Fox Hunter

by Zoe Sharp

  “But the Dexie was Clay’s, I assume?”

  She hesitated, then nodded. “We all pop a few pills to keep us going on a long slow duty, but I’ve never seen him inject.”

  “So other than the speed, his drug test came back negative.”

  “Clay claimed he was ‘high on life’ or some such shit. But the way he looked at me . . .” She shivered. “I made sure not to be alone with him after that.”

  I wasn’t sure Dawson’s gut instinct was admissible in court, but I was inclined to trust it, even so.

  “So you think this—the way he was killed—might be locals meting out some kind of rough justice? Taking his eyes for seeing what he was forbidden to see—”

  “—and his dick for sticking it places it was forbidden to go,” she finished for me.

  It broke the tension. She smiled, waved me further into the room. I leaned my hip on the desk–cum–dressing table while she perched on the edge of the bed.

  “I think you might have something there . . . What do I call you apart from Dawson?”

  “Luisa,” she said, holding out her right hand. We shook.

  “And I’m—”

  “—Charlie. Yes, I know. Your reputation precedes you.”

  That threw me. “Are you sure that shouldn’t be exceeds me?”

  “Don’t think so, if what the boss said about your performance today is anything to go by. Took out an insurgent with a head shot, moving target, under fire, right after being blown up by an IED. Wish I’d been awake to see it.”

  “He wasn’t an insurgent—not of the home-grown variety, anyway. Not if his clothing was anything to go by.”

  “So who was he?”

  I shrugged. “He didn’t have any ID on him, but his clothing was Russian, from the looks of it. And he was trying to blend in—carrying an AK and wearing a keffiyeh. I’ve sent his photo to my boss to see if he can put a name to the face.”

  “Russian?” She frowned, shifted her position, easing her injured arm in her lap. “Well, I’ve no idea what we’ve done to piss off anybody from that neck of the woods. The last few months have just been reporting on supply routes, a bit of convoy work, and security for some Dutch engineers working on a sabotaged pipeline just north of Basra.”

  “Garton-Jones tried to hint that they might have been after me rather than your team.”

  “Yeah, well. He would, though, wouldn’t he?”

  “You like him, as a boss?”

  She gave a one-shoulder shrug. “Had worse. Better than the army, but not as well-funded as the Yank outfit I worked for in Sierra Leone. Still, at least he gives us medical cover, eh?”

  I thought again of the dead Russian. The skills I’d used to kill the man were not something I could feel proud of. I couldn’t prevent a twinge of . . . regret that there hadn’t been another way. “I wonder who’s going to be shipping today’s body home.”

  “You mentioned you’d sent a photo to your lot. Don’t still have it, do you?” she asked. “I just wondered—if it’s someone in the same game, I might recognize him.”

  I dug out my smartphone. I thumbed through it until I came to the snapshot I’d taken of the man who’d been part of the ambush, then handed it across.

  Luisa Dawson studied the picture for a moment, gave the screen a flick with her forefinger and thumb to enlarge part of the image, and peered closer.

  “Ring any bells?”

  She shook her head slowly. “Not the face, no . . . but there’s something about his keffiyeh . . .”

  She handed the phone back. I’d peeled the red-and-white cotton scarf away from the man’s face to get a clear shot of him, but it was visible in the immediate background of the picture.

  “It’s the tassels around the edges. They’re not really the local style. You tend to find that kind of thing more in Jordan than Iraq.” She pulled a face. “Not much help, is it? I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” I said. “Believe me, when you’re operating in the dark, any little chink of light that isn’t tracer fire is a help.”

  SEVEN

  IN VIEW OF LUISA DAWSON’S CLOAK-AND-DAGGER ATTITUDE THE night before, I confess to mild surprise when she made a beeline for my table at breakfast the following morning.

  “Mind if I join you?”

  I gestured to the chair opposite with the coffeepot in my hand, completed the move by pouring into the cup in front of her as she sat down.

