Scar Tissue

by Ollie Ollerton

  He picked up Nathan’s Nokia. Same phone number.

  Now he reached for his own phone, scrawled to his own contact for ‘Fingers’. The number was different. His finger hovered over the call button.

  Stone. Guy Stone. Essex-born, but because of the way he spoke he got called Cockney. For a while. That was before he got the tip of his middle finger shot off in a contact and they called him Fingers.

  Taking a deep breath, Abbott pressed the call button.

  The phone rang. And rang. He let it go to an automated voicemail.

  He clicked off the call and sat wondering why Stone had been in touch with Nathan. And whether this was all connected to the reason Abbott had left Baghdad eleven months ago, desperately hoping that it wasn’t. Knowing that it probably was.

  His mind went back now – back to the team: him, Stone, Mowles and Burton. The four of them had served as a fireteam in the SBS. After the fall of Baghdad, they fell into business together. There was never any agreement nor any handshake. Nothing formal. Just the shared desire to earn some proper wedge. They’d seen others going it alone, coining it in as a result and, not to put too fine a point on it, they wanted a piece of the pie, because the pie was A, a big pie, and B, a delicious pie.

  They remained together. The idea was they came as a team, unaffiliated to any commercial security firm in particular. If you employed them, then not only did you avoid commission, but you also got all four, so you could be assured that there were no weak links, no team vulnerabilities. They liked to think that theirs was something of a blue-chip, bespoke experience. Something like that anyway.

  All of which suggests they’d been best buddies. Not really. They were more like the Premiership sides made up of players who all spoke different languages: absolute dynamite on the pitch, pretty much strangers off it. Or like the Rolling Stones. Turning it on for the audience, barely speaking backstage.

  Well, that was how it seemed from Abbott’s perspective anyway. He’d never really got the whole ‘brothers in arms’ thing. How you didn’t fight for your unit or your country, you fought for the man beside you. To him, his time in the military had been a job, the man beside him a workmate. Yeah, they were ‘mates’, but they weren’t really mates. He had preferred to reserve himself for his family.

  Bzzt.

  Bullshit alert. Bullshit detected on aisle three.

  OK, fine. Of course he hadn’t really and truly reserved himself for his family. He was just as neglectful with them as he was with his friends. More so. The bad dad of Baghdad, that was him.

  Not that he knew it then but looking back now he could see that his whole time in the army was spent sinking deeper into himself. The only good friend he was making was the bottle. He would often say that the army had been the making of him, that it had saved him from a life of prison, and that was true, but there had definitely been a trade-off. Not quite a deal with the devil, but there or thereabouts.

  For a while, this not-really-a-band of not-quite-brothers had rubbed along together OK, making good dosh for minimal work, and on those occasions that they had a drink together they’d have a round of mutual backslapping, as successful men like to do, and they’d put their efficiency down to the fact that each had equal authority in the group. They were a democracy.

  That was the idea. In actual fact, however, a hierarchy of sorts had begun to form. Special Forces attract alphas, and all four of them were that, and each of them coped in different ways.

  There was Burton. Simon ‘Biscuits’ Burton. He was a big guy – he’d spent time in Australia as a kid and had never lost the accent or the attitude. True, he was sometimes a little too plain-talking for his own good, but he was just as quick with a smile, and he was always the one with the right tools to break whatever ice might have been forming. With Burton you got the sense that wherever he went, whatever he was doing, he’d have mates. He’d win people over.

  Next there was Gerald ‘Badger’ Mowles, a Scot who was a bit of a closed book. Great with comms and maps. Of them all, Mowles was the quietest, the most content to collect the pay cheque, and let top-dog status fall elsewhere.

  And lastly there was Guy Stone, aka Fingers, one of those guys who was always tightly wound. He was a bloody good soldier. Tough, decisive, committed. But he was one of those who had a brooding side. As though he was constantly working up a chip on his shoulder. He was the one most given to pessimism; the one who’d go off on a local, start giving lip to a coalition soldier.

