The Kills: Sutler, the Massive, the Kill, and the Hit (52 page)

Halfway through the conversation Rem held his hand over the mouthpiece and asked Chimeno and Clark if they could do him a favour. Keen to please, Chimeno leaned forward.

‘Get Santo and find out who Paul Howell is. See if he’s heard of this Markland.’

The two men left and he returned to the conversation. He asked the man his name: Markland. Tom Markland, secretary for Paul Howell – offered as if he should know.

The problem, Markland insisted, was that they couldn’t transport explosives, not in the quantity Rem needed, not by road. Even if he could – just supposing – under the current directive non-combatants weren’t authorized to handle munitions of any kind.

This, Rem pointed out, was madness. The burn pits had been running long before his arrival and they had managed to start fires, with explosives, with fuel, without trouble.

Markland’s voice sank, as if explaining a very easy point to a very simple person. ‘Because the convoys have military escort. They bring their munitions with them. They set the fires by themselves. It’s their business to start the fires. Not yours.’

Rem explained about the Ukrainian, Stas, a driver, and how he’d started the fire on the previous night and how there was no military or security escort.

Markland’s voice sank further and he offered a three-line defence.

1. ‘That’s news to me.’

2. ‘They’re out of my jurisdiction. We have no control over the GST, the CMDN, or over any Ukrainian nationals, only directives on what procedures everyone should follow. If they aren’t following these procedures then you have to report this.’

3. ‘They find their explosives out and about.’

‘There’s plenty out there. There are munitions dumps any place you care to look. How do you think the insurgents arm themselves? Most of what they use is ours. Walk in any direction and you’ll find what you need.’

‘I can’t send someone out to recover explosives that aren’t secure.’

‘I’m not telling you to do that. What I’m saying is you need certification to get what you want.’

‘How do I get certification?’

‘You don’t. It can’t be done, unless the Deputy Administrator gives you special dispensation.’

‘And how do I get permission from the Deputy Administrator?’

‘You talk to me.’

‘
I am
talking with you.’

‘You come to Amrah and you make your case to me, and then I make your case to the Deputy Administrator.’

This, to Rem, sounded deeply unsatisfactory.

‘It can take six weeks,’ Markland seemed to crow. ‘And I’m due to leave, so the process might not be completed if you don’t start it soon.’

In the late afternoon Geezler called Rem directly. ‘The map,’ he wanted to know. ‘You said it came from Southern-CIPA?’

‘As far as we know. Usually we pick them up from Stores or the PX, but this came from one of the convoys, and they get their intel and commands routed through Southern-CIPA.’ Rem said he wasn’t sure who they were, but he’d had dealings with a man called Markland. ‘I need permission to handle explosives so we can start the fires. Otherwise the pits fill up and we live with the stink and the flies. It’s not wholesome. The man I need to see is Paul Howell.’

Geezler said he was listening.

‘From what I know he’s the government man for the sector, handles the money and keeps the locals involved. I’ll ask around.’

He asked how everything else was going.

‘It’s basic. No doubt about that. Supplies are due every other day. It’s pretty much hand-to-mouth right now. We’ve no way of keeping anything cold or fresh, so we’ve moved from A-rations to MREs. I had the feeling that Southern-CIPA didn’t know we were here.’

Geezler advised Rem to come up with a list of what he needed. ‘Go to Southern-CIPA as soon as you can and get this organized. Everything in Amrah is under reorganization. ACSB will shut down within a month. You’ll be busy.’

✩

After work Cathy returned to Touhy Park, picked up some tacos on her way and sat opposite the fire station and faced the road. She never did this, and wasn’t comfortable with the shift in her day, but stopping in the apartment would mean cooking, opening a rotgut bottle of wine, losing another night to the same routine, and this routine, she’d decided, was holding her down. Besides, she could go to the library and check the internet when she returned, fix something else if she was still hungry. There wasn’t one thing that couldn’t wait.

Done eating she rolled the foil and paper into a wad, looked about for the trash – and saw, across the park, a dog, not unlike Nut, the same dog as before, with the same owner.

