by Zoe Sharp
I jogged over, aware of the trembling in my limbs from the adrenaline hangover. Garton-Jones gave me a hard stare and nodded to the M4. “Dawson’s?”
“Well, she wasn’t using it.”
“That your blood or hers?”
Confused, I looked down, realized the stitches had blown on the wound in my abdomen. Blood had seeped through both dressing and shirt. I pressed a hand to it. Damp but not sodden. Until then, I hadn’t felt a thing. Now it began to throb like a son of a bitch.
“I’ll live. How’s Dawson?”
“She’ll live,” Garton-Jones echoed. His eyes still scanned constantly. “We got off lightly.”
Behind us, the improvised explosive device had left a modest crater at the side of the road. Big enough to have pulverized us inside our armored tin can if it had caught us square on. It was why some squaddies were happier patrolling in open-top vehicles. If you were caught by a roadside bomb, you tended to get blown out instead of up.
Leaving the two of them with the SUV, I started across the street.
“Hey!” Bailey yelled. “We’re not fucking sightseeing here!”
I didn’t answer, moved cautiously along the front of the building where the third of our attackers had sought cover. When I reached the doorway, I could see the sole pattern of his combat boots. The rest of the body lay sprawled beyond on the dirt floor.
I’d put two rounds high into his chest. More by luck than judgment, the third had taken him in the throat, angled upward.
An AK-47 with a folding stock lay close to his out-flung arm. I toed it further out of reach, knelt over him and unwound the red-and-white keffiyeh from his head. Nothing pulsed below a face I didn’t recognize. Under his jacket he wore body armor. My first two rounds were lodged in the Kevlar weave of the vest. The third had got the job done.
I pulled out my cell phone and took a picture of the dead man’s face. Maybe Parker could ID him later. I patted him down one-handed, keeping the M4 at the ready. He carried no ID. I pulled open his shirt, checked the labels, untucked it and unzipped his fly.
“Oh for fuck’s sake—” Bailey’s disgusted voice came from behind me. I ignored him, took a cursory look at the underwear, the boots. There was nothing in his jacket except a cell phone, a couple of spare clips for the AK in the leg pockets of his cargos.
I would have liked more time with the body, but Garton-Jones shouted, “Bailey! Fox! Transport—let’s go.”
I picked up the AK, pocketed the rest, brushing past Bailey. He jerked back as if afraid of contamination.
Another Streetwise SUV came roaring into view, kicking up clouds of dust and grit. As soon as it braked to a halt the men inside were out, weapons ready. Garton-Jones had clearly briefed them on our situation. They immediately began extracting the wounded Dawson, dragging her out through the buckled tailgate. They were being speedy rather than careful, but she was too unconscious to object.
“What about their guy?” I asked, nodding to the doorway.
“What about him?” Garton-Jones shrugged. “They’ll come back for their own.” A trickle of blood dripped down his cheekbone from the outer corner of one eye, like a prison tattoo, where a glass sliver had nicked him.
“Long way to come.”
“What?”
“He’s not an Iraqi,” I said. “If I had to guess, I’d say he bought his underwear at Okhotny Ryad—in Moscow. He’s Russian.”
FIVE
I WOKE WITH HANDS GRASPING MY SHOULDERS AND A KNIFE AT MY throat. Panic ripped through me. My body gave a convulsive heave that threw me half out of bed in bucking reflex. I dragged myself upright, pulse thundering in my ears. The hands, the knife, were gone.
I fumbled for the bedside light, clicked it on and sat alone in my Kuwait City hotel room, shivering, breathing hard, until the residue of the nightmare faded.
I’d intended only to patch up my stomach and grab a shower when we got back to the hotel. Instead, I’d made the mistake of lying down.
In the half-light between waking and sleeping, images of Michael Clay flared through my mind. I met him the first day of Special Forces training. There were twenty-five of us. We’d all passed Selection, but some of the guys were not pleased to find three female trainees on the same intake.
