The Kills: Sutler, the Massive, the Kill, and the Hit (44 page)

And how did the money sound to him? The first figure presented didn’t look impressive, but the advisor added up overtime, what he called ‘strategic placement bonus’ and a ‘completion of work bonus’, then explained the allowance for meals and reimbursement for any work-related accommodation. ‘This is covered while you’re at Amrah. We have a complex close by the government compound, with housing, stores, a PX, a commissary, a fully-equipped gym. And remember, there’s no tax. They can’t take a dime.’

As an idea Rem could see its appeal. The man continued. There were two kinds of insurance, one for life, one for catastrophic trauma.

‘You won’t need it, but it’s there. And supposing, and I mean supposing, something were to go wrong, we’d ship you to Germany and bring you back home. No questions. No trouble. You get the same cutting-edge medical attention as the military. It covers your family back here if you or they have to be provided for. Tell me,’ he asked, ‘where you could make this kind of money,
every month
. No tax. Not one cent.’

The man asked how good it sounded now, and Rem, understanding that the figure represented his potential monthly earning, not his yearly gross, admitted that it was starting to sound very, very good. Kuwait had paid well, except the agency had subtracted a sizeable monthly fee. This guaranteed considerably more.

When Rem said he’d like to think about it, the man sucked in his breath and placed his hand flat on the papers.

‘Sure,’ he cleared his throat, ‘of course you do. You can’t take a decision like this lightly. You need to consider it, think it through. I understand. I can hold this offer for a week. Think about it, talk it over, do whatever you need to do. If it takes more than a week I won’t be able to offer the same package. We have quotas, and once those are full we won’t be hiring any more. This is our final drive, there aren’t so many places. I’m offering the last of what we have. It’s a favourable package. If you need a week, take a week. I’ll hold it for you. I can’t promise any longer.’

Rem took up the pen, but said that he could not sign without speaking first with his wife.

The man pushed the papers forward.

‘It’s four months,’ he said, ‘you’ll be back before anyone knows you’re gone.’

Rem folded the contract into his back pocket as he came out of the building, the shift in temperature, from crisp air-conditioning to the humid outdoors, made him hold his breath. As he unlocked his car door he noticed Rob sat on the barrier across the parking lot, an attitude about him, a deliberate wait. A man smoking with intent, thin legs stretched out, looking like the slightest gust would push him over.

‘You didn’t sign anything, did you?’

Rem again wanted to explain what he was doing – just the once.

‘I didn’t sign.’

‘No? Not yet, but you will. You’ll go home and think it over. You’ll think about the money until it sounds so good you can’t see the harm in it. Be careful, though. Take a good look at these people before you agree to anything.’

Rem didn’t have the heart to explain how he’d done this before, as good as. What could be the difference? A complex in Amrah City? A hotel in Kuwait City? Two contained environments.

Three security guards came out of the building and waited under the awning, arms folded. ‘This is public property,’ Rob shouted across the road. ‘I have every right to be here.’

The men watched but kept their place.

‘They think they know me. I’m not a journalist,’ he said, ‘I’m an interested citizen.’

The two men sat outside the Intercontinental bar on a balcony overlooking the highway. Rem watched the cars and cabs turn off for the terminals, the hive-like hum of the highway, the hotels, the concrete spill of the parking lot and the approach to the airport, he felt part of a larger vista – the wind carried breadth and distance, a scope of land running right the way to Nebraska, Wyoming, the idea of a prairie holding a sense of potential, of unknowing. He let his eye hop over the billboards running alongside the airport approach – hotels, airlines, credit bureaus – as Rob paid for the drinks.

Six weeks with a fifty-thousand-dollar bonus from Geezler.

No tax.

