The Kills: Sutler, the Massive, the Kill, and the Hit (61 page)

‘Your first time in a desert?’

Sutler weighed a compass in his hand, shook it, and held it up. ‘I didn’t have much of a warning. Put together what I had at hand. Didn’t have much time to think it through.’

Sutler couldn’t get a proper reading as the compass would not lock onto GPS. He held the device up, shook it, studied the screen.

They both looked at the screen, Sutler’s hand providing shade, and watched it register north, then north-north-west, then twist suddenly south.

‘It shouldn’t be doing that.’

‘It’s the same with the phones. They work fine in the evening. Any other time it’s hit and miss.’

Sutler strode about the vehicle. ‘It’s something in the car.’ He held up the compass. ‘No. Now it’s indicating north again.’

Rem asked if Sutler could help him out.

‘I’m thinking maybe you should have someone working with you? Kiprowski, for example. Someone to drive you about? If that’s what you need?’

Sutler slid the compass back into its cover. ‘Kiprowski? You’ll have to point him out.’

Rem said he’d give the compass to Watts. See if he could take a look. ‘I need to ask something else as well.’

Sutler looked up, eyes tight from the sunlight.

‘I need to ask that you don’t share the information you have on the camp closing.’

‘It’s public. It was in the papers. If I found it—’

‘Keep it to yourself for now. Until we’re told something definite, I’d like this not to be discussed.’

Sutler set his hands on his hips. ‘They should close these places.’ He looked at the smoke rising over the shoulder of the Beach. ‘You don’t even know what’s in that. If any of them ask what I’m doing, I’ll have to say.’

‘And what are you doing?’

Sutler’s expression became weary. ‘I’m here to gather basic information about the site before it’s developed.’

‘Developed into what?’

‘You should get everyone together and I can address this in one go.’ Before Rem could ask for more particulars, Sutler added. ‘Tomorrow would probably be better.’

Once they were back he left Sutler to it. Watts set up the satphone and Rem failed to speak with Geezler again and told himself not to fret. He ate supper, a pack of plain couscous, and realized when he was eating that he’d used non-potable water. He sat with Chimeno, who pressed for details about Sutler.

‘So what’s he doing here?’

‘I don’t know.’ Rem shrugged. ‘I don’t think
he
knows. In fact, I don’t think he has a clue.’

They both looked to the Quonset. Sutler sat deep inside, leaned over the table, occasionally animated, but mostly bent close to his maps, studying. As far as Rem could see the maps showed next to nothing, the desert being marked as a blank and featureless expanse.

‘He’s surveying what? The desert?’

‘I guess. As far as I know.’

‘They send one man? That’s not right.’

Rem agreed.

Chimeno sat back and folded his arms. ‘Think about it. When they dig up a street they send an entire crew, they mark up the road, they take measurements, they make all kinds of inconvenience for the utilities alone. A whole desert, you’d reckon they’d send a team. A whole delegation. Some support. No, this is something else.’

No longer hungry, Rem offered his bowl to Chimeno, who said he wasn’t hungry. His stomach, he complained, just wasn’t good these days.

Rem checked on Sutler before returning to his cabin. He took a quart of water with him and suggested that Sutler should make sure he was drinking enough. The man hadn’t eaten, hadn’t come out of the Quonset.

At first Sutler didn’t pay any attention. His concentration didn’t appear genuine, the way in which he referred to the map, returned to his notebook, drew small designs quickly on one page then another, then leafed back to earlier pages struck Rem as self-conscious, performed. Sutler set down his pencil then seemed to become properly aware of Rem.

‘Which would the men prefer? Beer or whisky?’

‘Beer. I guess.’

Rem didn’t state the obvious, that alcohol was not permitted. The camps and municipal units were dry, and Southern-CIPA demanded compliance. Sutler’s confidence that he could run against regulations bothered him. He spoke about importing booze – an almost impossible task – as if this would incur no effort at all.

What would Rem say, he asked, if he could guarantee one crate for each man in the unit,
if
Rem could get him a secure long-distance line out of Iraq? Sutler gave a quick smile. ‘There’s equipment arriving tomorrow.’

Rem said he would speak with Watts, they should be able to find a secure line to Southern-CIPA.

‘You know anything about the Mormons?’

Rem said no, and Sutler drew his attention to the plan in front of him.

‘They built three cities. The last one at Salt Lake. Each city designed on a grid, the houses set on rectangular plots. Where there’s a crossroad the houses sit together. See? With this kind of design you can keep building as far as you like. It won’t appear crowded.’

‘And that’s what they want? HOSCO? You’re designing buildings?’

‘Then there’s this.’ Sutler drew out a second plan. ‘In Morocco the houses are communal and surround a private inner courtyard, there isn’t much in terms of public space. It’s a different idea. Each building provides shade so the streets are constantly in shadow. Traditionally, they’re not much more than one or two storeys high.’ Sutler set the two designs side by side. ‘Which do you think is easier to police?’

‘The Mormon.’

Sutler nodded.

‘It’s simple. It’s clean. For security it makes sense, but that means you can’t have as much determination over the environment. This is just a desert with houses, some shops, an airport. The
closer
the houses, the more compact, the more potential trouble, but also the more control over the environment.’

Rem understood the problem, but couldn’t see the point of the lecture. ‘So, they’re building a new camp? An airport?’

‘Something like that.’ Sutler picked up a cardboard tube from beside his chair, turned it upside down to draw out a bottle of scotch.

‘Where?’

Again, Sutler wouldn’t give details. ‘All they need is confirmation that the site is suitable.’ Sutler offered the bottle to Rem. ‘At the moment it’s all about making sure everything gets onto the map. Mines. Armament. Disused sites.’ Sutler waited for Rem to take a sip.

