Scar Tissue

by Ollie Ollerton

They both nodded, both looking a little pale around the gills. They knew the stories. How bandits carrying AK-47s had made the road a favourite striking spot. The bandits took cash, satellite telephones, laptops, anything of value. Rumours were that the Iraqi drivers worked with them, tipping them off about the gear journalists were carrying.

  Abbott introduced himself as the security consultant for the convoy. He saw their eyes go to the rum and coke he held. It didn’t matter, though, he told himself. He was only planning on having one drink.

  But it was one thing making that pledge. Another seeing it through.

  CHAPTER 21

  The convoy of five white GMCs formed up just before four the next morning. They were all the same model so that they could all travel at the same speed, which, Abbott knew of old, would be ninety miles an hour all the way along the two-lane highway that lay ahead.

  Abbott would be passenger in the lead car, and he checked in on his driver, Ali, an Arab who looked him up and down, paying particular attention to the M4.

  There were several reasons that the M4 was Abbott’s favourite weapon. One of them was that it was great for this kind of job: air-cooled, gas-operated, magazine-fed, but short and light, easy to handle in the cab of the GMC. Another reason was that it looked the part. People saw you were carrying an M4 and they knew you meant business. Sure enough, Ali nodded, seemingly satisfied that man and weapon were both up to the job.

  Abbott acknowledged him with a grin. He didn’t blame Ali for appraising him. After all, they had a fifteen-hour journey ahead of them. Most likely it would go off without incident, but if they were attacked, then Ali had every right to expect some degree of competency from his security. Another thing: the more interest the driver paid to Abbott’s ability to protect him, the less likely he was to be in the pay of the bandits.

  Abbott introduced himself to the two journos in the back of his GMC: a blonde woman with dark circles under her eyes, and her cameraman, who was already pulling a filthy bucket hat down over his eyes in order to sleep.

  Abbott turned away, wiped a layer of sweat from his forehead and let the AR hang on its strap as he walked the rest of the convoy, checking in on each of the vehicles, each of them rammed with sweating journalists and cameramen, a mix of men and women who all seemed to blur into one as far as Abbott was concerned. Some were friendly and chatty, some reserved. All of them were hopped up on nerves and excitement and that odd mix of adrenalin and fear unique to four in the morning.

  In the final car sat the two reporters he’d met in the bar the previous evening, and as with the rest of the passengers, he leaned forward to shake their hands, delivering a strong, forceful handshake.

  Their eyes, however, slid away awkwardly. They knew what Abbott knew: that last night he’d had more than just the one. It had been more like ‘several’ – five or six – rum and cokes before he’d retired to bed. He wasn’t drunk, he’d told himself – then and now – and having had four hours’ sleep he knew he was fine to shotgun the convoy.

  Question was, would those guys feel the same? Would they tell their pals that he’d been knocking them back in the bar? Would that information then be relayed to the rest of the journalists on the convoy, perhaps make its way back to Ali and ultimately to Potter? If so, it wasn’t exactly a great start. He needed Potter on his side for what was to come in Baghdad.

  At just after the hour, the convoy began its journey. Ali set the pace, his foot to the floor, an intensity to his gaze which alternated between staring straight ahead and flicking to the rear-view to check on the GMCs behind.

  The two in the back of the lead car both slept, but they could afford to relax. They were, after all, still in Jordan. This was the easy bit.

  At the truck stop in the town of Safawi, still in Jordan, they stopped to refuel and the GMC drivers stocked up on bread from an open storefront while journalists took pictures, filling their boots, knowing that the bright lights and modernity of Amman were far behind them now.

  This was what they’d come for. This was the Middle East that played well back home.

  On they drove. At around noon, they reached the border, marked by two archways. Abbott could remember when a picture of Saddam Hussein had adorned that very border, but now the spot was empty. There instead was a US Bradley fighting vehicle, various grunts hanging around. A turret gunner, his eyes hidden by Aviators, chewed gum and watched impassively as officials checked passports.

  Passing through, it was as if a collective sense of anxiety descended over the entire convoy. All senses on high alert now.

  They were in Iraq.

