‘Yeah, I heard that,’ said Shepherd. ‘So, what’s the solution?’
‘There is no solution. Saddam had his own insurgents to deal with, the Kurds and the Shias. His solution was to kill as many as he could, and that’s not an option available to the coalition forces. We’re trying to win hearts and minds, but that didn’t work in Vietnam and it won’t work in Iraq.’
‘You’re pissing in the wind, then?’
‘I’ll piss into any wind if I’m paid enough,’ said Muller. ‘I’m just a hired hand. Our company has contracts worth twenty million dollars a year in Iraq and we get paid whatever happens. They talk about the billions being spent on rebuilding the country but that’s a joke because the lion’s share is going to pay security firms like us. For every man doing basic reconstruction work another three are guarding him.’
‘Good business to be in, I guess.’
‘If you want, I could use you,’ said Muller.
‘Like you used Geordie?’ Muller frowned and Shepherd saw he’d offended him. ‘Sorry, John, I didn’t mean it like that.’
‘He wanted the job,’ said Muller, ‘and he knew the risks.’
‘I know. He’s a pro. I was with him in Afghanistan. But being in a place like Afghanistan or Iraq as a soldier and being there as a hired hand are two different things.’
‘You’ll put your life on the line out of duty, but not for money, is that it?’
Shepherd laughed. ‘Doesn’t make sense, does it?’
‘It shows the sort of man you are,’ said Muller.
‘If I was just after the money, I wouldn’t be a cop,’ said Shepherd.
‘So why do you do it?’
‘You’re as bad as my psychiatrist,’ said Shepherd.
Muller looked surprised. ‘You’re in therapy?’
‘No, my unit insists on regular psychological checks to make sure that its operatives are fit for duty.’
‘And are you?’
‘So she says. But it’s a question that has to be answered. I’m an undercover cop, which means I’m putting my life on the line regularly for a civil servant’s salary. That doesn’t make sense to some people. There has to be another reason.’
‘Because you want to be one of the good guys, right?’
Shepherd grinned. ‘It’s a bit more complex than that.’
‘Is it? It can’t just be about the adrenaline rush – you’d get more of one in Baghdad than you would on any undercover operation at home. Or you could change sides and become a criminal. That way you’d get the rush and the money.’
‘It’s not about the money, that’s true,’ said Shepherd. ‘I wouldn’t have to go to Iraq for a better pay cheque. There are plenty of opportunities in the UK.’
‘So it’s about being on the side of law and order?’
‘It sounds corny when you put it that way.’ There was a plastic bottle of water in the back of the seat in front of him. Shepherd took it, unscrewed the top and drank. ‘It’s something I don’t quite understand myself. I get a kick out of the challenge – to go up against big-time villains, knowing it’s me against them and that if I do my job right they go to prison, there’s a buzz in it that’s even better than combat. I mean, a bullet whizzing by your head clarifies your mind and gets your heart pumping, but it usually happens so fast that it’s all about instinct. Going undercover against criminals or terrorists is more cerebral. It’s like playing chess, and the player who thinks furthest ahead is the one who generally wins.’
‘The thrill of the chase?’
‘I suppose so. But when it works out there’s also the satisfaction of knowing you’ve taken a bad guy off the streets. That’s why I wouldn’t want to work in Iraq. It’s all defensive.’
‘Don’t tell me I’m a glorified security guard, because there’s more to it than that,’ said Muller, waving a finger in Shepherd’s face. He smiled to show that he wasn’t being too serious.
‘I’m not belittling what you do,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’m just saying it’s not what I want. There are plenty of guys who are more than happy to do the work. The SAS is losing a lot – they’re getting out early so that they can work in Iraq where they can almost quadruple their salary. That’s probably how Geordie saw it.’
‘Geordie liked the work, too. We have a good team on the ground. The South Africans are our core and I’d put them up against any soldiers in the world. And they’ve trained a good group of Iraqis. There’s a real camaraderie.’
‘Geordie always enjoyed being part of a team.’ Shepherd grimaced. He’d used the past tense. ‘Shit – we’re talking as if he was dead already.’
Five minutes later, the plane banked and began its corkscrew descent. Shepherd smiled as he saw Shortt and Armstrong go white. ‘Bloody hell,’ said Armstrong, through gritted teeth. ‘What the hell’s going on?’
‘Evasive action,’ said Muller. ‘Better safe than sorry.’
‘Evading what?’ shouted Shortt, as the plane’s speed increased.
‘RPGs,’ said Muller.
‘Lovely.’ Shortt rubbed his moustache nervously.
Shepherd tried to relax as the plane spiralled down. He looked around the cabin. The majority of the passengers had clearly been through the stomach-churning descent several times and were taking it in their stride, reading or listening to iPods. Out of the window he saw the desert spinning by. A road. Sand. Palm trees. Flat-topped buildings. Then a glimpse of runway. The spinning was disorienting. Shepherd rested his head against the seat back and stared straight ahead.
Touchdown was perfect, the wheels of the airliner kissing the runway and slowing to walking pace before they turned on to a taxiway and headed for the terminal.
It took them an hour to get through Immigration. They went through together and, after showing their passport and a letter of authorisation from John Muller’s company, were each given a visa. Shepherd wasn’t travelling under his real name: he was using a passport he had been given for an undercover case the previous year.
The arrivals area was like the Wild West. It seemed that every Westerner there was armed to the teeth and wearing body armour. Within seconds Shepherd had seen a dozen different types of handgun, along with carbines, shotguns and rifles. There were men with bands of ammunition over their shoulders, twin holsters on their hips, huge hunting knives strapped to arms and legs, and machetes hanging from belts. There were men in baseball caps, cowboy hats or with bandanas tied round their heads.
‘This is a freak show,’ said Armstrong, dropping his bag on the ground and lighting a cigarette.
‘Any Westerner can carry a gun,’ said Muller. ‘Sometimes it gets taken to extremes.’
‘Who the hell are they planning to shoot?’ asked Shepherd. Most of the Westerners looked as if they were about to go to war, but virtually all of the locals, other than those in police and army uniforms, were dressed casually, either in traditional dishdasha s or in jeans and T-shirts. There was a lot of posing going on, the heavily armed Westerners standing with their hands on their hips, scrutinising the crowds through impenetrable sunglasses.
‘I wish I was hard,’ said O’Brien, dropping his bag next to Armstrong’s.
‘Half of those guys look like they’re on drugs,’ said Shortt.
‘They might well be,’ said Muller. ‘Not everyone is too selective about who they take on out here. There’s a fair number of Walter Mitty types about.’
Shepherd looked at Muller. ‘You’re serious, are you? Any Westerner can wander around with whatever firepower he chooses?’
‘I’ve never heard of there being any restrictions,’ said Muller. ‘The army might say something if you wandered around with an RPG but I’ve seen pretty much every hand-held weapon out here.’
‘Grenades?’ asked O’Brien.
‘Smoke grenades, sure. And Thunderflashes. Regular grenades are probably a grey area.’
‘And if they kill someone?’
‘Depends who dies,’ said Muller. ‘Frankly, most of this shit is for show. How many guns can you fire? You need a long and a short and that’s it. There’s a woman we see now and then who has a samurai sword on her belt.’ He grinned when he saw the astonishment on Shepherd’s face. ‘I’m not making that up.’