Clay didn’t immediately show his dismay. As I was to discover, one of his traits was to play dumb. To sit back and wait and take it all in before he made his feelings known. He fooled me back then. I hoped I was no longer so gullible.
The others were easier to label. Morton was a joker. Cruel jibes with acid at their core, chipping away under the guise of banter. Hackett was just plain nasty. Donalson gave me the creeps.
But Clay, I didn’t see him coming.
Not until it was too late, anyway.
I wobbled out of bed on shaky legs, stripped, and set the shower running. My abdomen looked angry, but when they’d pulled me out of the ground they’d pumped me full of enough broad-spectrum antibiotics that it wasn’t infected. Or it hadn’t been. I cleaned the area thoroughly with antiseptic wipes, just to make sure, re-closed it with strips of micropore tape, and stuck a waterproof dressing over the top so I could shower. If it split open again, I might have to risk gluing it.
My father, an eminent British consultant surgeon, would not have approved.
In theory my arm should have been the worse of the two injuries. I’d been impaled on a length of rebar, straight through my left forearm and into my torso, working security after an earthquake. Maybe the arm was just easier to strap up.
The knock on my room door as I was dressing made me start. I stepped back into the bathroom, away from the door itself, and called, “Who is it?”
“Garton-Jones.”
“Give me a minute.”
I buttoned my shirt, tucked it in, and pulled on my boots. Whatever he had to say, I’d take it better fully dressed.
I checked the Judas glass, moving fast, then kicked away the doorstop I’d wedged under the door. Garton-Jones stood alone in the corridor. He was in his regulation company polo shirt and tan cargos, but neatly pressed. Maybe several sets of each were all the clothes he’d brought in-country with him. As a concession to being indoors, and this side of the border, he’d forgone body armor.
“What can I do for you, Ian?”
“We need to talk, and what I have to discuss would be better said in private than in front of the men.”
As I moved aside, gesturing him in, I wondered if he included Dawson in that coverall description. He took his time looking around, but my room would have told him little. A bookmarked novel on the nightstand, together with a flashlight. He couldn’t see the knife hidden in the bedside drawer, but I doubt it would have surprised him. He watched me tap the doorstop back into place with my toe. I never traveled without one.
“Today’s experience unsettled you, Ms. Fox?”
“Not particularly. I’d take the same precautions if I was staying in Croydon,” I said. “Take a seat and tell me what’s on your mind.”
He sat in one of the two easy chairs near the curtained window, rested his elbows on the high arms, and steepled his fingers. I stayed on my feet.
“I’ve had my people back in the UK do something I probably should have asked them to do quite some time ago—run an in-depth background check on you.”
Uh-oh.
“And?”
“You’ve been busy since last we met.”
“Likewise.”
“And before we met—you’d had quite a past then, too.”
Saying nothing seemed the safest option. I took it.
He sighed. “Look . . . Charlie, I now know Michael Clay was one of the men who raped you back when you were in the army.”
His use of my first name unnerved me more than the revelation. Sarcasm and hostility from him I could stand. Sympathy might just be my undoing.
“I told you I didn’t like him much.”
“The mother of all understatements, I would say.”
&nb
sp; “Yeah, well, we all have our cross to bear.”
His face ticked at the flippancy, but we all have our coping mechanisms, too.
“You and Sean Meyer were . . . involved back then. He was your training instructor. Is that why they went for you?”
“Very probably.” My face felt stiff. “Look, I’d love to reminisce with you all evening, but I—”
“There’s been a new development. One that makes things . . . difficult, now that I understand your position—and that of Meyer—more fully.”
“Oh?”
“A witness has come forward. He claims he saw Meyer leaving the building where Clay was found, right around the time we judge Clay to have been killed. There was blood on him.”
My heart cramped in my chest, stuttered, and then began to race. “You know this for a fact? That it was blood, I mean.”