  The longer they had stayed in the army, the more Stone seemed to resent the military life. He hated the poor pay and the fact that they were commanded by men who didn’t have a fraction of their skills or expertise. This was stuff that the rest of them absorbed and resented, too, but they accepted it as a fact of life, just one of those things. Not Stone. He had seemed to simmer with it, both before they left the military and then again afterwards.

  He and Abbott, meanwhile, were the two alphas among alphas. Occasionally they butted heads. Nothing serious, but it was there. That little bit of needle between them that was always going to come bubbling to the surface one day.

  It took the businessman Mahomet Mahlouthi to speed up that particular process.

  A big, expansive Iraqi with a taste for wearing tailored suits at all times, Mahlouthi was a legend in Baghdad, and his villa in the centre of the city was something of a local landmark. Thanks to a network of underground irrigation beneath the complex, lush vines covered most of the walls, inside and out. While every other building in the area – actually, the whole of the city – was the same colour of bleached-out beige, Mahlouthi’s place was an oasis of climbing green. Not only that, but his home had escaped the bombing; it still looked as good as the day the builders had left. Wonder why, and you’d be told that Mahlouthi’s network of spies and contacts made him the most informed man in the region. And because knowledge is power, and always will be, he tended to be left alone. Sure, he was regarded with suspicion by all sides – especially the coalition – but mainly he was tolerated and left alone, his usefulness outweighing other concerns.

  Yet although he had an air about him, as though bullets would always bend around him, Mahlouthi was not above feeling vulnerable. It was for this reason that he employed the services of Abbott, Stone, Mowles and Burton. At first they were brought in to provide close protection for when he and his retinue were out and about. After all, Mahlouthi was a proud polygamist and, thanks to a series of backhanders, had judicial permission to take multiple wives. There were three of them at one point, and Mahlouthi was fiercely protective of them.

  Meanwhile, the big Arab found that he liked having Abbott and co. around. It was understandable: as a team, they were impressive. They were efficient and well-drilled, battle-hardened and sinewy. All four of them like sharpened blades. They looked the part and they could walk it just as well as they talked it. And while Mahlouthi liked the security aspect, of course – the peace of mind for himself, his staff and his wives – he also liked the status it afforded him. The fact that he employed an entire ex-SF fireteam as close protection. He felt that it sent a message to all sides.

  And so he proposed keeping them on a retainer, the idea being that they would be resident at the villa, providing him with full-time personal security, as well as acting as go-betweens, keeping coalition forces off his back and fostering good relations in that regard.

  In practice this had meant ensuring that the coalition turned a blind eye to Mahlouthi’s lifestyle, his nefarious business dealings, a process that involved managing kickbacks, practising good diplomacy, oiling the wheels in the Green Zone and handling intelligence.

  For this – this mix of bodyguard, PA and bagman – the four of them were paid well. What’s more, they were able to live in resplendent comfort. Since Saddam’s presidential palace had become the main operations centre for the coalition, Mahlouthi’s villa was probably the most well-appointed home in Baghdad, and he was as generous with his villa’s wine cellar as he was with
his money.

  After a while, however, Abbott had grown tired of being Mahlouthi’s personal attack dog. He wasn’t greedy, and the wage was enough, but even so Abbott was wondering whether better money could be made elsewhere. He worried that the pampered lifestyle was making them soft. Privately, he was also concerned that the pampered lifestyle was helping to make him a full-blown alcoholic. Nobody was a more frequent visitor to the wine cellar than he was.

  Stone, though, was making plans. He, too, wanted to earn more cash but had a different aim and made no secret of the fact that he intended to operate his own PSC. Executive Alliance Group, he planned to call it. For him, Mahlouthi’s villa was the ideal base in which to hatch his corporate plans. Abbott, Mowles and Burton would be on board, he would tell them over drinks. But there was no question who’d be EAG CEO. That would be Stone.

  At first they’d gone along with the idea, buoyed by Stone’s enthusiasm, as well as the sneaking feeling that the idea would probably never reach fruition anyway.

