The Abrupt Physics of Dying (7 page)

Karila spoke into the intercom and then looked up at Clay. ‘Well, where was he?’

Clay stood, faced Parnell. Clearly he wasn’t the only person in the room with mental-health problems. ‘Don’t you want to know what he had to say?’

Parnell looked up at him through narrowed eyes, if they could get any narrower. ‘Answer him, Straker. Where was the fucker?’

A flood tide of pain was inching its way from the back of his head towards his eyes. He blinked, tried to focus on the map spread across Karila’s desk. ‘About two hours out of Idim,’ he said. If he had a satellite image he could probably pinpoint the hidden oasis to within less than a hundred metres.

A man walked into the room. He was short and powerfully built, his neck a tangle of sinew that spread like rootwork down into a broad substrate of muscle rippling beneath a tight black T-shirt. A shoulder holster was strapped across his chest. Clay had seen him around the office a couple of times, once back before Christmas on his first stint in the country.

‘This is Mister Todorov, our head of security,’ said Karila.

‘People calling me Zdravko,’ he replied in a heavy Slavic accent. He had strong, even white teeth, pale eyes, fair brush-cut hair, and what looked like a still-healing scar showing just above the neckline of his T-shirt.

‘Mister Straker has some information that may be of interest,’ said Karila. ‘About Al Shams.’

Zdravko arched his eyebrows, creasing deep furrows in his forehead. He closed the door and stood with feet planted
shoulder-width
apart, arms folded across his chest, one hand on the butt of the automatic pistol at his ribs.

Clay fixed his gaze on Parnell. ‘He said to tell you that you are a blasphemer.’

Parnell glanced at Karila, smirked.

‘You are stealing from them, and poisoning them. They want their fair share, or they will make trouble. That’s what he said.’

‘Where you see him?’ said Zdravko.

‘Up on the
jol
.’

‘Speak English for fuck’s sake, Straker,’ said Parnell.

Clay held a breath, let it go, the pain worse now. ‘On the plateau.’

Zdravko’s face opened up in a smile as expansive as his biceps. ‘Plateau is big like my girlfriend’s back end, Straker. Al Shams just one small asshole.’

Parnell smirked.

Clay turned to face Karila. ‘They stopped us near the Kamar-1 well, commandeered the vehicle. We drove for an hour, maybe more. It’s hard to tell.’

‘Where did they take you?’ barked Parnell. ‘Which direction?’ He looked up at the security man and grinned. ‘We’ve got the bastard, goddammit.’

Clay took a deep breath, remembering that piercing black eye, the intelligence cutting through the veil of fervour. He had a decision to make. ‘Problem is,’ he said, ‘I’m not sure.’

The room fell quiet. The call to prayer rose in the distance and echoed across the city, drifting in on the breeze.

Parnell stood and slammed the window shut, muffling the muezzin’s cries. ‘Whaddaya mean, not sure?’

Clay swallowed. ‘They blindfolded me.’

The room went quiet. Karila, Parnell and Zdravko stared at him.

‘What did you say?’ hissed Parnell.

Clay looked down at his hands. ‘I didn’t see a thing. I was
blindfolded
the whole time.’

Parnell stared at him for a moment and then pushed past towards the door. ‘Cocksucker,’ he muttered.

‘This man Islamic terrorist.’ Zdravko’s smile was gone.

‘Al Qaeda,’ said Parnell.

Clay’s stomach felt as if he had just jumped out into the void.

Parnell nodded.

‘The bastard uses religion to camouflage his greed. Same fucking hypocrites tried to blow up the World Trade Center last year.’

‘We’re not certain of that, Vance,’ said Karila meekly.

