The Kills: Sutler, the Massive, the Kill, and the Hit (7 page)

Parson asked if the civil contractor Stephen Sutler had ever accompanied them on these trips and the men shrugged (although they were not men, but boys aged nineteen and twenty-one). Sutler had attended one or two of these excursions, he came with them to Bahrain, but not Kuwait. Even when he did go he wasn’t much of a participant. Clark supposed he was at the bar. Pakosta said he was too involved to care about what Sutler was doing.

Parson changed direction. ‘What can you tell me about the Massive?’

‘What did we know? We didn’t know anything. He had us digging holes, putting up posts, and putting them back up when they blew over. Before Sutler our job was to manage the burn pits and keep the road open for the oil tankers and the convoys. That was our job. That’s what we were there for.’

‘Then why did you impersonate security?’

‘I said, already. I explained. Howell wanted security for his trips. It was good money. He paid in cash. He provided uniforms. He said there wasn’t any problem with it.’

Parson turned his attention to Clark. ‘What do you know?’

Clark sat upright, hands open in front of him. ‘I know there were plans to build a new facility, and we were helping with that. There were plans for a whole city. It didn’t make much sense, there’s nothing but sand. He was looking at bringing in water, he was blocking out where everything would go.’

Parson returned to his notes. ‘You accompanied Stephen Sutler to Southern-CIPA. You were with him on the flight from Camp Liberty to Amrah City. Did he talk about going somewhere else? Did he ever talk about what he would do when he was done in Iraq? Did he say anything about what he planned to do?’

Pakosta shook his head, and Clark said no.

‘Did he speak with anyone else?’

‘Kiprowski. They spent a lot of time together.’ Both men agreed.

‘He never spoke about home? Did he ever mention his family? Did he ever mention that he was married?’

Clark tucked his hands under his thighs and sat forward. ‘He never spoke about much of anything. Not to me. Maybe to Kiprowski, you’d have to ask him. I don’t remember him talking about anything except the project. That’s all he was interested in.’

Parson read a list of names. The other men at Camp Liberty with Clark and Pakosta: Hernandez, Watts, Samuels, Gunnersen, Chimeno, Kiprowski. ‘That morning at Amrah City, did you see him into the building?’

‘We were outside,’ Pakosta answered for them both. ‘Neither of us went inside.’ Pakosta’s head tipped sideways, slow and with meaning, and Parson asked himself if this intended threat or irritation – if this indicated that he was lying.

‘And Kiprowski? Where did he come from?’

Clark looked to Parson, puzzled by his use of the past tense. ‘He’s from Chicago. He’s from the north side.’

‘I meant that morning. Why did Sutler choose Kiprowski? Was there any reason for this?’

A nervous Clark continued shaking his head. Pakosta paused, then answered. ‘Maybe he just liked Kiprowski more.’

Parson queried the statement. Exactly what did Pakosta mean?

‘He had us digging holes in the sand. The only person who didn’t dig was Kiprowski.’ Pakosta shrugged. ‘Kiprowski ran after him like a dog. When there was real work he always found something else for him. Some other business.’

‘And on other occasions?’

‘You mean visits to CIPA? That was it. There weren’t any other occasions. That was the one time he went to collect money.’

Parson took out a sheet of paper from his notes. ‘Howell gave Sutler five hundred thousand, seven hundred thousand, ten hundred. All in cash. All on different days.’

‘No.’ Clark shook his head vigorously. ‘When?’

‘July twelfth, nineteenth, twenty-fifth . . .’

‘He didn’t go more than once or twice before that last time, and that was the only time we were with him. You need to check those dates.’

‘There are records of Howell giving him money. On five, six, seven occasions. More.’

Pakosta appeared startled. ‘Then Howell is lying. It didn’t happen. Sutler went to CIPA with his little plans, a roll of maps, maybe – maybe – three times. He kept coming back complaining that Howell was making him jump through hoops, causing delays. He was waiting on money to bring in materials, to start something, but Howell kept stalling. He never had money.’

‘This is what Sutler told you?’

‘We saw him. We saw him take the flight. We saw him come back. He had nothing with him but a roll of drawings. He didn’t even have a flak vest. Like he landed in the desert with nothing.’

Parson asked Clark to confirm.

