by Geoff Wolak
‘So ... how goes it?’ Bob finally asked.
‘Can we ... talk here?’
‘Yes,’ Bob answered. ‘This is Ted, and he was on standby.’
I nodded. ‘I cleaned the room, cleaned Bioti, Cola used on any and all blood, put Bioti in the bath and cleaned him, then back into bed, a morphine dose to keep him asleep till morning.
‘I used Cola on the carpet and around the room, and checked it all carefully, the young boy wrapped in a sheet then a blanket – the two items replaced from someone else’s room, the food trolley placed outside and taken away, the murder weapon soon to be in the dishwasher.
‘I then ... threw the boy off a ten story balcony onto scrubland beyond the hotel.’
Their eyes widened.
‘And then ... I drove around to see Haseem.’
‘Haseem?’ Bob whispered.
I smiled. And I waited.
‘You asked Haseem ... to help?’ Bob got out in a strained whisper.
‘His boys came and picked up the body, no one noticing, and now ... well, Haseem suggested that Colonel Bioti was in his debt, shall we say.’
‘He’ll blackmail Bioti,’ Bob stated, staring past me.
‘And you can confront Bioti with the dead boy...’ I suggested.
‘And Bioti passes Haseem what we want passed,’ the second man said. He smiled. ‘You are good.’ He faced Bob, and they both laughed quietly.
‘Fucking hell,’ Bob let out, shaking his head. ‘You have ... to come work for us.’
‘One dead rent boy is enough excitement for me for a while, I’m but a humble driver. And you remember what the Air Commodore said about me taking risks...’ I pointed a dangerous finger. ‘You owe me.’
Back in my room I stripped off, down to my pants, and pulled out a Tiger beer, the one labelled as non-alcoholic, and clicked the top off with a slight hiss. Sat in one of the comfortable chairs, I sipped the beer.
‘That was stupid, boy,’ I told myself. ‘I should have stayed well away from it all.’ I sipped. ‘Idiot.’
Sat there, I considered the risks, not least of falling ten stories down, and the risk of failing to report a murder - and of cleaning it up. Still, there were no witnesses, no evidence. My prints were probably in his room, but I went in there often, so that was not an issue. There was nothing on the boy except the hotel sheets...
I lifted up and grabbed a spare sheet, opening it out. ‘Alma Royal Group of hotels,’ was printed onto it, so there was more than one hotel in the city that used these sheets, that was good. Sat back down, I sipped my beer, thinking through the evidence. Haseem had a hold over me, but someday very soon the MPs would pick him up, so that was less of a problem.
Bioti would be confronted tomorrow, and there would be little he could do but cooperate, or jump off his balcony as threatened. If he did, then good riddance to the shit bag; I’d give him a helping hand.
I sighed loudly. The crisis had been dealt with, but what about next time. And now Bob Staines knew what I had done, yet there was no evidence to that effect. The problem would be the boy, and who knew he was here. If he was from a poor family, they would not be missing him, if not – a problem.
In the morning I stuck to my routine and used the gym and pool, and after breakfast drove the Air Commodore across town and left him for the day. Back at the hotel I knocked on Bioti’s door, and he eventually opened it, looking like hell. I barged in and closed the door. At least he now had trousers on. I sat. And I waited.
‘Something happened last night,’ he said in his accented voice.
‘It did. You killed a young boy.’
He collapsed into the chair, sobbing.
‘You were unconscious last night, so I called British Military Intelligence, and they took the body and cleaned the room.’
He looked up.
‘So ... they will come and talk to you later today, and you will cooperate, or the photographs will be released. You will also be contacted today by an Arab, Haseem, and he will try and blackmail you.’
‘Blackmail?’
I nodded. ‘Yes, blackmail. That happens when senior officers use drugs and rent boys. When he comes, be emotional, but offer to cooperate with him. And ... a few weeks from now, you will go home, and all the evidence will be made to go away. Do you ... have a family?’
He nodded. ‘Wife, two girls.’
‘You will see them again, but first ... you must be a good actor.’ I stood. ‘It will all work out, but ... no more rent boys or drugs, sir. You’ll not get a second chance.’