Parnell turned and glared at his lieutenant, eyes bulging, cheeks reddening. ‘The authorities have confirmed it,’ he spat. ‘This is the prick who blew Thierry Champard to pieces, goddammit.’ Parnell took a couple of steps backwards as if suddenly deflated. He reached back for the arm of the chair, and sank into the worn leather. He stared at the floor for a long time. Then he crossed himself, pinned the points of his elbows onto his knees and cradled his head in his hands. ‘Hardest thing I had to do ever, call Thierry’s wife and tell her he was dead,’ he said without looking up.

Karila looked down at his keyboard, tapped desultorily. Zdravko smirked, hid it with a cough.

‘Why did he kill Champard?’ asked Clay.

Parnell jerked his head up from his hands. His eyes looked like they were about to burst from their sockets. ‘What kind of a bullshit question is that?’

‘Why Thierry? Why there, in the middle of Aden?’

‘How the hell should I know, Straker? Maybe you should have asked him yourself. You’re the one who’s been having tea with him.’

‘Soft target,’ said Zdravko. ‘In Aden no protection.’

‘What the hell is wrong with you, Straker?’ said Parnell. ‘We’ve got a chance to nail this guy. Whose side are you on, for Chrissakes?’

‘I’m on Thierry’s side.’

Zdravko glanced at Parnell, back at Clay. He spat on the floor. ‘You lucky, Straker,’ he said. ‘Very lucky. Could have been you, very easy.’

Clay said nothing.

Parnell coughed, took a shallow breath, looked at Clay. ‘What about your driver? Did he get a glimpse?’

‘Abdulkader,’ said Clay. ‘His name is Abdulkader.’

‘Did your driver see anything?’

‘I don’t think so. Maybe.’

‘Well, get him in here so we can talk to him.’

Clay shuffled his feet. ‘Can’t do that,’ he said.

‘The hell you can’t,’ said Parnell, face reddening. ‘Get him in here, most pronto.’

‘I’m sure he’d be happy to,’ said Clay, boring a hole through the American’s forehead. ‘But he’s still there. They let me go, kept him.’

Parnell took a sharp breath.

Zdravko stretched an asylum grin. ‘This good. Very good.’

Karila stood and looked at the map spread across his desk. ‘Think about it, Vance. A hostage. This is a serious escalation, kidnapping Petro-Tex staff. We can push the government to act.’ He smiled at his boss and jabbed the map with his index finger. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Kamar-1. It’s a start.’

‘Get the Army on it,’ said Parnell, turning to Zdravko. ‘Tell ’em everything we know. They want this fucker as much as we do.’

Clay’s stomach lurched, sank.

‘More,’ said Zdravko. ‘Much more.’

‘What about Abdulkader?’ said Clay. ‘We need to get him back.’

Parnell twisted partially in his chair to face Karila. ‘What’s our policy on local casual labour, Nils?’

‘Cash only. No contract. No obligation.’

Parnell crossed his arms across his chest and glared at Clay.

‘I have an obligation,’ said Clay, struggling to contain his voice.

Karila glanced over at Parnell. ‘The car wreck in Lawdar, last month. Clay’s driver pulled him clear.’

Parnell lowered his voice: ‘This has nothing to do with what happened month last.’

‘So you’re just going to leave him there?’ said Clay.

‘No, we ain’t,’ said Parnell. ‘We’re going to get the Army and the PSO to go and take this fucker out, like I already said. Your driver can fend for himself, Straker. He’s one of
them
, after all.’

‘Then I’m going back out there to get him myself.’

Parnell jerked to his feet, sucked in his breath with a rasp. He looked like he was going to go into cardiac arrest.

‘You stay put, Straker, goddammit.’

‘Please, Straker,’ said Karila. ‘Go and see the doctor. He’s in the building now.’

‘Yeah,’ smirked Parnell, ‘go and get your head examined, Straker.’ He grinned at Karila.

‘Then I want you back here in an hour,’ said Karila. ‘We have an important visitor.’

