These guys were remfs. You can tell one from twenty paces, in any army, in any country in the world. No scabby boots, no sweaty T-shirts. The only things that get worn out are their pencils and the arses of their trousers. Remfs are from command. Rear echelon motherfuckers. They wouldn’t have looked out of place in Costco with baskets in their hands.
They had a buff-coloured folder that they passed between them as if they were reading our medical notes. I couldn’t tell what unit they were from. Americans wear badges like the Russians wear medals. It’s hard to know where to start.
The Texan broke the silence. ‘We’re all busy people. Let’s move this along.’ He sounded like a bank manager.
Jerry still wasn’t quite with the programme. ‘Why have we been brought here?’
The bank manager was getting a little frustrated. ‘Jeral, please, don’t make this hard on yourself. Just listen to what we’re about to say, because it’s only coming your way once.’
He pointed to me. ‘You’ve been asking military contractors about Bosnians in Baghdad. Correct?’
What was the point of lying? ‘Yes.’
‘Why are these Bosnians here?’
I was racking my brain, trying to remember exactly what I’d said to Jacob. I’d leave the ayatollah part out of this conversation. ‘We don’t know. It just sounded like a good story. You know—’
Jerry couldn’t help himself. ‘We’re journalists and covered the Bosnian war and I heard about a—’
The bank manager didn’t bother glancing at him. ‘Jeral, was I talking to you?’
‘No.’
‘Therefore continue, Nick.’
Thank fuck for that. Jerry would have given them chapter and verse.
‘The way we saw it – Bosnians coming here, from one war-torn Muslim country to another. We covered that war, and thought, Why not see if we can get the next chapter in the story? What brings them here, that sort of thing.’
‘You know their names?’
‘Not a clue. That’s why we’re just sniffing about.’
As his mate jotted notes in the folder, he thought about what I’d said. ‘You telling me you decided to just turn up and see what they had to say?’ He tapped my passport on the palm of his hand. ‘Don’t mess me, now. Remember, you’re in my world.’
‘Well, OK, we thought maybe they might have something to do with the sex trade. The papers love that stuff. We heard there’s a few in town.’
He smiled at me. He’d got what he was after. ‘That accent of yours doesn’t sound much like home to me.’
‘I’m from the UK. Moved to the States a year or so ago. The date’s in my passport.’
He took a breath and adopted the kind of expression you’d use if you were about to refuse an overdraft. ‘Well, people, I’m going to level with you. My job is to be the clearing-house for you kinda guys. We just don’t like freelancers that maybe turn out to make us look bad. What we like are stories about getting the lights back on in the city. Even better, stories about the water supply being restored to a grateful local population. What we like most of all are stories about Iraqi children being cared for in American-supplied hospitals.
‘So . . .’ He paused, looked at Jerry, then back at me ‘. . . both of you are to leave Iraq today. I don’t care how you do it, but go. Be advised: if you fail to do so, the consequences of your actions could be fatal. It’s a real bad world out there. Upon this subject, gentlemen,’ he focused on Jerry for this one, ‘I do not jest.’ He levelled a finger at Jerry. ‘Understand?’
‘Oh, I understand. Sex trafficking’s a sensitive issue, especially after the shit hitting the fan in Bosnia last year. You remember, Nick – US executives buying underage girls for playthings. Some of the fat fucks even got involved with selling them on as part of a deal. No one got prosecuted, just big payoffs to keep everyone quiet. The same corporation’s now been awarded contracts here in Iraq?’
I didn’t know what he was on about, but it must have been true. The two remfs didn’t say a word.
‘I’m right, aren’t I? Well, fuck you.’
This wasn’t the best way to the bank manager’s heart.
‘We’ll go north.’ I didn’t just say it, I shouted it, so loud a couple of the guys by the door reacted and moved closer. ‘We’ll go north,’ I shouted again. ‘We’ll drive to Turkey today.’
‘Thank you, Nick. Jeral, please . . .’ The Texan pointed at Jerry’s wedding ring. ‘It seems you have people back home who care for you. Think about that. I’m trying to get you both out of a dangerous situation that, quite frankly, is of your own making.’
They both stood up. I kept my eyes down and watched four very clean and unscuffed boots until they disappeared behind me.
48
As he cut through my plasticuffs with a pair of scissors, the guy I’d shared a smile with spoke to the back of my head. ‘You got a ride waiting.’
Rubbing our wrists, Jerry and I were escorted out into a palatial corridor. We walked past carved stone columns, under vaulted ceilings and fluted domes. If the arches hadn’t been sealed off with plywood to make office space, and the walls and marble floors hadn’t been covered by miles of metallic grey duct tape, wires and cables, I’d have expected Louis the Fifteenth to appear at any moment.
We approached a large pair of double doors next to a ping-pong table. Two soldiers jumped up from the ornate chairs they’d been sitting in and opened them wide.
We stepped out into the sun. I had to squint to protect my eyes. Heat bounced off the top of my head. With a soldier either side of each of us, we were guided to a Hummer and ushered into the back. This wasn’t one of the MP vehicles. It belonged to Captain D. Frankenmeyer. His name was stencilled on the right-hand side of the windscreen, as if it was a jazzed-up P-reg Ford Escort. Our kit was already inside. I checked my bumbag. My passport was safe. The rest of it didn’t matter, but I was happy to find the three thousand-odd dollars in twenties and smaller.
The soldier behind the wheel wasn’t wearing body armour and his helmet rested on the steel hump between the front seats. There was another helmet on the spare front seat, with two rank bars. The captain it belonged to jumped in and threw on his Oakleys. As he slammed the door, I saw the very long nametag on his breast pocket. It was the Hummer’s owner.
The driver threw the engine into gear and we set off past the Smiley face. Frankenmeyer swivelled round to face us. ‘Kinda cool, ain’t it?’ If he’d been a few years younger, Frankenmeyer could have come straight from playing college football. Big shoulders, toned body, white teeth, golden tan: he should have been in films. I smiled back at him – or, rather, at the reflection of myself in his mirrored lenses. There was no point in being surly. These boys were just doing the best they could.
He pointed up at Smiley. ‘You know what? We got fifteen of them painted around town before we had to pull them down. What you guys do to get people so pissed?’
Jerry took a breath and I put a hand on his arm to shut him up. ‘I think we were asking the wrong sort of questions. He’s a reporter.’
Frankenmeyer turned back towards the windscreen. ‘We get a lot of them here. You been told to leave town today?’
I nodded.
‘You’re the third this week. Those guys like to keep things sweet around here. I just wish they’d do the same for us. They said we were going to be here no more than four months, period.’ He punched the driver’s arm. ‘How long ago was that, Davers?’