‘I used to live in England.’ Rem handed back the bottle. ‘This is going back some years. Your accent. It’s northern. I’m right? Right? I lived in London with a plasterer from Northumbria and another man from Yorkshire.’

‘Neither.’

‘So further north?’

Sutler shook his head. ‘Would be Scotland.’

‘But northern, no?’

‘No.’

The men sat in silence and the temperature began to drop.

‘So what did you read about HOSCO closing the camp?’

Sutler looked directly at Rem.

‘You really don’t know about this?’ Sutler’s smile looked a little too comfortable.

‘We don’t hear much.’

‘It’s not just you. They’re all closing down. HOSCO is facing criticism. Soldiers are getting sick and they’re blaming the fires.’

Rem said they’d keep doing what they were doing until they weren’t paid or the trucks stopped coming. ‘But like I said,’ Rem stood up, ‘keep it to yourself.’

As Rem left, Sutler reminded him to speak with Watts.

He found Watts lying on his bunk and realized that he had not come out that morning to assist with the fires. He let the matter slide and asked if Watts could contact Markland. ‘Find out what you can about this man, Sutler. Stephen
something
Sutler? See what he’s here for, and be subtle. He wants to make a call. International. When he comes to you make sure it looks like an effort.’

Eyes closed, Watts said he’d see what he could do.

‘Good. There’s beer in it.’

Watts sat up, amused. ‘I asked already. I spoke with Markland and I asked who this person was. He said he didn’t know and hadn’t heard about him. Whatever he’s here for has nothing to do with Southern-CIPA. It’s all private-sector-contract related. HOSCO like us. Whatever he’s doing they’ve yet to hear about themselves. There’s a big fat disconnect between them and HOSCO. Neither really knows what’s going on.’

Rem agreed that this was probably what was happening.

‘It’s a game. Southern-CIPA didn’t know we were coming so they sent the translator. HOSCO didn’t know about the translator, so they sent the Brit. This is how they work. I’d say this is business as usual. You asked him what he’s doing?’

‘I asked.’

Watts paused, now curious. ‘He said nothing about why he’s here?’ He couldn’t make the question casual.

‘Not to my ears. If you hear something, I’d like to know. We’re a thousand miles from anywhere. We burn every kind of shit known to man, but it’s still shit. So why would HOSCO send someone else?’

Rem returned to the Quonset to let Sutler know about his call. Returning to his cabin he asked himself what he was doing here. Never mind Sutler. Was there really nothing else he could have found for himself? Geezler hadn’t answered his messages for days and wasn’t available for calls.

Watts secured a signal, it wasn’t strong he explained, as it was rabbit-hopped across the desert, every fifty miles they had an uplink that would boost and propel it, but routed through the Engineers’ line, it was shunted station to station all the way to Amrah, sometimes it went down. It was the best he could do. (This, Rem knew, was nonsense, but sounded feasible enough.) The satellite system frequently failed. Atmospherics. Interference. It shouldn’t happen, but it did, and Watts had no idea why.

Sutler asked if the line was secure and Watts shook his head. ‘No, it’s pumped way too high. Anyone with a bucket or too many fillings can pick it up.’ He could do better later, if Sutler wanted to wait. But right now, if the call was important, this was what they had.

✩

Cathy made several attempts to speak with Marianne Clark but received no answer. Finally, she called early in the morning and caught her.

‘But they are there because your husband selected them? Am I right? Why would he do this if he knew that the work was dangerous? I don’t understand?’

‘He didn’t know. I don’t think anyone knew what was involved. This isn’t only happening at Camp Liberty, this is how they destroy all waste. Very few places have incinerators.’

‘So why don’t they build more?’

‘I think they haven’t properly considered the problem. Maybe they have, but it’s too large to do anything else.’

‘But why? I don’t understand?’

How should she explain this? ‘The troops and the contractors have to bring everything in. The country has nothing. It doesn’t produce anything. All of the bases have a McDonald’s, a KFC, some of the camps have shops and malls. Everything is taken out there, the goods, the people who work in the shops, and then they also have to be looked after, fed, housed.’

‘It doesn’t make sense? Why would they need a shopping mall?’

Why indeed? It wasn’t only food, they imported ammunition, clothes, vehicles, medical supplies. This is how it worked.

‘They eat and drink with polystyrene cups and plates,’ she explained. ‘Three times a day.’ Three plates, three cups, three sets of knives and forks. Every person out there adding to the problem.

✩

The light from Kiprowski’s alarm lit the room. A small battery radio with shortwave and FM, which picked up nothing but static. Kiprowski slept on his side and faced Rem, and in his sleep he shunted the sheet and blanket down to his feet. In the morning, before the temperature rose, he curled up tight with his arms locked about his knees, and while he didn’t snore he breathed through his mouth with a slight rasp. He appeared restless, on guard, inward, wrapped up.

Rem lay for as long as he could manage, then rose and collected his clothes and boots to dress outside. When he looked at Kiprowski he was surprised to see him awake.

‘What’s the time?’

‘Still early. There’s no need for you to get up until the convoy gets here.’

Kiprowski gave a small nod. ‘I’ll get up.’

‘There’s no need. There’s another hour.’

The boy swept his hand down to his calves to find the sheet.

Two convoys arrived pre-dawn, a total of thirty-two trucks loaded with trash accompanied by a military escort. The first driver jumped out of his cab in a white suit with a hood. The man, already short, appeared shorter because the leggings rutted from his ankles to his knees, showing orange rubber boots, white gloves with red palms.

‘I’m thinking circus.’ Watts coughed, struck his chest to clear his throat. ‘Maybe Christmas.’