  “Pointless to ask this time if you were followed,” I said, noting the heads already turned in our direction. It might have had something to do with the fact that the testosterone in the room was utterly overwhelming the estrogen. Having most of it clustered at one table was causing a hormonal imbalance in the atmosphere.

  She grinned as she added milk and sugar, stirred.

  “Got a proposition for you,” she said, “and if you say no, well, I’m supposed to be on a flight out of here this evening anyway.”

  I refilled my own cup, wary now. Dawson had admitted she was in this line of work for the money. That, I considered, was likely to make whatever she had to sell more expensive than it was worth. She didn’t seem in any hurry to get down to it, either, but took her time enjoying the scent and taste of her coffee.

  The hotel restaurant was a twenty-four-hour buffet, serving a wide-ranging, if slightly bizarre, selection of food it classified under the one-size-fits-all term international.

  Mind you, it was worth eating there if only for the view. Plate-glass windows stretched from tiled floor to double-height ceiling, looking out onto palms and marble columns surrounding an immaculate water feature—the ultimate in swank for a country that was mostly desert.

  “I’m going to miss the scoff in this place if nothing else,” Dawson said at last.

  I set down my cup. “If you don’t cut to the chase, you’re going to miss your flight as well.”

  That earned me another flash of smile. A dimple came and went in her cheek. And as quickly as it appeared, the humor was gone.

  “There’s a women’s clinic I know of. Been helping out there whenever I’ve had some downtime—I was a medic back in the army. Originally set up by Médecins Sans Frontières, but now it’s locally run.”

  “When you say ‘locally’ . . . ?”

  “Here—in Kuwait, I mean, rather than over the border. One of the . . . women I mentioned to you. She’s there, at the moment, having treatment. She might be prepared to talk to you.”

  “Providing that you act as go-between?” I guessed.

  “Not necessarily.” She gave a casual one-shoulder shrug. The arm with the plated collarbone was held close to her body by the sling. “You speak Arabic?”

  Ah.

  I shook my head. “Not enough for that kind of conversation.”

  “Well then, how about you talk your boss into hiring me for my brains instead of my brawn?” She reached for the coffeepot and helped herself. “Only make your mind up soon, ’cause otherwise—like you said yourself—I’ve got a plane to catch.”

  I sighed, plucked the starched square of linen from my lap, dumped it by my plate, and got to my feet.

  “All right. Give me ten minutes to call New York. And if you’re going to guzzle all the coffee, at least order another pot before I get back.”

  Not much of a snappy parting shot, but under the circumstances it was the best I could manage.

  Parker, needless to say, was dubious.

  “Unless we think Sean had anything to do with these attacks—which I don’t,” he added quickly before I could jump in, “then I don’t see what this gains us.”

  “Reasonable doubt,” I said. “Not as far as I’m concerned, but the people on the ground here—Garton-Jones at Streetwise, for a start. If I can show motive for somebody other than Sean wanting Clay dead in the manner in which he was killed, it gets us reasonable doubt and buys me a little more time.”

  “Wait . . . you reckon you might be running out?”

  “If for ‘time’ you read ‘cooperat
ion,’ then definitely. Garton-Jones knew before I got here that I wasn’t exactly impartial, but since I arrived he’s carried out some extra background checks on both Sean and me that make things look worse rather than better. At the moment he’s toeing the line. Can’t say how much longer he’ll continue to do so.”

  “Ah.”

  That was one of the nice things about working with Parker. He caught on fast.

  I was up in my room, partly to stay away from flapping ears, and partly so I didn’t let all and sundry know I’d brought an encrypted satellite phone with me as well as my standard cell.

  Garton-Jones wasn’t the only one who kitted out his people with all the best toys.

  “OK. Just as long as it’s not a personal safety issue.” His voice softened unexpectedly. “I need you back in one piece, Charlie.”

  I spoke lightly, trying to ignore his use of the word need. “That is the condition I was aiming for.”