‘And don’t leave Aden, Straker,’ said Parnell, lumbering towards the door. ‘The PSO is gonna want to talk to you.’ He stopped short of the doorway, turned to face Zdravko and jabbed his index finger into Zdravko’s chest. ‘And you, Todorov, you make damn sure he talks to them.’

Bulgarian Gangbang

An hour later, Clay stood in the office courtyard with the other employees, about forty in all, under a sky writ in drought. They had already been waiting half an hour and people were getting restless, shuffling about, shielding their eyes against the low-angled sun, chatting in half a dozen languages. Parnell had arranged the group with expats at the front – Parnell, Karila, Clay and a few of the engineers – the overseas nationals, Egyptians mostly, behind, and the Yemenis at the back near the compound’s west wall: teaboys, cleaners, drivers, guards – all men. Now he paced nervously, wiping sweat from his forehead and neck with a greying handkerchief, checking his watch. Zdravko was standing at the main gate speaking into a radio handset. He clipped the handset to his belt, looked up at Parnell and nodded, barked a command at one of the Yemeni guards.

‘Ready everyone,’ shouted Parnell, clapping his hands twice, taking his place beside Karila and Clay. ‘He’s here.’

The steel gates rolled open. A black Mercedes sedan with tinted glass pulled to a stop in the courtyard. The gates closed with a clang. An expectant hush fell over the group.

Parnell pushed his hair back across his head. ‘Let me do the talking, Nils. And keep your mouth shut, Straker.’

Clay speared out a ragged salute.

Parnell’s jaw twitched.

A tall man in a perfectly tailored cappuccino wool suit and open-collared white shirt emerged from the Mercedes, looked briefly around the compound, nodded to Zdravko, and strode toward the
waiting crowd. Clay recognised him from the photos in the newspapers. Rex Medved, President and major shareholder of Petro-Tex, made directly for Parnell, hugged him as if he were his best friend, and pumped his hand.

‘Wonderful to be here,’ said Medved, flashing an American dental-work smile. He was very good-looking, in a magazine kind of way: square-jawed, mid-forties, Clay guessed, salon-perfect skin, Caribbean tan. A diamond solitaire stud winked in his left earlobe.

‘Thanks for coming,’ said Parnell, a smile plastered over his face.

‘On our way to Zimbabwe for a meeting,’ said Medved, waving his hand as if to say it was nothing. ‘Thought we would divert and see how you lot were doing.’ His accent was upper-crust English, public-school intonation laced with arrogance. ‘What’s the point in having a jet if one can’t take a little side trip now and again, eh?’ He flashed teeth. ‘I only have an hour.’

Parnell introduced Karila, then Clay.

Medved shook Clay’s hand. They stood eye to eye, the same six foot three. ‘Ah yes, Claymore Straker. I understand you have done good work for us.’ Medved looked across at Karila. ‘I want to do the right thing here in Yemen, Straker, look after the people and the environment. Keep it up.’

‘Do the right thing. Look after the people. You can count on us,’ said Clay. It was almost like being back in the Battalion. Parnell glared at him over Medved’s shoulder. Clay shot back a plastic smile and, still clasping Medved’s hand, leaned forward and spoke into his ear.

‘My driver, one of your employees, has been taken hostage, Mister Medved, by locals who say we are poisoning their kids. We need to get him back, and we need to look into their grievance.’

Medved released Clay’s hand, took a step back, stared him in the eyes. For a moment it looked as if he was going to say something. Then he looked away, smoothed his lapels, faced the crowd, and opened his arms wide. Behind him, Zdravko stood impassive, eyes shielded by reflective Raybans, watching, coiled.

‘Thank you so much, Mister Parnell, everyone, for such a warm welcome, and for your great efforts over the past year.’ Medved lowered his arms, smiled and nodded at Karila. ‘Our operations are bringing badly needed revenue, jobs and prosperity to Yemen. We are doing good things here. The next few months will be exciting for all of us, and I need not remind any of you of how important our new expansion plans are. Get it done, and we will all share in the benefits.’