  But gradually, as it moved from pie in the sky to a pie nearer ground level, it dawned on them that it was really going to happen and, slowly, the cracks had begun to appear. Those little niggles that had always threatened to bubble their way to the surface? Now they did.

  CHAPTER 26

  Abbott rang Cuckoo, and hating having to say it, told him about Nathan’s room, about the laptop and the phone and the text message. An account of everything he knew so far. He didn’t mention his suspicion that it had been staged, figuring that might be a level of paranoia too far.

  ‘What should I tell Fiona?’ asked Cuckoo when he was done.

  ‘Not the whole truth, is my advice. Tell her I’m still looking. Tell her I’ve got the feelers out. Tell her that I know what I’m doing and not to panic.’

  ‘She already knows that, Abbott.’

  Any pride or admiration that Fiona had for Abbott she’d kept well-hidden, both during their relationship and most especially since. Abbott knew full well that Fiona wouldn’t be sitting at home glowing with confidence in Abbott and knowing that the search for her little boy was in safe hands. She’d be fretting that Abbott would be drunk in a ditch, and no doubt furious with him for having jettisoned Cuckoo at Singapore airport.

  So Cuckoo was blowing smoke up his arse. Which was good of him, really. Didn’t have to do that.

  ‘So,’ said Cuckoo. ‘What do you think it all means?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Don’t dare to think.

  ‘Well, all right, then. How about this?’ said Cuckoo. ‘Nathan going missing is something to do with you.’

  That was bold from Cuckoo. Abbott said nothing.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I don’t know. Perhaps.’

  ‘OK, what if—?’ began Cuckoo, and then stopped.

  ‘What if what?’

  ‘What if Stone was somehow using Nathan to get your attention, send you a message? Perhaps he actively wanted you to travel to Baghdad. Why might he want you in Iraq, Abbott?’

  ‘No idea, mate, no idea,’ said Abbott. His mind was still kicking out a tickertape of answers that unsettled him. ‘Look, either way, I need to get in touch with him.’

  ‘Stone? It might not be that easy. The MOD may have a last-known address, but the chances are it’ll be a family home. You knew him well. Don’t you have that?’

  ‘We were on the same team, we weren’t sending each other Christmas cards. I’ve got a mobile for him but there was no answer. I’ll keep trying it.’

  Cuckoo gave a short, dry laugh. The irony of more unanswered calls was not lost on either of them. And then he said, ‘You never got around to telling me why you left Baghdad.’

  ‘No, I never did.’

  ‘Didn’t seem too important before, but maybe it is now.’

  ‘Leave it, will you?’

  Abbott was letting his tone of voice tell Cuckoo that he was sailing close to the wind, only Cuckoo didn’t seem to be getting the message. ‘Was it anything to do with this guy, Stone?’ he pressed.

  Abbott ignored the question. ‘Could you find out where he is now?’

  Maybe, at the other end of the line, Cuckoo wondered whether to press for an answer to his previous query but decided against. ‘I could find out, I suppose. But, I mean, he was in your team, Abbott. Strikes me that you’d be the best person to go looking for him. Just try another bloke on the team. Somebody will know.’

  ‘Call it a two-pronged approach. You still got contacts. Some-one’ll know where he is.’

  ‘Could be that he’s still with Mahlouthi. Why not try him?’

  ‘I refer you to my previous answer. Look, just do your best, mate. Do what you can.’

  ‘OK, on one condition.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘You stop calling me Cuckoo.’

  CHAPTER 27

  A little while later and it was getting dark. Abbott was standing on the street, opening and closing his eyes, breathing hard.

  He was at the grid reference given in the text message. The place where Nathan had been sent, surely not by coincidence. It was a street in the Kadhimiya district, running alongside the infamous Kadhimiya women’s prison. In the shadow of the walls of the jail were the stalls that in the daytime sold produce, empty now. On the other side of the street were bombed-out and boarded-up shops and apartments.

  It looked the same as it had before. The same as he remembered it.

  And this was where Nathan had been sent. He’d been sent here by Stone. And of course that meant something.