  And if not, then at least in no more pieces than I am already.

  I did not tell him about the Kalashnikov I’d won from the dead Russian. There were some things he was better off not knowing. Besides, he might try to insist I hand over the weapon—although who to was another matter.

  He sighed.

  “Look, I know this is hard for you. Not just because of Sean, but now there are other . . . aspects to this. Disturbing aspects. If you—”

  “You can say the word rape without me going to pieces on you, Parker.”

  “I know, but . . .”

  “It’s something that happened to me, OK?” I said gently. “It’s not all of who I am.”

  “I know,” he said again.

  I hadn’t expected to speak with him directly when I called the office in Manhattan. Kuwait was eight hours ahead of the East Coast, which made it a little after midnight over there. Parker had a duty officer manning the phones around the clock—especially when he had anyone in the field—but I was both relieved and a little apprehensive to hear his voice on the other end of the line.

  I could picture him at his desk in the corner office with its fabulous views of the glittering Midtown skyline. I used to wonder about the fact that he sat with his back to the windows, until I found out he had antiballistic glass installed.

  “So . . . any ID yet on the Russian from the ambush?”

  “The name he used to enter the country was Kuznetsov, but don’t get your hopes up on that score. In Russian kuznets means ‘blacksmith,’ so . . .”

  I could almost see the shrug. “And do we even know if Comrade Smith might have been working for a PMC out here?”

  “If he was, nobody’s claiming him yet.”

  “Hardly surprising, when you think about it. Either the attack on us was authorized, in which case his bosses would have a lot of explaining to do, or—”

  “—or it wasn’t, in which case there would still be awkward questions,” Parker finished for me.

  “Not to mention the shame of having to admit they couldn’t control their own guys.”

  “You got it.”

  He was smiling now. I could hear it in his voice. There was a moment’s comfortable silence between us. Too comfortable.

  Parker cleared his throat. “Anyway, I guess if you feel it’s necessary, I’ll OK Dawson. Send her details through, and Bill will handle the paperwork.”

  “Will do, boss.”

  “And if this Garton-Jones guy does stop cooperating, let me know, OK? You need backup you can rely on out there.” He paused. “I meant what I said before: I need you back here safe and sound.”

  I heard the longing, however much he thought he’d buried it. “No, Parker,” I said gently. “You might want me back safe, but please don’t confuse that with need.”

  EIGHT

  I DROVE, DAWSON NAVIGATING FROM THE PASSENGER SEAT. THE vehicle was a new-model Range Rover whistled up by the hotel. With one of his vehicles destroyed in the ambush, Garton-Jones claimed he didn’t have another to spare. I wasn’t about to argue the toss. Not when there might be something more important I needed from him later.

  Dawson chattered most of the way, far more relaxed than she’d been on duty for Streetwise. I learned she had joined the military more or less straight from school—mainly to escape the boredom and unemployment of her hometown.

  “Didn’t fancy either working the checkout at the local supermarket, or giving birth to hordes of little brats to get myself moved up the waiting list for a council flat,” she said. “Wanted to do something. Y’know—get out there and see the world.”

  “I think they showed me that brochure, too, in the recruiting office. Travel to fascinating places. Meet interesting people. Kill them.”

  She laughed.

  I glanced at her. “And now that you have . . . ?”

  She leaned forward a little. “You’ll want to be turning right at the next main intersection.”

  We were heading into the outskirts of Kuwait City itself, a modern high-rise metropolis that seemed more Mediterranean than Middle Eastern. The roads were wide, fast moving, the shoulders crammed with parked cars. The buildings, a mix of contemporary and traditional, carried occasional battle scars still left over from the Gulf War. Strange pinks and browns contrasted with high-tech green glass. Poverty lived alongside extreme wealth, jostling for space under the relentless sun.

  “Most of the world I’ve seen is not quite what it’s cracked up to be,” Dawson went on. “There were a few places that took your breath away, but mostly it was shit-heaps and slums. There were a few diamonds among the bastards, too, don’t get me wrong. But I don’t count my ex as one of the diamonds.”