“The witness is another contractor, an ex–Royal Marine medic. He’s seen enough of the stuff to recognize it, and he picked Meyer’s photo out of a selection without any prompting. No connections to Clay, before you ask.”
Shit.
“OK, so Sean was there. Still doesn’t mean he killed him.”
Garton-Jones regarded me for a moment, and when he spoke his voice was tired rather than angry. “Look at the way the man was killed, Charlie—the way he was tortured. His genitals were mutilated. Man alive, he was practically castrated. That speaks of it being something . . . personal—very personal. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Sure, it sounds personal. But Sean wouldn’t ever have allowed it to get that personal. Not for him.”
“I understand he suffered a considerable brain injury not so long ago. When someone recovers from such an injury, the brain often rewires itself in ways we don’t expect, let alone understand.” Garton-Jones paused, added almost diffidently, “My brother suffered a stroke in his forties. Part of his brain was damaged as a result. He recovered, more or less, but he was never the same again. Even his temperament altered.” He paused again. “Can you be certain you know how Meyer’s mind works now?”
No, I can’t. And that’s half the problem.
“Of course,” I said, looking him dead in the eye. “One of those changes you speak of is that Sean doesn’t remember much about our relationship except the bad things. He certainly doesn’t feel enough for me anymore to mutilate and murder a man on my behalf.”
“That must be . . . hard for you.” He gave me a shrewd study. “You were prepared to die for him once.”
“I would have said the feeling was mutual—once.”
“But not anymore?”
“No, not anymore.”
He nodded, as if I’d confirmed something he already knew rather than told him something startling.
“You asked me earlier who might want to send us a message—besides the entire local population, of course,” he said. “I could ask the same of you.”
“I’ve only just arrived. Even if I was trying really hard, I doubt I’ve had time to piss anyone off enough to want me dead.” So far.
“And yet . . . you just so happened to be in a vehicle that was hit by a targeted IED. Coincidence?”
“Far more likely, surely, that the bomb was intended for your people,” I pointed out. “Our attackers might have been wearing local headgear, but they weren’t Iraqis.”
“You got a good look at only one of the three. How do you come to that conclusion?”
I put my head on one side, trying to work out if he was being intransigent, or just testing me. “Their boots. They were all wearing combat boots—you could see them under the doors of their four-by-four. How many times have you seen a group of three Iraqi insurgents who all had decent boots? Most of the time they’re in ordinary shoes, trainers, or sandals.”
He didn’t respond to that, but by the way he got to his feet, the conversation was over. “You handled yourself well out there today. I think I see why Mr. Armstrong sets such store by you.”
There was a host of undercurrents lurking beneath his words, hints of favoritism and something altogether unsavory about my relationship with Parker. I offered him a bland smile.
“My boss chooses all his people very carefully. And he’s prepared to go to the wall for them.”
I hoped the message, such as it was, went in and stayed there.
I also hoped, with more fervor, that it was true.
SIX
DAWSON OPENED THE DOOR TO HER HOTEL ROOM WITH HER LEFT arm in a sling, jerked her head to beckon me in. She stepped past, threw a quick glance up and down the corridor, then ducked back inside.
“Your note was cryptic,” I said, “but I don’t think I was followed.”
Her smile was brief. “You must know what it’s like working with a bunch of Neanderthals. If you’re seen coming here, half of them will have us down as a pair of lesbians before you can spit.”
I watched as she bolted the door. She was a couple of inches shorter than me, and in a sleeveless vest top I could see hard-won muscle around her upper arms and shoulders, a narrow waist, and flared hips. Below loose jogging pants her feet were bare, the toenails painted orange.
Her accent might have been pure London, but her coloring had hints of Mediterranean, Greek or Italian maybe. Dark hair, cut choppy and short, dark eyes with long, thick lashes. There was a dressing over her collarbone, visible above the sling, and a line of Steri-Strips closing a gash on her forehead. The left side of her face was peppered with small cuts from the SUV’s side glass. They were already scabbing over.