  The prison blocked out what little moonlight there was. The street kept its secrets. Abbott decided to return the following day at midday, and he’d reached the car when there came a call from Cuckoo.

  ‘Cuckoo,’ he said as he got in.

  ‘You said you weren’t going to call me Cuckoo.’

  ‘Sorry, mate.’ Abbott shook his head. ‘Won’t happen again.’

  ‘OK, I did some checking,’ said Cuckoo, sounding guarded.

  ‘And?’ he said. He looked out at the prison, wondering whether he should just come clean with Cuckoo. Tell him everything.

  ‘And … how close were you to Stone?’

  ‘Oh, you know …’ Abbott started and tailed off.

  ‘OK. Well, I’m sorry to tell you that he’s dead. He drowned in a swimming accident two days ago.’

  Abbott felt disquiet shift at the pit of his stomach. ‘Where?’ he asked.

  ‘Apparently, he was taking some R & R in the Kurdish mountains.’

  ‘The pools are beautiful there,’ said Abbott thoughtfully.

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘But that’s not right,’ added Abbott. ‘That’s not right at all. Drowned? Fucking hell, Stone was the strongest swimmer of us all. Drowned doing what?’

  ‘Just swimming, apparently. Relaxing.’

  ‘No evidence of foul play?’

  ‘None that I know of.’

  ‘Sounds wrong.’

  ‘I’m telling you what I know, Abbott. Which is that the man you suspect of contacting Nathan has since died.’

  ‘Yeah, in good old mysterious circumstances,’ mused Abbott. ‘Look, mate, you’re making yourself useful here. How about we continue in that vein? Are you down with that? I need to know the current whereabouts of Burton and Mowles.’

  ‘Burton I know about. That came up during the search for Stone. He’s still in Baghdad somewhere. Mowles I don’t know about. Why do you want to know where they are?’

  ‘Fingers didn’t drown. He wasn’t the drowning sort. So someone killed him and bothered to make it look like an accident.’

  ‘You’re reaching.’

  ‘We’ll see.’

  Abbott ended the call and made his way back to the Al Mansour to freshen up. That evening he had an appointment with Potter. And thank fuck it was at a bar.

  Unbidden, an image had come to him: a body in this very street.

  You didn’t help him.

  CHAPTE
R 28

  Later, Abbott was heading for the Green Zone. He flicked down his sun visor on approaching the checkpoint and watched as the grunt’s eyes ranged over the ID and then over him, grinning, feeling just a little jazzed by the booze (just enough, not too much, always a bit of a numbers game) and knowing full well that he looked the part. Sure enough, the grunt waved him through and was already turning away as Abbott drove into the zone.

  Still the same, he thought, looking around. Like a town within a town. Physically, it looked similar to the outside but there were far fewer locals, of course, and a more relaxed atmosphere about the place. Again, this was Baghdad. Everything was relative. Compared to the outside, the Green Zone was an oasis of calm.

  He made his way to the Baghdad Country Club, the favoured watering hole for those in the zone. Modelled on a traditional golf club, the Country Club was rightly proud of its slogan, ‘It takes real balls to play here’. Abbott checked in, surrendering his Kurz and his Sig to the guy on the front desk, who would stow them in the safe for the duration of his stay. There at the front was the famous sign: ‘No guns, no ammunition, no grenades, no flash bang, no knives, no exception.’

  It was said that the owner of the Baghdad Country Club, a guy called James, would don body armour and mechanics’ overalls in order to go on liquor runs, smuggling the booze through the backstreets and into the club. Abbott was on nodding terms with James and could well believe it. The guy was a character.

  Meanwhile, feeling lighter without his weapons and a little more vulnerable as well, Abbott continued into the busy bar area. Right away he saw Potter, seated at a corner table, looking just as Abbott remembered him. Quick-eyed but at the same time laidback to the point of horizontal with it, he wore a black cotton shirt, open at the neck, and black cargo pants, effortlessly managing to look smarter and cooler than every-body else around him: foreign correspondents, off-duty Circuit guys, contractors.