’s off again . . . Not a bad job, eh?’
They watched until the men had entered the terminal and exited from their thoughts. ‘So long,’ Mallory said.
‘Be seein’ yer, mate.’
Mallory took his bags off the back seat, closed the car doors and waved as Des drove away. He shouldered his bags and walked over to a couple of security guards and a sniffer dog.
A few minutes later Mallory walked into the departure lounge, a large hall with a vast polished marble floor and vaulted ceiling. He looked over at the Iraqi security personnel guarding the entrance to the check-in hall, which was not yet open. A line of people had already formed in front of it, though, a mixture of Arabs and westerners.There were only a couple of flights that day: the others had been cancelled due to the battle that was still raging in Fallujah only thirty kilometres away.
Mallory could not be bothered to join the line and found a seat which he plonked himself down into tiredly. There were rumours that the flight might be cancelled anyway and if so he’d sleep in the airport until he could get a later one. There was no heading back into Baghdad for him, not until he had decided what to do with himself. He had two options as far as he could see. He could rejoin the Royal Marines and continue with his military career, or he could stay in Civvy Street and make as much money as he could doing the security-adviser malarkey.
When he considered returning to Baghdad he could not help but think about Tasneen. He’d spoken to her that morning but she’d whispered that she could not talk for long. Abdul had come home in a bit of a state, physically and mentally, and she needed to be with him. Mallory understood and told her he’d call her at work in a day or so. He didn’t tell her he was leaving the country and that his next call would be from the UK. Abdul obviously had not yet told her about Fallujah and the money in the cemetery. Mallory decided to leave it all up to fate.Whoever was organising that show certainly had a good sense of humour.
The security guards at the gate seemed to be getting ready to open it. Mallory glanced around at the people converging on the line, suspecting there were more bums than available seats. Feisal appeared with his two burly bodyguards and joined the line. Mallory found it amusing that they had only one suitcase between them and the boss was carrying it. Life was unfair if nothing else. Mallory had gone through hell to acquire and then lose a million dollars and this guy simply walked into a vault once a fortnight and helped himself.
Mallory got to his feet and decided to take his chances with the flight. The opening of the security gate did not necessarily mean the flight was on but it was an indication that the airport still believed it was.
As Mallory joined the back of the line, Feisal and one of his bodyguards walked over to the ticket counter to talk with a member of the airline staff while the other minder remained in the line with the suitcase. The entrance doors to the concourse opened and a large group of men marched in with much bustle and fanfare. They were a mixture of Iraqi police officers and suited ministerial officials and they made a direct line for Feisal. As they surrounded him a boisterous row erupted. Feisal’s accompanying bodyguard was dragged aside and the bodyguard who had remained in the line immediately went to the aid of his boss.
The shouting attracted the attention of everyone in the concourse, including airport security guards who unslung their weapons from their shoulders, wondering what was going on. Feisal clearly said something to one of the officials that was less than appreciated: the temperature of the fracas went up tenfold as Feisal’s jacket lapel was grabbed. This provoked one of Feisal’s minders to grab the grabber, which had a domino effect with everyone seemingly trying to grab a piece of Feisal and his minders. A punch was thrown and then a gun appeared, held high in the air in the centre of the mêlée while hands struggled to reach for it. Inevitably, a shot rang out and the hall erupted in screams as passengers dropped to the floor or ran for the doors. Security guards in various parts of the vast terminal converged on the hall and the pandemonium increased when they started aiming their weapons in a threatening manner, shouting warnings at anyone who looked remotely suspicious. A shot went off outside, fired by an overexcited guard, and was immediately followed by a dozen more that were fired by other guards infected by the excitement.
Mallory crouched behind a planter, just in case. His gaze fell on Feisal’s suitcase where it stood in the middle of the hall alongside other luggage belonging to passengers who had been in the line.
Mallory was not sure what inspired him to get to his feet, pick up his backpacks and march through the chaos, stepping over prone passengers until he reached the suitcase, pick it up and walk away with it. Perhaps the dangers in the hall were minuscule compared with what he’d been through during the past twenty-four hours or perhaps it was nothing more than a moment of uncontrollable madness.Whatever the reason, Mallory continued on through the hall, fearing that he might be grabbed from behind at any moment. But as the cacophony continued behind him his confidence increased and, fighting the urge to look back, he walked past a food kiosk and into a public toilet.
The large noxious room was empty and Mallory continued on into one of the disgusting cubicles, closed the door and placed the suitcase on the rim of the foul seatless toilet. He realised that his heart was pounding in his chest and that adrenalin had been coursing through his veins: he fought to control his breathing so that he could listen to tell if anyone had entered behind him. There was no evidence he had been followed.
He reached for the latches on the side of the suitcase. Amazingly, they were not locked and he raised the lid to see rows of bundles of US banknotes wrapped in cling film. A random inspection of one bundle revealed it to be all one-hundred-dollar bills and Mallory fought to control himself. He was on the cusp of walking away with a fortune but also of spending a long time in an Iraq jail that he might not survive. The next few minutes would be crucial. He could not help doing a quick calculation and, experienced in such matters, came to the delightful conclusion that he was in possession of significantly more than one million dollars, probably closer to two.
It was time to speed up. Mallory opened his backpacks, emptied his clothes into the top half of the suitcase and placed the bundles of money into the packs.When he had got them all inside he could stuff only a couple of T-shirts back into the packs, which he strapped up. He opened the cubicle door a little, checked that no one had come in, grabbed his spare clothes out of the suitcase which he left on the pedestal, tossed the clothes into a broom cupboard, pulled a backpack onto each shoulder and walked out of the toilet.
A commotion was still going on in the hall, although it had calmed down a little when Feisal and his men were taken away. Mallory walked across to a stairwell that led down to the baggage-claim and arrivals hall. Once again he became uncomfortably nervous about being followed but as he left the bottom of the stairs and walked into th
e vast hall that was practically deserted everything seemed relatively quiet. His confidence increased as he headed through a set of double doors, strode past a couple of guards to whom he nodded hello and walked out into the bright sunlight. There was no traffic on the terminal road as Mallory crossed it. He entered the vast underground car park that was practically empty.
Mallory did a quick recce of the dark cavernous structure and found an even darker and more secluded corner beneath one of the massive ramps that led to the floor above. He put down his bags and took a series of deep breaths while he came to terms with what he had just accomplished. It was almost too much to believe and he had to open the top of one backpack and inspect one of the bundles to convince himself that it had really happened, pulling open a corner of cling film to feel the crisp new banknotes. The joke of it was that he was where he would have been had he successfully brought the money back from Fallujah. He now had to figure out how he was going to get it out of the country. It was a phase of the operation that he had resisted planning originally in case it jinxed everything but there were some potential pitfalls with this final leg that were obvious.
Flying the money out would be a problem since luggage searches could be quite thorough, not just in Baghdad but also in Amman. Mallory would never be able to explain away that amount of cash and there was every chance that it would be confiscated. Driving it over a border was probably the best option but not right then. It was far too dangerous and he would lose more than his money if he was stopped. It might end up being a case of finding a secure place to hide it and then getting it out when things calmed down. For the moment the best thing to do was head back into Baghdad, get a room at the Palestine or Sheraton Hotel and take his time coming up with a plan. A pleasant prospect that immediately came to mind was getting together with Tasneen again. Perhaps he could talk her into coming to England with him, or France or Italy or Spain, any of the places they had talked about. He could certainly afford the bribes for visas and so forth. A broad smile spread across his face as he thought how fortunes could change so quickly.
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