  Still, at least the route was better-maintained. One thing you had to say about Saddam, he kept his roads in good order. The surface was flat and steady, and safety rails ran either side. The GMCs, once white but now beige from a constant cloud of sand and dirt, trundled on. Ahead of them was a bridge, bombed into a tangle of metal and concrete, blown out by American forces. They took the long way around, journalists snapping away at the bomb-damaged bridge, as they made their way to a temporary structure further along the river.

  Forty miles outside of Fallujah they stopped once more, taking on water and fuel. Before they set off again, Abbott turned to the two journalists behind. ‘Right, it gets really hairy from here. Any roadblocks, we plough through. Any vehicle gets too close we treat it as hostile and open fire. Is that clear?’

  They looked at him, nodding mutely. ‘Good.’ Abbott got out to deliver the same message along the line.

  The drivers, all of them old hands, showed no emotion, practically yawning as he delivered his little pep talk; the effect on their passengers was markedly different.

  Funny, thought Abbott, as he jogged back to the lead car, the M4 thumping against his thigh. In the space of fewer than forty-eight hours he had rejoined The Circuit and was back in action. Like the Middle East itself, the feeling was horrific and yet also as though he was right back in his comfort zone. Back where he had always belonged.

  In formation, they drove on, skirting Fallujah and Ramadi. And then Abbott saw them in the rear-view: two large Mercedes, almost diplomatic-looking, which had appeared on the road behind them, clouds of dust in their wake. They were approaching fast.

  ‘Ali,’ was all Abbott needed to say for the driver’s eyes to flick to the mirror, seeing what Abbott saw. The driver’s right leg shifted, the GMC finding a little extra speed.

  Behind, the two Mercedes were gaining. Now they were close enough for Abbott to see that four men were inside each. Anywhere in the world you went, four men in a car was bad news. In Iraq, it was fucking bad news.

  OK. Abbott knew the drill: they’d attack the front GMC and use it to block the others. He looked left and right. Christ, he hated those barriers. In this part of the world they were nothing more than a helping hand for bandits, stopping vehicles from leaving the road and going onto the open desert beyond. Preventing escape, in other words.

  Sure enough, Abbott watched as the front car hauled up to the left of the convoy and came racing up the inside at the same time as the second one fell in beside the last GMC.

  The next thing he saw was the snouts of AK-47s, appearing from the windows of both Mercedes. It wasn’t like he’d ever doubted they were bandits, but even so there was something about seeing the guns that sealed the deal for him, marking the moment that he went from on-high-alert to knowing this was a contact situation. At the same time, almost as though summoned, the peace came upon him, washing all before it like a tidal wave that rid him of all the shit-thoughts and all the last vestiges of hangover, leaving only the soldier behind.

  Beside him, Ali was muttering something as Abbott eased the M4 onto his lap. ‘Steady, mate, keep it steady,’ he said, one eye on the mirror, praying that he could rely on Ali to remain calm. The Mercedes grew bigger in the wing mirror. The barrel that poked from the passenger window extended as the bandit inside waited for his moment to open fire.

  Abbott clicked off the M4’s carry strap, eased
off the safety.

  Easy now. Easy does it.

  The Mercedes drew up alongside. Squinting along the barrel of the AK-47 was a bandit, and for the first time, Abbott got a good look at him. He was just a kid, and in another time that might have given Abbott pause for thought, but not now. He’d seen them younger, and kid or not, he was a gunman with Abbott in his sights.

  He raised the M4. The kid saw it. His eyes widened, but he had no time to react, and at that distance Abbott couldn’t miss.

  He squeezed the trigger. The kid disappeared in a mist of blood. The windscreen shattered and the Mercedes veered off, ploughing into the guard rail, busting through and spinning out in the sand. At the same time, Abbott flung himself at the window to see the second Merc. Rather than stop and go to the aid of their companions, they were coming after him, wanting either payback or to finish the job, or most likely both. He saw a muzzle flash and heard two rounds zing in the air above his head before he opened fire in reply, one grouping into the front grill of the Mercedes, into the engine, the other, into the windscreen.

  In the next instant the second Mercedes had swerved, its windscreen a spider’s web, tendrils of smoke already appearing from the bonnet as it ground to a halt.

  Abbott stayed half in and half out of his own window, carbine held steady, watching as the two beached Mercs became specs in the distance.