The crowd broke into applause. Medved took a step forward, bowed his head quickly, and stood clapping with the staff. Then he raised his hands. ‘Thank you all. Now, please return to your good work.’

The crowd began to disperse.

Medved moved forward, grabbed Parnell’s upper arm. His smile was gone. ‘And now, gentlemen, if I could have a word with the General Manager, please, alone.’ The two men disappeared through the front entrance, a schoolmaster hurrying a naughty pupil to the detention room.

Karila tapped Clay on the shoulder. ‘What on earth were you doing, Straker? You were supposed to keep quiet. What did you say to him?’

‘I told him I wasn’t getting paid.’

Karila frowned. ‘I’m starting not to like you very much, Straker,’ he said, and strode away after his bosses.

Clay returned to the company guesthouse late, fresh stitches throbbing in his scalp, his already shortened attention span fractioned by thoughts of Abdulkader. He showered, ate, and went down to the common lounge.

An F14 Tomcat shot across the television screen, twisting in a dogfight. Missiles fired, jerking heat-seekers trailing white spume. Clay sank into the couch as an enemy plane disintegrated in an orange ball of fire.

‘
Top Gun,
’ said an American contractor Clay had seen around in the guesthouse from time to time: Jim, one of the facility engineers. Tall man, lanky, strong Southern accent, a lost-and-found Florida Gators baseball cap permanently grafted to his head, tobacco chewer, pretty much kept to himself.

Clay nodded to him and put his feet up on the coffee table. Tom Cruise as a fighter pilot. Questionable. Something to help kill the hours, dull the frustration of having to stay put in Aden, deaden the guilt he was feeling. The man who had pulled him unconscious and bleeding from the burning car wreck on the road down from Lawdar only six weeks ago was a prisoner of terrorists, and now he had triggered the one thing Al Shams had warned him against: bringing in the Army. Perhaps Medved would push Parnell to take action. If it was really about money, as Clay was beginning to suspect, they could ransom Abdulkader back.

A third enemy aircraft plummeted ground-ward in flames.

Clay tore a tin of Budweiser from the plastic noose and handed it to the American.

‘Thanks,’ said Jim.

Clay pulled the tab on a beer and took a long draught. ‘You heading up to the CPF soon?’

‘Tomorrow.’

‘What’s with the lockdown out there?’

‘They’re worried about terrorists.’

‘You mean the locals.’

‘I guess.’ Jim took another gulp of beer.

Clay put down his beer and leaned forward, forearms across his knees. ‘Did you know Thierry Champard?’

Jim turned away from the screen and fixed his gaze on Clay. ‘Yeah, I knew him. He was my back-to-back.’

‘What was he like?’

‘French.’

‘I heard.’

‘Great guy. The best.’

Clay looked over his shoulder. There was no one else in the room, the corridor was quiet. ‘Do you know why Al Qaeda would have wanted him dead?’

‘What’s it to you?’

‘The same guys have my driver, Abdulkader.’

Jim drained his beer, set the tin on the floor, tugged at the worn peak of his cap. ‘He’d been in country for a while before I started here. Who knows what people get up to?’

‘He never said anything to you?’

‘Nope.’

‘Nothing to suggest conflict with the locals?’

‘Nothing.’

‘A woman perhaps?’

‘Ever meet his wife?’