I left him to consider his options, and I was hoping he’d jump.
Later that evening Bob Staines called me down to the bar, and we met in a quiet corner.
‘You spoke to Bioti?’ he puzzled.
I nodded. ‘Did he jump?’
‘No, but we was expecting my visit, and Haseem came by and had a word. Bioti just left, with Haseem.’
‘A result then, I guess. But I think Haseem will supply some young boys and cocaine, a hidden camera in the ceiling.’
‘Probably,’ Bob agreed. ‘Still, Bioti is now a double agent. With your Colonel Ali and one other, we’re hoping that the Iraqis will take the bait.’
‘You going to trick him into leaving Kuwait?’ I teased.
‘Hardly, he can see the build-up on CNN, he doesn’t need spies. No, when the time comes we’ll convince him of a sea landing, or similar. In the meantime, we’re convincing him that our firm allies in the region as not so firm.’
I puzzled that. ‘You want a scrap?’
‘The Americans want an excuse to reduce the Republican Guard, a few days of air warfare. There’ll soon be over five hundred aircraft here.’
I got back into a routine, but I avoided driving Bioti, Colonel Ali now like a friend, and very chatty. The next fight was scheduled, and I got to visit Haseem’s pad twice a week for a massage, Colonel Ali always along. I trained at the boxing gym, the Air Commodore now aware of the next fight.
Myself and the Air Commodore visited the Indian restaurant regularly – paid for by me, the food and the ambience better than the hotel, and the Air Commodore enjoyed his relaxing massages at the Thai establishment – also paid for by me. On the weekends, he also enjoyed the go-karts, the shooting range, and the rooftop sun terraces – all paid out of my illegal earnings.
But then a message appeared, for me to call the UK, to call my old CO, Flt Lt Peters. I was worried. I used the phone in my room and dialled, getting the switchboard at Brize Norton.
‘Hey Wilco,’ came a girl’s voice when I gave my name, and she put me through.
‘Wilco?’
‘Yes, sir. Got a message to call you.’
‘How is it down there?’
‘No one shooting at me, sir, if that’s what you mean.’
‘No, I meant the conditions.’
‘Fine, sir, I’m getting used to the heat and the flies, but the road to Dhahran is deadly, a few enlisted men killed by lorry drivers.’
‘Oh, well ... you be careful. Anyway, your circumstances came up at a meeting, and your personal admin – there are letters for you here and forms to fill in, so I’m placing you with 37 Squadron in Dhahran.’
‘I’m moving ... to Dhahran?’
‘Not moving as such, you’ll drive the Air Commodore and senior RAF staff, but the CO there will handle all of your personal admin.’
‘Oh, right. Should I report to him someday soon?’
‘Yes, soon as you can, he’s been made aware, it’s a Flt Lt Croft.’
‘I’m in Dhahran a few days a week, sir, so I’ll pop in.’
‘Till you’re back, you’re temporarily under his control.’
‘Very well, sir. I’ll try hard not to create any paperwork for him.’ I could hear teeth grinding down the phone line.
Later, I went and found the Air Commodore and explained the new situation, and he was happy enough, it was all routine, and the following day we set out along the road of death.
> We had covered sixty miles before I swerved, hit a bump, flew ten feet and landed, the Air Commodore’s files going everywhere, and we ending up facing the wrong way on a cloud of dust, the Air Commodore breathing heavily and sat wide eyed, watching the lorry swerve back to his side of the road.
‘Get after him!’
‘Sir?’
‘We’re faster, so get after him, and shoot the bastard!’
I smiled widely at the Air Commodore and started to hand him papers that had ended up on the front seat.
‘Jesus,’ he let out, sighing heavily.
‘Not to worry, sir, I have good reflexes.’
‘And if you have to swerve when there’s a ravine alongside us?’
‘Well, sir, in that case ... we’d be killed.’
‘Fucking lorry drivers,’ he cursed. ‘My heart is racing.’
It took fifteen minutes to get the papers sorted, and I opened a cold drink for him, to help settle his nerves before we set off again.