  Then he pulled himself back into his seat and settled back with a mix of relief and elation, a sense of having got the job done.

  Ali looked across at him. Sweat gleamed on his forehead, but he nodded. ‘Good work,’ he said.

  CHAPTER 22

  Despite being the Singapore branch of a renowned security firm with a global reach, the Hexagon offices were decidedly low-rent. In the middle of the single room were two large desks that had been pushed together in order to form one larger work area, and it was here that Hexagon’s two men in Singapore, Chantrell and Tork, would sit on the rare occasions they found it necessary to use the office.

  They were there now, with Chantrell nursing a broken arm, recently set at the hospital and newly plastered, and Tork, his nose now sporting a bandage, staring glumly and silently into space. Neither had slept and the bottle of whiskey they shared was having little effect on their jangled nerves.

  Reason? The job was a bust. While at the hospital, they had relayed their bad news to Hexagon in London, who had asked them to return to the office and await further instructions. Someone would contact them, they were told, and so they waited, assuming that a call would come as they drowned their sorrows.

  There was a knock at the door.

  With a look at Chantrell, who shook his head like, Will you look at the state of me? and reached for the bottle of whiskey with his good arm, Tork sighed and stood, treading carefully across office detritus (a gym bag, old computer, a pile of lever arch files, several VHS cassettes) to the door.

  ‘Hello?’ he said, warily.

  The voice in reply was plummy English. ‘My name is Kind.’

  Tork took a deep breath. This was it, then. The process of contrition was about to begin.

  He opened the door to a tall guy with a shock of very blond, almost white, hair. Tork looked him up and down and then turned his back on him and regained his seat at the desk, leaving the visitor to close the door behind him.

  ‘What did you say your name was?’ asked Tork, settling back. Because of the broken nose the word ‘name’ came out like ‘bame’ and ‘what’ like ‘bot’.

  Their guest stood with his legs planted a foot or so apart, wearing a bomber jacket, unzipped, his hands clasped in front of him. Whoever he was, he wasn’t one of Hexagon’s admin types. This guy looked like he’d spent time in the field. He had that watchful air about him.

  ‘My name is Mr Kind,’ he repeated.

  ‘First name “Too”?’ said Chantrell, and then looked surprised when the visitor agreed with him.

  ‘Inevitably, that’s what they call me, yes. They call me Too Kind. Or sometimes Toothkind.’

  ‘“Toothkind”, repeated Tork. ‘Like the Ribena?’

  ‘Mr Kind to you.’

  Chantrell and Tork shared a look and Tork rolled his eyes – We’ve got a right one here – both knowing that this was the game they’d have to play, wondering if their crummy jobs were worth playing arse-licker to this Aryan-looking motherfucker.

  In the corner of the office was an old, battered leather armchair. Kind moved over to it, picked up a sheaf of papers, dropped them to the floor and sat down. As he did so, his bomber jacket opened, revealing the shoulder holster beneath. Tork and Chantrell traded another look with their eyes. Despite the fact that Kind now sat sunk into the armchair, his knees almost at the level of his forearms and looking faintly ridiculous, neither felt inclined to laugh.

  ‘You were at number twenty-three yesterday,’ said Kind.

  Chantrell nodded. Tork looked confused. ‘How do you …?’

  ‘I know because you were after Abbott. Snap. So was I.’

  ‘You know about Abbott?’ Tork even more confused now.

  ‘Boo bow about Babbott,’ mimicked Kind, and Tork bristled. ‘In the sense that I have learned about Babbott since arriving here, yes. Your pal Foxhole was most helpful.’ He crossed one leg over the other. He wore boat shoes and the kind of jeans that looked as though they had been ironed carefully by his mother, complete with crease.

  ‘You should have made yourself known, Mr Kind,’ said Tork. ‘We could have done with the help.’

  Kind chortled. ‘I can see. Now, who was the man that Abbott was with?’

  ‘Bo idea,’ said Tork.

  ‘Lucky for me, I have an idea. The licence plate of his hire car. It was left at the airport.’

  ‘Uh huh. So they both skipped out?’ said Tork.

  Kind shook his head. ‘Abbott did. The second individual never travelled, for whatever reason.’