‘He took a bag, one time. One time only, and that was the last time. The night before he was talking about how big it would need to be. He didn’t know if his bag would be big enough, and he was excited about the money because everything was going to start, just like he wanted.’

‘How was he paid until then?’

Pakosta shrugged. ‘He didn’t take any money, there were no other times. Day to day we all managed on credit and account.’

‘Did he carry much cash?’

‘We were in the desert. Nothing to spend it on. He probably managed the same as us.’

‘But you can’t be certain that Sutler never took money from Howell.’ Parson allowed a short pause, the men appeared confused. ‘You know nothing about the money he collected from Southern-CIPA? You can’t be certain? After the incident, did you see Sutler leave?’

Again, Pakosta answered first. ‘I didn’t see anything once he was inside. I was right at the door. Smoking, right by the door. I came out before everything kicked off. I didn’t see Sutler. I didn’t see Kiprowski.’

Then Clark: ‘I was outside with the duty guard. I felt the blast, and right after I heard live fire from the perimeter. After that I don’t know. I was on the ground. The blast came from the back, but the shots were close. There was smoke. I had my head covered waiting for incoming.’

‘One hit?’

‘Mortar.’

‘You saw it?’

‘Clear as day.’ Pakosta lazily scratched his neck. ‘You’ve seen the result? You get to Amrah?’

‘Where did it come from? What direction?’

‘It came from the factory. From the south.’

‘And you saw this? What about you? You saw this, Clark?’

‘We both saw it,’ Pakosta answered for Clark, ‘clear as day.’

Clark sat forward, his hand hesitated close to his mouth. ‘I heard it coming. Right from the south. There’s a market and some old factories, light industry. Most of those buildings are secured. Most times they drive up and lay down everything they have, but this was just the one. And I guess one was enough.’

‘Stephen Sutler, describe his face. His hair? How long?’ Parson abruptly stood up. ‘Is he taller than me?’

The answer from both came as a shrug. Maybe, said one. Yes, the other. Both unconvinced. Sutler looked British but they couldn’t clarify why.

‘So about the same height? And build?’

Stockier, they agreed. Maybe. Heavier by ten or fifteen pounds, or twenty even, twenty-five. They couldn’t say.

Parson collected his papers and drew out a photocopy of Stephen Sutler’s ID, the image enlarged, his face washed of distinguishing features. ‘There’s nothing more you can tell me about this man? You saw him enter a building surrounded by security forces, from which, it appears, he vanished during an assault. And you had no idea about the money?’

‘I swear.’

Pakosta asked if that was it, and Parson said yes, that was all he wanted. With the interview over Pakosta and Clark stood up.

‘Why all this interest in Sutler?’

‘Because Sutler has disappeared.’

‘But what about Kiprowski?’

‘Kiprowski hasn’t disappeared.’

‘You found Kiprowski?’

Parson gave a simple nod. He stopped at the door and waited as it was unlocked.

‘What happens now?’

‘I don’t know.’

As the door drew open Parson placed his cap back on his head. In the centre of the door a single key with a scuffed metal tag in a single keyhole. Parson kept his eyes fixed on the key as the men were escorted from the room.

2.6

An hour out of Kopeckale the coach began to ascend the central plateau. Ford drifted in and out of sleep as the mountains beside the city fell away and the horizon took on a smooth uninterrupted curve. Each time he woke a sense of disconnection veered him back to Amrah City and he returned to the present with a slight pang, a regret that Sutler was done with, and that he would not see the project advance, and that the Massive would develop without him. All of this needed to settle in the past. Ford pressed his forehead to the window and allowed the judder to shake up his thoughts as the land on either side became white, parched, and lunar. Away from the desert the project seemed less about ambition, the pure improbability of building something from nothing, and more about hubris, pride and greed, about the oil, about the minerals, about maintaining presence and influence long after the withdrawal of troops.

Once on the plateau the road became level and the plains gave way to bare fields sectioned by low stone walls. To their right an irrigation ditch ran parallel to the highway, to their left the creosote-caked oil lines; the pipeline irregularly set with field stations, some abandoned, some burned, some scrawled with graffiti, a few transformed into temporary shelters. Ford’s eye scuttered along the course and passed over the refugees, figures strung single file in clusters of four or five, seldom more. The driver sounded the horn to drive the vagrants off the road, and they stepped, automatic, onto the margin without gesture or complaint. Heads protected from the sun with cloth or plastic hoods.