  “So, what happened with him?”

  “Oh, the usual, I s’pose. Met him in Cyprus, decompressing on the way back from Afghanistan. My first tour, his second. Thought he had a bit more about him than the average grunt. We got together that night, as I recall. Well, when you’ve made it out of ’Stan, the first thing you want to do is prove to yourself that you’re still alive. Still human, y’know?”

  “Yes, I do,” I murmured. “So he was army, too.”

  She held up her free hand in protest. “Yeah, yeah, I know. We shouldn’t have got it on. Especially with us being different ranks.”

  Sean and I had been different ranks—he a sergeant, me an ordinary soldier. We shouldn’t have “got it on,” either. A creeping feeling of déjà vu made the hairs riffle at the back of my neck.

  I glanced over. “Different ranks?”

  “Oh, um, yeah. He was a corporal. I was a freshly minted second lieutenant, actually. Should have known from the outset it was never going to work.”

  “Get you,” I said, surprised. “A Rupert.”

  “Nobody was more gobsmacked than me when I came through square-bashing with P.O.M. stamped on my report.” Another shrug. “In the end, I liked the job, just couldn’t stand all the bullshit that went with it.”

  With the kind of background she’d painted, the way she spoke, for Dawson to come through basic training singled out as Potential Officer Material made her something out of the ordinary, by my reckoning.

  “Your ex was OK with you outranking him?”

  “To begin with.” She frowned. “I think he maybe even quite liked the idea of giving me the ‘benefit of his vast experience’ and all the rest of the macho crap. That was all right until first I didn’t need his advice anymore . . . and then I didn’t want it, either.”

  “You said he left you in debt?”

  “Yeah, well, I should have seen that one coming. You think it’s going to make life easier—being with somebody who’s in, I mean. You think they’re going to understand what it’s all about . . . what you see, what you have to do. But it doesn’t, not really. Hey, we’re turning here!”

  I braked hard and just made the corner, checked my mirrors in time to see another car carry out a similar maneuver without causing alarm. I got the feeling such driving was the norm around here. Either that, or . . .

  One eye still
on the mirrors, I said, “We all cope with our experiences in our own way. There is no one-size-fits-all solution.”

  “In the end, I think he couldn’t cope with the fact that I could handle the way the job messes with your head sometimes, and he . . . couldn’t.”

  “Drink? Drugs?”

  “A little of both—more booze than was good for him, and too much wacky-backy—but his real problem was gambling. Those bastard online sites hoovered the cash out of his pockets faster than the army could put it in. I nagged, pleaded, yelled, cut up his credit cards. I even contacted the sites he was on and asked them to block him. He’d just open accounts with new ones. He promised he’d quit. Next thing I know he’s disappeared and I’m left to pick up the pieces.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  She nodded, turned her head away to stare at the dusty buildings without seeing anything outside her memories.

  For the most part Sean and I had coped with what we’d seen and done without coming adrift in any noticeable way, at least. And in the end it wasn’t our differences that had driven us apart.

  It was our similarities.

  NINE

  THE WOMAN DID NOT WANT TO GIVE US HER REAL NAME. I COULDN’T blame her for that.

  “She says the doctors here call her Najida,” Dawson said, her voice soft and respectful as we sat alongside the bed. “It means—”

  “—‘Brave,’” I said. “Yes, I know. It suits her.”

  The woman was, in truth, little more than a girl. She was in her late teens or early twenties perhaps, and had once been beautiful. Dark, thick hair, dark eyes with an almond tilt to them, eyelashes with no need for cosmetic enhancement, good bones.

  But the arrangement of her features was distorted by the wound to her face. It had ripped open her cheek, now bloated and discolored, leaving the corner of her mouth torn, as if by a giant fishhook. Dressings and strips of micropore tape held the damage together. How well it would all heal was another matter.