  ‘So you find him and you can find Abbott?’

  ‘Yes, there is that. Or you could sit around in your shitty office drinking and licking your wounds.’ Mr Kind smiled. ‘One of the two.’

  ‘So bot happens now?’ asked Tork, curling a lip.

  ‘Well, I know what happens now,’ said Kind. ‘Question is, do you know what happens now?’

  ‘If I knew what happens now, I wouldn’t have to ask you, would I? What has Hexagon told you to do next? How about that?’

  ‘Hexagon?’ Kind look upwards, as though thinking. ‘Hexagon? Oh yes. The firm you work for.’

  Tork, feeling a little uneasy now, said, ‘Well, don’t you work for Hexagon? Isn’t that what you’re doing here?’

  Slowly, Kind shook his head. His right hand rested along the arm of the leather chair.

  ‘What?’ pressed Tork. On the other side of the desk, Chantrell had straightened. ‘You work for the guys in New York?’

  Kind smiled thinly. ‘I see. So it’s “guys in New York” who employed Hexagon to track and bug Bryars’s boat, is it? What else can you tell me about them? A name, perhaps? I need a name.’

  Belatedly, Tork realised that he had made a grave error. An assumption, you might say. He placed his glass of whiskey back on the desk and laid his hand beside it, trying to look casual. His Sig felt heavy at his hip. To Kind he said, ‘You work for Bryars, don’t you?’

  ‘I do,’ said Kind, pleasantly. ‘Mr Bryars has employed me to find out who wished to spy on him. He is also keen that our friend Abbott should know of his displeasure. And any others who might be peripherally involved.’

  The moment hung in the room.

  Tork’s eyes flicked to Chantrell, who also wore a Glock.

  ‘Well, my colleague and I here are both armed, Mr Kind, so …’

  ‘As am I.’

  ‘I suggest you get out of here before weapons are drawn and you find yourself outgunned. Looks like you’ve found out everything we know anyway. We were not told the identity of the client. Just that he was based in New York. As for you, you might as well
get out while the going’s good.’

  ‘Can’t do that,’ said Kind apologetically.

  ‘We’re not Foxhole, Mr Kind,’ said Tork. As he spoke he moved his hand at the same time, bringing it closer to the edge of the desk, decreasing the distance between his hand and the butt of his Glock. ‘We don’t scare that easily.’

  ‘You’re not listening to me. Mr Bryars is very, very angry. Quite apart from nursing a broken nose, he now knows that one of his competitors has declared war on him, just not which competitor. He wishes to make it understood that he intends to win that war. “Scaring you”? Scaring you is not on the menu, I’m afraid.’

  Tork’s hand dropped. At the same time, Chantrell let go of his whiskey glass and reached for his own gun.

  Kind was quicker. The hand that had lain across the arm of the armchair snaked inside his jacket reappeared holding a Sig Sauer. The report sounded impossibly loud in the small room. Tork, whose gun had only just cleared leather was jerked off his seat, the hole in his throat already fountaining blood. Chantrell took a double tap to the chest, still fumbling with his own sidearm.

  Kind stood, moving over to where Tork writhed, a puddle of sticky blood forming around him. Dispassionately, he looked down upon his AC/DC T-shirt already black with blood. For those about to rock.

  ‘We salute you,’ said Kind. He knelt, placed the barrel of the gun to Tork’s kneecap. He didn’t have long. Tork was losing blood fast. ‘Who hired Hexagon?’ he asked.

  Tork gurgled, hands at his throat.

  ‘Who hired Hexagon?’ repeated Kind, but Tork didn’t know and, anyway, was just moments from death.

  Instead, Kind stood, and the gun thumped as he put a second bullet in Tork to finish him. He moved to where Chantrell lay still, squatted to check for a pulse and, satisfied, holstered his weapon.

  He pulled out his phone, took pictures of the two bodies and then left the office.

  CHAPTER 23

  Baghdad was the sound of a broken machine that was still grinding on despite itself – a war machine, with a soundtrack of helicopters clattering overhead, the distinctive growling of Humvees trundling across bullet-strewn, bomb-damaged streets, and the occasional rattle of gunfire, a jarring contradiction to the regular sound of the call to prayer.