Cathy closed her eyes. She had to deal with it. Go, check out that this definitely wasn’t Nut, otherwise she’d have another spoiled night fussing over yet one more thing she’d failed to attend to. From a distance the man looked rough. Dressed in a white tracksuit with a blue trim, a Bulls baseball cap, he walked with a spongy stride – of course he’d have a dog like Nut. It just figured. She decided to walk by, keep it nice and casual, didn’t even have to look at the man, but just wander by and check out the dog.

She cut across the grass, already threadbare, patches spreading out from the path. The dog, as before, lunged and started barking, almost in response to her. Nut never barked. The man yanked the leash and pulled the dog back, other people walked off the path to keep wide of them. As the man tugged the leash the dog chuffed and pulled in resistance.

Despite the barking, the dog became more and more like Nut with each step.

Closer, she realized that the man was not a man at all but a boy, who despite his height could not be older than fifteen. Closer, she realized – no doubt about it – the dog was definitely Nut.

The boy understood what was happening even before she reached him. With the fuss and lunging it became obvious that Cathy was not
any
person walking toward the dog, but
someone
who was known. She stopped a little ahead, looked to the boy, and pointed at the dog.

‘I’m sorry but I think that’s our dog.’

Nut tugged and strained and coughed, his backside swung powerfully, front legs pedalled. Cathy settled to her knees and opened her arms. ‘Nut. Nut.’

Unable to hold the dog back, the boy loosened his grip and the dog bounced forward.

‘Where did you find him?’ She cradled Nut, closed her eyes to breathe him in, ran her hands over his back. Nut fell upon her, force of habit, licked her face and neck. She looked up at the boy and repeated her question. The leash, a piece of rope, had chafed Nut’s neck, and rubbed the fur to a sore red line.

She asked a third time where he’d found the dog, and kept her voice even, friendly.

‘He’s my dog.’ The boy’s voice pitched high.

‘I think you found him. Where was he?’

The boy attempted to draw Nut back to his side.

‘He’s very gentle. You don’t have to pull so hard. You’re hurting his neck.’ Again she spoke firmly but with care, did not want a confrontation, but wanted to lay out the facts. ‘That’s my dog.’

‘He’s mine.’

‘What’s his name? Call him to you.’

When the boy failed to answer, Cathy settled again on her knees. ‘We both know that this is my dog.’

The boy’s pants were dirty, grey not white, hand-me-downs.

‘Look.’ She stood up, closer than she intended, and was surprised that the boy flinched. He gripped his fists round the rope, looked to the ground, neither at Cathy nor the dog.

‘I can give you a reward. I don’t have money with me, but if you let me have your address.’

The boy shook his head, a small movement of defeat.

‘We’ve had him from when he was a puppy.’

His mouth tightened. Cathy couldn’t hear what he was saying and had to lean in closer than she felt comfortable. Still she couldn’t hear him.

‘He really belongs to my husband.’ Cathy wasn’t sure what to do. Why did this have to happen? ‘We put up signs. Here. In this park.’ She pointed to the few spare trees as if this would make the lie more truthful. ‘It would be nice to have him back.’

‘So?’ The boy’s voice came as a whisper.

‘So, his neck is sore. Is he trying to run away?’

The boy nodded.

She thought to snatch the leash. Take back what was hers. Get angry.

‘I think he’s been trying to come home.’

He didn’t resist when she took hold of the rope. Nut came immediately to her side and leaned against her leg. The boy wiped his nose with his cuff.

‘I want to thank you for finding my dog.’ Now Cathy could not look at him. Oh god, was he crying? ‘How can I thank you?’

The boy followed them six blocks south to Lunt. Cathy thought to walk around the corner as she didn’t want him to know where she lived, then realized that he seemed to know this anyway.
He’s not right
, she told herself.
He has some kind of disability.
The way he dresses, the way he walks on tiptoe. As she unlocked the lobby door the boy leaned forward, a gesture not unlike the dog’s, one of intent, of someone rousing determination but failing to push himself to action. When she turned to him he walked away, then after a few paces he began to run, his hands to his face.

Cathy crouched down to hug the dog and asked why did every goddamned thing have to be so hard?

✩

Santo travelled with Rem back to Amrah City. Rem didn’t like seeing the camp from the air: the pits laid out in a rough star, the Quonset’s rounded hood, the row of cabins, the shower block, the toilets all looked provisional. Once the craft had risen high enough to see the Beach, the camp dissolved.