‘I’m not saying the money isn’t good. They get kids direct from high school, promise them three, four times as much as the military, then whisk them out, and what for? You know how many contractors have been killed this year?’ Rob stabbed out his cigarette. ‘You don’t want to know. The equipment is substandard, nothing can cope with the heat or the sand. They say they’ll provide protection; the military won’t touch the gear they use. And the place you’ll be staying – they can’t protect you, whatever they say. Security is a joke. I tell you this for free. If you go, stay clear of the military. Have nothing to do with them, they’re leaving, they don’t care what happens next. It’s only HOSCO that won’t admit it’s over. Avoid Iraqis whenever possible. Don’t go there to make friends. Get in. Get out. Better still, get a job managing food services, or something so remote no one knows you’re there. Have nothing to do with guns or any kind of munitions. At the moment Amrah City’s nice and quiet, but it won’t last long. All this talk of rebuilding? They’ve poured millions into reconstruction, to satisfy agreements that no longer stand. It’s about taking one more bite out of that apple before they dump the barrel. Nothing is being done right. The whole thing’s failed. The idea that they can rebuild a dying city right at the edge of the desert is a dumb idea cooked up in Washington where they don’t know anything about Amrah or the Arab mentality. Fact is, no one can control the districts, they think they have one place settled, and then the next day they’re right back where they started.’ He lit another cigarette. ‘You signed, didn’t you. I know it. You haven’t said a word.’

In the air, still, that sense of space. Rem held up his glass and closed his eyes.

Fifty thousand dollars, in hand, plus wages, no tax, every cent he earned. Money for his business. Money for their debt. Money for Cathy’s medical. Plenty of money.

He called Geezler. Read from his notes, and broke the day down, hour by hour. He repeated Rob’s concerns verbatim. Allowed himself a little joke when speaking about Steve, but had to admit, in the final analysis, that the man didn’t seem to know his subject.

‘There was pressure,’ he said, ‘and it was confusing. I’ve had an easier time buying a car. They come across as desperate.’

Geezler became most interested when Rem began to talk about the contracts. ‘They follow a script,’ he admitted, ‘how did it sound?’

‘Unclear. They could stick to the information. Give a few hard facts. Even with the contract it just was hard to follow.’

‘You’ve done a good job. I’d like to use you more. I really would.’

‘Would you offer more than fifty?’

‘You’re considering this?’

‘More than fifty?’

‘Fifty is my discretionary limit. But you’re considering this?’

‘I can’t say I’m not tempted.’

‘I’m guessing that you’ve already decided.’

✩

The men from Unit 409 were called to a meeting. One of HOSCO’s division directors, a man from Hampton Roads, Virginia, intended to visit Amrah and wanted to meet one of the teams in situ. He’d spend an hour at the compound, inspect the site, and most likely be accompanied by a photographer. Rem sat next to Santo and wondered what, actually, was the reason for the visit.

‘This isn’t to honour us,’ Santo shook his head, ‘this is PR. You’ve seen the news? The protection. The vehicles. The body armour. It’s all sub-substandard. Might as well be wearing targets. He’s here because of Fatboy getting shot through one of their shitty vests. Some lawyer smelling trouble has made them do this.’

Rem sat back, Fatboy’s notebook in his hand.

‘What are you doing with that?’

‘You’ve seen this before?’

Santo looked Rem in the eye. ‘Depends.’

‘On what?’ Rem scoffed, this was absurd. He’d either seen it or he hadn’t.

‘I’ve seen it.’

‘The names?’

Santo gave a shrug as a yes.

‘You’ve seen the names?’ Rem opened the notebook on his lap. ‘Then you know what all these crosses are about?’

Santo took the book. ‘Fatboy was keeping a slate.’

‘Betting? I don’t follow. On what?’

‘On who was going to get hit. Fifty per contractor. One hundred if they worked internal with military or security. Two hundred if they worked over the line. Hit. Maim. Kill. There’s
hit
, which is just hit, nothing more, maybe something superficial, anything that heals or is non-essential. Accident or deliberate, doesn’t matter. Loss of anything smaller than a hand, fingers as such, ear, nose, anything they can reconstruct classifies as a hit. Then
maim
, pretty obvious, no? Non-replaceable damage, loss of limb, use of limbs, sight, dick, you name it. Then there’s
kill
. Kill speaks for itself. See, he marked the odds with crosses.’ Santo flicked through the book. ‘It’s a shame about what happened, because it was just getting started. I mean it’s been going for a while, but it was just getting
properly
started. These guys,’ he pointed out the names on the first page, ‘they’re small. They never go out. Waste of time. This place would have to take a direct hit to get money on them. The big money is on these guys. You pay two hundred to start, because they’re more exposed. Anyone working over the line is more vulnerable, so naturally you pay more. See here: Pakosta, Watts, Chimeno, these are the prime candidates. They work in transport, security, and comms. They go out every day.’

‘You knew about this?’