I nodded to her shoulder. “How is it?”
“I’ve had worse. They plated my collarbone—very efficient. But my six months’ stint is going to end early, worse luck. The boss is packing me off home in the next day or so.”
“How early is ‘early’?”
“Three months. Bit of a pisser, but not much I can do about it.” She managed a tight smile. “My bastard of an ex cleared out the joint account when he scarpered. Left all his debts behind, of course, and the maxed-out credit cards. So . . . I need the money.”
“Ah.”
An awkward silence fell. I wasn’t sure if Dawson had invited me here to ask for a loan, or a job, or to sell information. She knew something, I just wasn’t sure what—or what it was worth.
I folded my arms, leaned against the corner of the bathroom wall, and waited. Her room showed signs of longer occupation but was identical in layout to mine, although two floors higher. I always asked for something on the third. High enough to make outside access difficult for the nefarious; not so high that the ladders of the local fire service couldn’t reach it in an emergency.
Eventually, she said, “The boss is making out there isn’t a reason for anyone here to go after Clay . . . the way he was killed. But there is. And with what I know about him now . . . well, what he did . . . back when he was still in the army . . .”
I froze, realizing belatedly what lay behind her hesitation.
“Who told you that?”
“The boss.”
“And what did he tell you, exactly?” If she heard the frozen note in my tone she gave no sign.
“That he and some of his buddies were charged with raping a fellow trainee and got off on a technicality. Hell, I’m not surprised you didn’t like the guy . . .”
So, Garton-Jones didn’t . . .
I shook my head to clear the sudden buzzing that filled my ears with static, had nothing to lose by playing it down.
“Ancient history. I mean, he wasn’t on my Christmas card list, that was for sure, but I’d still like to know who killed him.” Especially if I can prove it wasn’t Sean . . .
“Yeah, well, I’ve always had a bad vibe from him. Like he was laughing at me for some joke I wasn’t in on—and wouldn’t like even if I was in on it. Didn’t take Bailey long to follow suit. Fucking pair of apes.”
“I think you’re being hard on the apes.”
She gave a short bark of laughter. “Partly, it’s the way they trash-talk about w
omen, even when I’m there, as if I’m not there. Or like I don’t count.”
“I agree he was less appealing than a ladleful of slime, but you mentioned someone else having a specific reason to go after him . . . ?”
“Yeah, well . . . During the time Clay’s been out here there have been four women raped. In Iraq, I mean, not Kuwait. Young women, kidnapped off the streets, all wearing full-cover burqas or niqabs—you know, just with the eyes showing—rather than the hijab.”
“The significance of that being . . . ?”
She looked at me blankly, as though I was asking about the color of the sky or grass. “Apart from in the areas controlled by the extremists, most Iraqi women cover only their hair with a simple headscarf, or al-Amira. The percentage who go for the full burqa is tiny. It’s like this guy has been seeking them out.”
“You think the rapes were all committed by the same man?”
“Men, plural, not man. But the MO’s the same. All taken in broad daylight, thrown into the back of a van, locked up until dark, blindfolded, raped, dumped back on the street.”
“I suppose it’s useless to ask if local law enforcement has made any progress?”
She shook her head, then stiffened, her eyes closed for a moment, as something spiked through her injuries. I could sympathize there.
“Very few cases like that would ever get reported. Female victims of rape are ‘deemed to have brought dishonor onto their families’ and . . . well, you can guess what happens to them.”
I could, even if I didn’t want to.
“You suspected Clay?”
“He was in-country when all of them took place.” She saw my look and rushed on. “I know, I know, but just hear me out on this. There was more to it. He was AWOL for the nights of the rapes. And the following couple of days it was like he’d taken something—drugs, I mean. First time, the boss ordered a random dope test on him. He’s shit hot on stuff like that. Drink, too, while we’re out here.”