‘I told myself I wasn’t going back.’

Santo nodded, sullen. ‘They have women at Southern-CIPA?’

Rem looked to Santo as if he was mad. Santo pinched his nose and in a sudden flush, a stream of blood ran between his fingers. Rem moved his knees to avoid the mess and asked over the comm-link for a towel or something. The navigator said he didn’t have anything.

‘Nosebleed?’

Santo, with his fingers blocking his nostrils, blood running through them, looked sourly at the man and answered sarcastically, ‘No. It’s that time of the month.’

The man handed Santo what he had, a piece of cloth, and Rem said thanks. ‘He gets moody,’ he said, ‘it’s always like this.’

Every morning, Santo complained, same thing. A headache. A nosebleed.

On arrival at Southern-CIPA they found that the meeting was to be held with both Tom Markland and Paul Howell. Howell, being Deputy Administrator, would be able to give immediate approval to what they wanted.

The offices for Southern-CIPA were concealed behind security walls: first the heavy concrete blast walls cordoned off the entire block, and then inside, a running wall of sandbags and an untold number of security detail. In contrast to Camp Liberty the compound, formerly a school, was otherworldly: busy and sealed, and occupied by white Americans and Europeans. Most of the personnel in Operations spent their entire tour inside the compound.

Rem and Santo were escorted through a series of offices – small interlocked Portakabins.

Markland, dressed in tan trousers, a long-sleeved shirt, cuffs rolled ready for business, led them into Howell’s office and told them to sit at the desk. Paul Howell was running late – a little trouble this morning – but he would be with them shortly. Markland leaned over the desk to shake Rem’s hand. ‘I’m sorry you had to come in but it makes things easier.’ None of this sounded much like an apology, and there was no explanation about the nature of Howell’s delay. The room appeared provisional, flimsy, much like a film set, with a heavy desk, a wall of cabinets, a few trophies: silver boats on dark wood mounts. Behind the desk hung photographs of the Deputy Administrator, his white hair singling him out. Paul Howell with tribal chiefs. Howell with a team dressed in Olympic colours; Howell quayside in an anorak, his arm about a sportsman Rem thought he recognized but couldn’t place. Behind Rem and Santo, taking up a good amount of space, an old-fashioned safe. Squat, heavy, and incongruous.

Rem asked Markland if the Deputy Administrator really was coming. Surprised, Markland gave a tight nod and drew his chair back from the desk. Howell would join them just as soon as he could.

Santo sank a little lower into his seat, fists bunched into his armpits, his nose red and sore.

Markland set the papers in front of them and read as he spoke. ‘So, what can we do? The issue is about gun permits for non-combatants and the handling of controlled items. Fuel. Explosives. Which goes beyond current licensing and permission.’ Markland pressed back into his chair. ‘You have any Iraqi nationals working for you?’

Rem shook his head.

‘Shame. We could allow them to handle the materials, but we can’t allow you, and we can’t allow you the permits. Iraqis don’t require permits and they can handle what they like. This is internal so we have to run to the same safety standards as we would Stateside.’

Rem couldn’t place Markland’s accent. Mid-Atlantic, crafted and insincere, deliberately unspecific. His hair cut English-style, parted, short back and sides.

‘We’re out on our own. There’s no perimeter fence. If there’s any kind of trouble we’ll be defenceless.’

‘And why are you there?’

‘To man the burn pits.’

‘They manage themselves. This is purely a HOSCO initiative, we have no funding assigned to this.’

Rem shrugged, unsure if Markland was making a statement or asking a question. ‘Ask HOSCO,’ he replied, ‘they want someone there.’

Markland compressed his fingers tip-to-tip. ‘Can I ask who set this up? Whose project is this?’

Rem wasn’t sure how he should answer.

‘Is this Brendan? Or David? Is this David Mann?’

Rem gave a small nod, his reticence seemed to provide an answer. Now Markland appeared to come to a decision.

‘There is, perhaps, one way forward. But it’s not straightforward. If you want, the Deputy Administrator can grant authority if the men are working directly for Southern-CIPA
in some capacity
.’

‘But they’re working for HOSCO?’

‘No matter. They can work for Southern-CIPA, on occasion, on contract. I need men to work on a security detail, once or twice a month. If they work on security then they can receive training, and they can carry arms.’