‘Sure. I knew about it.’

‘So these crosses?’

‘That means the first bid was two hundred. Every bet after that would have gone up by fifty.’

Disappointed in Fatboy, Rem didn’t want to push. ‘How do you know about this?’

‘It was mostly the military.
Was.
They were the people who started it. The MODS were betting on which contractor would go first. It worked in two ways, if someone was killed, you’d get the whole pot. Half if they were medevaced out. The slate was wiped clean with every hit. Fatboy took the basic idea and turned it into an art. He had this notion that if you bet on a string of kills, four or five in a sequence, you’d be solid.’

‘Meaning?’

‘We’re talking a lot of money here.’

‘How much?’

‘Pick a number. That book isn’t even old. This was Fatboy’s scholarship fund.’

‘Did anyone get hit?’

‘Plenty.’ Santo scanned through the pages, then opened the book at a page where the names had been scratched out, then another, then another. ‘See. And here.’

‘And how did you know about this?’

‘Rem,’ Santo hit his chest in mock grief, ‘man,
everybody
knows about this. I knew about it, and I’m on the list. I worked at one of the FOBs before this, and I knew about it then. Hernandez, right there, that’s me.’

‘Why aren’t I included? We do the same work?’

Santo folded his arms. ‘He wouldn’t accept a bet on you. Wouldn’t hear of it.’

Rem looked to the book: Hernandez, Samuels, Clark, Watts, Pakosta, Chimeno.

✩

Cathy didn’t understand, and had a look about her like she wasn’t ready to make the effort. What was this? The whole thing?
Geezler
? What kind of a name was that anyway? What kind of scheme? Was this a hoax?

Rem tried his best to explain. It was good money. That’s what it was. Money for those medical bills for a start. Money to help pay their debts. Money they couldn’t hope to make otherwise.

Cathy looked at him, astounded. ‘My God. You’ve made up your mind haven’t you? You’re going?’

Rem struggled to stay calm. ‘It’s a training camp. It’s where everyone goes before they’re shipped out.’

‘You’ll die.’

‘He wants to know how it works.’

‘And who is this man?’ Cathy summoned anger from the air.

‘He’s the head of the parent company.’ Rem knew this not to be true, but the fact that Geezler could be undertaking this kind of enquiry meant that he was placed high in the company.

‘You don’t know what you’re doing. You don’t know what they’re asking. This isn’t a solution.’

‘Yes, it is. You just don’t want it.’ Rem’s answer came with a nasty calm.

‘Call him,’ she answered. ‘Go. See if I care.’

Rem picked up the phone, walked to the bedroom to find Geezler’s business card in his jeans. When he returned to the kitchen Cathy half-stood, half-leaned against the kitchen table. Eyes small and black.

‘Do it.’

‘It’s six weeks.’ Rem drew a chair back from the table, sat down, made his actions certain, definitive. ‘In six weeks we can have everything paid for. I don’t see much of a choice. I don’t see a lot of options.’

Cathy narrowed her eyes and hung her head. Call him. She said. Call him. Get it over with.

✩

Santo wouldn’t answer Rem’s questions about Fatboy’s book. He didn’t outright refuse, just became weary, rolled his eyes, his patience with this almost out. If it was running, Rem reasoned, up until he was shot, then what had happened with the money?

Santo had no idea. ‘How should I know? You knew him. He wasn’t normal. He didn’t do things like everyone else.’

‘You said people paid in hundreds of dollars each a week. So there had to be money?’

‘It wasn’t all cash. Not hard cash. There aren’t exactly many banks round here. He kept a tab. That’s – the – reason – for – the – book. ’ Santo dropped his head, exhausted. ‘That book.’ Santo tried to explain. ‘It’s like everything else here. It doesn’t work how you think. Let’s say I won, all right. Let’s say I bet two hundred on a top kill, and I won. Then I might get some money upfront from Fatboy, a little money, but the rest would be owed to me from the other people who’d laid bets. So other people who had unsuccessful bets would have to pay. Understand? Far as I know no one ever paid out. It was like a rolling debt. If I won, then anyone who’d placed a bet owed me, and it was carried on like that, week after week. Likewise.’

‘But there was still money. Five dollars. Ten dollars. A million dollars. I’m telling you there wasn’t a cent in his room. He left with nothing. I packed everything up for him.’