Clay recalled the pang that had lodged in his throat that day on the way to the airport, looking at the photos of Champard’s family. A family of his own. Funny how something you’d always taken for granted would just happen, could turn to an irrelevancy, an
impossibility
, so quickly. Without ever really thinking about it. Just there one day, and not there after. There had been a girl, once. They’d dated in high school but lost touch when he went into the Army. He’d come back on leave, a few months into his second tour, and she’d been waiting for him in the crowd at the airport. She’d been wearing a sexy, strapless, cotton summer dress and he remembered how her skin had felt when he’d held her, standing there in the arrivals hall with people streaming past them and the smell of shampoo in her hair and the way she was everything that the war wasn’t, clean and soft and safe. He remembered the surprise at seeing her there, the way she’d thrown her arms around him, the way she’d run her fingers through his freshly cut hair. She’d tracked him down through his uncle, she’d said through the tears, after hearing about his parents’ death. The next day he’d borrowed a mate’s bakkie and they’d driven south to the ocean and along the coast to Port
Shepstone
, and taken a hotel room on the beach. She’d been warm and
sympathetic and they’d made love as if it were their last days on Earth. He thought she might ask him about the war but she hadn’t, and he’d realised he had no way of telling her anyway. A day later he asked her to marry him and she said yes. He was twenty and she was nineteen. They picked out a ring for her – a tiny flawed diamond set in fourteen-carat gold, all he could afford – in a shop in Durban the day he went back to the war. He’d written her for almost a year, whenever he could, until he was wounded again. She’d come to see him in the military hospital in Johannesburg, but by then he was someone else. He’d been distant and hurtful, his anger spilling out uncontrollably. She’d left the ring in an envelope with one of the nurses.

‘Money trouble?’ asked Clay.

‘I said no, Straker. Drop it, OK?’

Clay swirled the beer in his tin and eased back into the couch. ‘Dropped.’

Zdravko Todorov appeared at the common room doorway, a black duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He smiled, sat on the couch next to Clay, stared at the TV. Tomcat fighters catapulted from a carrier deck, afterburners roaring. Clay ignored him.

After a while Zdravko leaned over from the other end of the couch and said to Clay: ‘American shit weapons.’ He pronounced it
sheet
, weapons with a
v
.

‘I heard that, asshole,’ said Jim from the lounge chair.

‘I am Zdravko,’ said the man, winking at Clay, ‘not asshole.’
Assxole
.

‘With a name like that, you should be called asshole.’

‘Does not change anything, my American friend. American weapons shit.’ Zdravko laughed as if this was the funniest thing he had ever heard and clapped Clay on the back. ‘Too complicated, breaking down, needs too much training to use,’ he said to Clay behind a raised hand, sharing a secret. ‘Russian weapons good. Bulgarian weapons good.’ Zdravko palmed a small black pistol, examined it in an open palm. ‘Makarov,’ he said. ‘Shoots good.’

‘You and your fuckin’ weapons.’ Jim stood up and stormed out, cursing under his breath.

Zdravko pocketed the pistol and smiled at Clay. He stood and walked to the TV and ejected the DVD. ‘Now we watch some real action,’ he said, inserting another disc. He smiled, sat down on the couch, and banged a bottle of vodka on the table. Smirnoff Export overproof.

‘My new friend,’ said Zdravko. ‘Drink with me.’ The new DVD loaded, Zdravko hit play, thrust out his hand. Clay took it. Zdravko’s handshake was a vice. Hours of gym time. Zdravko unscrewed the cap, held it on end between index finger and thumb as if inspecting for defects, took aim and flicked it out of the window. ‘With friends, no need for this,’ he said, landing a frying-pan hand on Clay’s shoulder.

Clay stared at Zdravko’s hand, into his eyes. ‘Checking up on me?’ he said.

‘You hear Parnell. Go to PSO, everything OK.’ Zdravko took a swig from the bottle, passed it to Clay.

Clay swallowed a mouthful of vodka, then another, passed the bottle back, and stared at the TV screen. Zdravko’s movie had started out conventionally, pretty young things in risqué PVC, pink and hairless, sucking as if their lives depended on it. Now it was becoming noticeably harder. A lithesome brunette with silicone tits and perfect skin was being fucked by three men. When her mouth wasn’t full, she cried out in dubbed English. The men were built like Zdravko, heavily muscled, with impossibly large penises and no pubic hair. Clay wished Zdravko would turn the sound down.