The Protector (38 page)

The man in front paused again before shuffling a few feet forward. He did this several times and then abruptly disappeared. Mallory’s outstretched hands found an earth wall and he reached higher to find that the ceiling had gone. He pushed himself upright, banging his back on the ceiling of the tunnel behind him and as he stood up hands from above grabbed him. He was pulled out of the hole and tossed aside onto a stone floor.

Mallory blew gobs of dust from his mouth and nostrils and wiped it from his eyes. Men were coughing and spluttering all around him and he blinked incessantly until his vision returned and he could make out where he was.They were surrounded by walls or parts of walls as if they were inside what had once been a building. But most of it, including the roof, was missing. A dozen fighters in varying states of recovery were hurriedly sorting themselves out, loading magazines into weapons after blowing and wiping dust from the working parts. The shouting had turned into heavy whispering as fighters continued to be dragged out of the hole.There was an intense sense of urgency. Mallory recognised the leader who was marshalling his men, ordering them to spread out behind a low wall.

A body suddenly landed beside Mallory like a sack of potatoes and he realised it was Abdul. The young man looked near to death and when Mallory got to his knees to see if he could help he saw Stanza too, lying in a semi-conscious state a few feet away. Abdul coughed and spluttered as he fought to breathe but Mallory was distracted by a sudden feeling that something ominous was about to happen.

The battle continued to rage with explosions, machine-gun fire, tanks crunching past and helicopters roaring overhead. Mallory initially assumed that they had been retreating as the front line of the assault rolled towards them. But if that was correct something was still not right. He shuffled to where he could look over a wall and saw an armoured troop carrier storm past with several US soldiers running behind it.

It was then that the penny dropped.The tunnel had not gone towards the centre of the town but towards the outskirts. It had been designed to pass beneath the enemy line of advance. The fighters were now behind the US Marines. The crafty bastards had timed it so that the assault would roll over them. But this wasn’t an escape. Judging by the way the leader was forming up his men he was going to attack the rear of the assaulting line. The Marines had not pressed forward in depth and had chosen to extend themselves to present a broad front. If there was a second wave it was a substantial distance behind the first, something which the insurgents clearly planned to exploit.

As Mallory stretched up to see the backs of a line of Marines following a tank along a rubble-strewn street he was suddenly yanked around to face the insurgent leader. Abdul was standing beside the demonic fighter who looked even fiercer covered in a thick film of dust, his eyes like dark slits in a rock surface. Stanza was dragged over as the leader spoke and all three men were pushed towards a gap in a wall, an opening that had once been a doorway.

‘We’re free to go,’ Abdul said, coughing.

The dark fighter shoved Stanza through the gap so hard that he sprawled on the ground and his bundle was thrown after him. Abdul did not need further convincing and followed as the fighter raised the barrel of his rifle to point it at Mallory’s chest. ‘Go,’ he said, meaning it.

Mallory walked out through the gap, looking back, wondering if the man would pull the trigger.

A cry then went up from the insurgent leader - ‘
Allah akbar!
’ - and all his men leaped over the wall with him and charged, shooting and screaming as they ran. The demonic fighter looked over his shoulder at his colleagues, back at Mallory, appeared to consider shooting him but then turned away and broke into a run, screaming his epithet as he disappeared into the dust and darkness. Seconds later the sound of gunfire and screams reached a crescendo and the muzzle-flash of discharging weapons became almost constant.

Stanza began to retch violently, crouched over and holding his stomach.

‘You can throw up later, Stanza. We have to get going,’ said Mallory.

Stanza sat back on his heels and looked up at Mallory, bile running down his chin and neck. ‘Stanmore,’ he said.

‘It’s over,’ Mallory said. ‘The money only bought us our freedom.’

‘No,’ Stanza said lowering his eyes. ‘It bought us Stanmore too.’

Mallory followed Stanza’s gaze to the bundle that had fallen open. Inside it was the severed head of a white man.

15

War Without Winners

Mallory, Stanza and Abdul stumbled on through rubble that had once been shops and houses on the edge of the town. The air was filled with the smell of cordite although the three were so used to it by now they hardly noticed. The bodies of dead Arabs had grown fewer as they approached the start line of the assault but Mallory remained alert to every sound and shadow. His two colleagues looked disconnected from the reality of what was going on around them as if numbed by it all, walking like automatons, Stanza carrying his bundle and Abdul following him like a blind man. Mallory had seen vehicles and troops moving on their flanks in the darkness but had chosen not to reveal themselves just yet. It was still dangerous out in the open and the Marines were likely to shoot first and investigate later.

The battle raged a good distance behind them now, although the occasional explosion went off nearby and ahead - probably mortars fired by insurgents in the town.

Mallory led them through a deserted building onto a main road and instantly pulled the others to cover when he saw several Hummvees parked a short distance away with a dozen or so troops gathered around. He told Abdul and Stanza to remain out of sight while he made contact. Then he stepped back onto the road, his hands raised in the air. The soldiers were cautious as he approached them but after he spoke, announcing his nationality, they could see he was a westerner and they relaxed, allowing him to join them. After a brief chat he returned with a sergeant and a couple of his men to collect Abdul and Stanza. Mallory had explained they were press who had got separated from their media pool and they showed their IDs as proof. The sergeant bought their story and allowed them to wait with the platoon. A couple of hours later a Hummvee arrived to take them to a checkpoint on the 10 motorway on the Baghdad side of Fallujah. A taxi was hanging around a few hundred metres from the checkpoint and the driver was happy to give them a ride back to the Sheraton Hotel.

Not a word was spoken during the journey and day had dawned by the time the taxi pulled up outside the first checkpoint. Mallory and Stanza climbed out. Abdul remained in the taxi and as Stanza walked away, carrying his bundle, Mallory stopped to look at Abdul who was staring at the floor. ‘You going home?’

Abdul nodded.

Mallory wasn’t quite sure what to say. ‘I’ll give you a call later. OK?’

Abdul didn’t respond.

Mallory thought he understood and stepped back as the taxi turned around and drove away. He watched it as his thoughts turned to Tasneen and what he was going to say to her. He looked for Stanza, who was already halfway towards the US Army checkpoint, and then down at his grubby hands covered in cuts and abrasions. He felt his broken nose and attempted to clear his nostrils but they were too blocked with either dirt or dried blood.

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.