‘I saw on CNN that there are twelve hundred killings a month. They’re not all coalition troops, are they?’
‘Mainly locals,’ said Muller. ‘The insurgents keep killing police and army recruits, most of whom are Sunnis. But the Sunnis give as good as they get. There’s a lot of tit-for-tat going on.’
‘Do you have problems recruiting locals?’ asked Shepherd.
‘The problem is dealing with all the applicants,’ said Muller. ‘For every vacancy around three hundred men want the job. They want to feed their families. Most Iraqis are good, honest, hard-working people. I’d stack the guys working for us here against any of our employees in the States.’
‘It’s the insurgents that are the problem?’
‘Damn right,’ said Muller. ‘And most are from outside Iraq. They can’t afford to have democracy work here because of the domino effect around the region.’
‘What John isn’t telling you, though, is that every day more ordinary Iraqis are lining up with the insurgents,’ said Jordan. ‘They’ve had enough of their country being occupied and they want the coalition forces out.’
‘Like I said back in London, it’s a minefield,’ said Muller. ‘Anyway, the politics don’t worry me. We’re here to do a job as professionally as possible.’
They turned off the main road and drove through a pretty suburb, the pavements dotted with spreading palm trees. Most of the houses were in gated compounds.
‘This is one of the more upmarket residential suburbs,’ said Muller. ‘In Saddam’s day it was where his favoured civil servants lived. Now most of it is rented to expats.’
Several houses had armed guards in front of them, walls topped with broken glass, hi-tech barbed wire and CCTV cameras. It was a stark contrast to the peaceful suburbs Shepherd had driven through in Dubai.
Ahead there was a line of parked cars, the drivers leaning against the vehicles. ‘What’s going on there?’ asked Shepherd.
‘That’s the line for the local filling station,’ said Muller. ‘The locals can wait up to five hours for fuel.’ There were no women in the queue, and most of the men glared at the Mercedes and Land Cruisers as they went by. The filling station was surrounded by anti-blast barriers topped with razor wire, and half a dozen Iraqis with AK-47s guarded the entrance and exit.
‘You’d think that with all the oil they’ve got petrol would be easier to buy,’ said Shepherd.
‘It’s not that there’s a shortage, it’s the security,’ said Muller. ‘Gas stations are prime targets for insurgents.’
The convoy took a left turn, then a right, and ahead a large metal gate rattled open. Two big Iraqi men stood at attention in dark blue uniforms, pistols holstered on their waists. One was talking on a transceiver, the other saluted briskly as they drove into the compound.
‘Home sweet home,’ said Muller.
The three vehicles pulled up in a large concrete courtyard bordered by three two-storey houses with flat roofs. Three flags flew on angled poles that protruded over the main door of the middle building – the Stars and Stripes, the South African and Iraqi flags. The buildings were shaded by tall palm trees and terracotta pots, filled with glossy-leaved bushes, dotted the courtyard.
They climbed out of the Land Cruisers and the Mercedes as the metal gate rattled shut. Muller pointed at the central building. ‘Those are offices, the communications centre and equipment store,’ he said. He gestured at the house on the right, ‘Most of our guys are billeted there when they’re in town,’ then at the third: ‘We’ve got guest quarters over there, and the ground floor is for eating and recreation. A local cooks for us but the guys are big fans of barbecues.’
‘Sounds good,’ said the Major.
‘We thought we’d eat first,’ said Jordan. ‘We’ve had nothing since breakfast.’
‘Fine by me,’ said the Major. ‘The food on the plane wasn’t great.’
‘Pat here does the barbecuing,’ said Bosch. ‘He’ll make someone a terrific wife one day.’
‘Don’t make me shoot you again, Carol,’ said Jordan.
She raised her eyebrows in mock horror. ‘You said that was an accident.’
Muller suggested that they shower and change first, so Shepherd, the Major, Armstrong, Shortt and O’Brien carried their bags into the guest house. Downstairs, there was a pool table and a big-screen television beside a wall lined with DVDs. A staircase led up to the bedrooms. Each had its own shower room.
Shepherd took off the bulky body armour, showered, changed into a grey polo shirt and black jeans, then went downstairs and out through a back door that led to a terraced area. Beyond, he could see a large swimming-pool, complete with diving-board. Jordan was presiding over a huge brick-built barbecue, his shirtsleeves rolled up. In front of him, hissing and spitting, were some of the biggest pieces of meat Shepherd had ever seen. O’Brien was standing next to him.
Muller had changed into a garish Hawaiian shirt, baggy shorts and flip-flops, with Ray-Bans on top of his head. He was holding a bottle of Budweiser and pointed at a blue and white cooler filled with beer and wine. ‘Help yourself,’ he said.
‘Booze is okay here?’ asked Shepherd.
‘In the compound it’s fine,’ said Muller. ‘We can’t be seen from the outside.’
There was the rattle of gunfire in the distance – Kalashnikovs, half a dozen at least. The shooting went on for a full thirty seconds, which Shepherd knew meant that a fair amount of reloading was going on. ‘That sounds like a waste of perfectly good rounds,’ he said.
‘You hear it all the time,’ said Muller, laconically. ‘Weddings, funerals, birthdays, any chance they get they’ll let loose.’
‘They understand the basic rule of gravity? Everything that goes up has to come down?’ asked Shepherd, and helped himself to a Budweiser. A bottle opener was tied to the lid of the cooler and he used it to flip off the cap.
‘They get so caught up in it that they forget,’ said Muller. ‘There’s at least ten deaths a week from bullets falling out of the sky, and God alone knows how many injuries.’
‘The police and the army don’t do anything?’
‘Most of the time it’s the cops and soldiers doing the firing,’ said Muller.
The sun was going down and a slight breeze blew across the swimming-pool that felt good on Shepherd’s skin. Two military helicopters clattered overhead. Shepherd craned his neck and shaded his eyes. Apaches. Serious helicopters with serious firepower.
Armstrong and the Major came outside, followed by Bosch, Haschka and two of the drivers. The men were all wearing casual shirts and shorts but Bosch had changed into a green and blue rough silk dress that showed off a pair of good legs. Her hair was loose and she had put on a thin gold necklace with a jade charm. She was much more feminine without her fatigues and body armour, and had a much sexier walk now that she had swapped army boots for strappy sandals. She went to Jordan and obviously said something that riled him because he waved a spatula at her.
O’Brien walked up to them with a plate of steaks. ‘Are you guys eating?’ he asked.
‘Is there any left?’ asked Shepherd.
O’Brien grinned.
Shepherd went over to the barbecue and picked up a plate. The meat smelled good, and there was a lot of it. Jordan slapped a huge T-bone steak on to his plate, then a lamb chop and a chicken drumstick.
‘Vegetables?’ asked Shepherd, hopefully.
Bosch slapped him on the back. ‘In South Africa, chicken is a vegetable.’ She laughed. ‘You need fattening up, anyway. Get some meat on your bones.’ She picked up a plate and pointed at the steak she wanted, a massive T-bone that virtually covered her plate and was still dripping blood.