Villages set back from the main highway appeared undisturbed by the war; the scars of mortar strikes scored the roadside as rough black craters, as certain truths; a few buildings, remarkably few, pecked with gunshot, fewer still were simple roofless shells – all signs of the earlier insurrection. Signs of the current troubles were limited to the skirting squatter camps of makeshift tents and tarpaulins. Ford watched, indifferent, he would be happier once they were on another route.

The student from the station sat two rows ahead, his feet struck across the aisle, the paperback open on his thigh. The boy’s sweater slipped from the overhead rack and one sleeve swung over his scalp, his hair cropped, the skin white, untanned. A horizontal scar, one inch long and lightly raised, tapered to a point above his left ear. On the back of his white T-shirt a logo of a large red star in a red circle. An attendant distributed towels scented with rose water. After the man had passed by, the student dropped the towel under his seat and wiped his hands on his shorts. His arms were lean, muscular, formed through sport.

Mid-morning he woke addled and uncomfortable. Slowly rising to the present, he realized that the coach had stopped and they were at some kind of checkpoint – and there were soldiers mounting the bus.

The military police stood in a line in front of a barrier, the road curved behind them, rising, bare, a tractor and trailer packed with refugees stopped beside the embankment. Passengers assisted each other from the trailer and stood side by side on the hot white scree, sulky and agitated but visibly humble; a few of them held out documents as if offering a petition while the soldiers, regardless, tossed their luggage onto the road. From what Ford could see there was no explicit purpose to the search.

One gruff and baby-faced soldier barked instructions at the coach driver. The driver civilly repeated the soldier’s demands and the passengers rose without complaint and began to disembark. The student peered over the headrest, startled, poised a little like a flightless bird.

The passengers began to assemble beside the coach. Their lethargy struck Ford as a sign of assent, a sign that this was not unusual. The student held back, then with a deft stab he tucked a small plastic bag between the seat and the seatback. A guard leaned into the bus and told them, as far as Ford could understand, to get out. The soldier’s face became a comedy of infantile demand, plump, sulky.

Off the coach and out of the air conditioning the heat pressed down. Ford rolled up his sleeves and stood with the passengers feeling a wash of heat; everybody squinting at the coach’s silver side while the driver sorted through the luggage in the hold. The student waited beside him. The driver, labouring alone, passed Ford the wrong rucksack. The mistake became immediately obvious as soon as he lifted the pack; this rucksack being newer, cleaner, was also heavier than his. The label, a clear plastic star, gave the name
Eric Powell
, and an address in France on one side and in New York on the other. Ford handed the rucksack to the student and returned to the hold to claim his own.

The student waited with him and asked if he understood what was happening. American, he spoke in quick bursts. His accent, East Coast, precise and educated, sounded different to the supple Midwestern drawl Ford was used to. Ford retrieved his bag from a line of luggage, the boy followed and picked out a small metal case then walked back to the line of passengers. He repeated his question and Ford said he didn’t know, whatever it was it didn’t look out of the ordinary. Ford looked back at the tractor-trailer. Unsupervised, the refugees, mostly women, huddled in a pack as if hiding, luggage loose in the road. The passengers from the coach, mostly men, and most of them smoked, strung out in a line waiting for the patrol to check their papers and belongings. The student set his case close to Ford’s feet, looked clearly into his face, and gave a nod, as if Ford had asked for assistance, as if the small silver case were his.

‘It’s film,’ the student said, indicating the case, ‘undeveloped sixteen-millimetre film. Shots of landscape. That’s all it is. Every time I’m searched they open the camera.’ His hands gestured the unspooling of film.

The student stood a distance away with his rucksack, leaving a gap of three or four paces between them. Ford could not see the purpose of it and did not like the boy’s assumption that he was sympathetic. Even so, he did not step back.

They waited in line with their backs to the sun as the soldiers inspected the bus. The road cut into an escarpment, a curved chalk wall. In front of them ran the straw-coloured plains of Anatolia. It was good that this was only the Turkish military. If they were British or American he would be nervous – despite the day, the bright sunlight, the broad view of open fields.