At Dhahran, I dropped off the Air Commodore and found 37 Squadron HQ, their lads on the perimeter with Rapier missile systems. I eventually found Flt Croft in a Portakabin on stilts, a bit warm inside. I knocked.
‘Come in!’
I entered and saluted. ‘Gunner Milton, sir.’
‘Who?’
‘Wilco, sir.’
‘Ah ... so you’re him.’ He stood, appraising me. ‘This is your file,’ he said, tapping a file as thick as a phone book. ‘It’s only ten times bigger than a normal personnel file, but I have skimmed through it, and I spoke to your old boss.’ He took a moment. ‘I’ll be hoping to avoid your legal counsel.’
‘I hope so too.’ I took in the room. ‘You work in this heat, sir?’
He also took in the room, and the fans. ‘Yes...?’
‘I think I could ... assist you with a portable air-con unit, sir.’
‘Sit down.’ He sat. ‘Been here a while?’
‘Eight weeks, sir.’
‘And obviously you know where you get a portable air con unit.’
‘Would you .... like some cold beer for the officers mess?’
‘Beer ... beer?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Well, given what a dust bowl of shit this place is, I may be tempted to break a few rules. Anyhow, I’ll handle your admin, and we have some forms and letters, but first ... how has it been? Any complaints?’
‘On occasion I have to drive senior officers from other nations, and they like small boys and cocaine.’
‘Ah. Still, we can’t get involved in such things. Just notify the right people.’
‘I have done on occasion, sir.’
‘And your accommodation?’
‘Staff quarters at the Air Commodore’s hotel, small room but OK, and they let me use the gym like a hotel guest, food is OK. Worst part is the highway here -’
‘The highway of death, so called, and we’ve had two serious injuries, our lads flown home. Do all the Saudis drive like that?’ I smiled. ‘Something funny?’
‘Saudis don’t drive lorries, sir, the drivers ... they’re from Jordon or elsewhere. You’d not see a Saudi lower himself to drive a lorry.’
‘Ah. And do any of them actually have a license and ... eyes that work?’
‘It’s not normally a requirement, sir, no. My boss is still shaking from the drive down, we left the road and flew part of the way.’
‘Safer at night?’
I smiled widely.
‘OK, I’m figuring not.’
‘They flash their main beams to let you know that they are approaching you.’
‘What the fuck for, they’d just blind you?’
‘Welcome to the Middle East, sir, paradise on earth.’
He shook his head. ‘With a bit of luck the Iraqi’s will soon pull out and we can go home.’
I shook my head.
‘No? Do you ... know something?’
‘Americans want to reduce the potency of the Republican Guard, they want a few days air war.’
‘Well, you are a useful chap to know,’ he quipped.
‘Best get comfy, sir.’
‘Yes?’ He made a face. ‘Bugger.’ He eased back. ‘And you spend all your time driving senior officers?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘The hours?’
‘They vary, sir. I could be up at 5am and back at midnight, or sat on my backside all day waiting.’
‘You get free time?’
‘Yes, sir, and when the officers eat I often eat with them, and when they have time off I drive them to the go-karting or the swimming pools, so I get time off as well.’
‘Go-karting, eh. Sounds fun. So, no complaints then?’
‘No, sir, I quite like it here because I’m actually doing something worthwhile, whereas at Brize Norton I did shifts in the guardroom or on the gate.’
He nodded, handing me a dozen letters, a few forms to fill in, and he made sure that I had his number, and that I popped in when I was in Dhahran. He also mentioned a medical, here in Dhahran, which I would have to do soon, and a BFT, which made me laugh.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘I get up at 5am and run ten or twenty miles a day, sir.’
‘I figured - with you turning to boxing instead of running – and now looking like you’re built well, that you’d not run so much.’
‘I’ll pass the BFT, sir, just say when.’
‘Don’t worry about it, I’ll make up a time.’
‘A fast time, sir!’ I mock protested.
He nodded and walked me out. I drove him around the base and he showed me the Rapier installations, meeting some of the lads – hot and tired and with NBC suits ready, respirators on hips.
With Colonel Ali needing a run down to Dhahran the next day, I stocked up the car with empty military kit boxes, visited the Indian restaurant and bought fifty bottles of Tiger, then passed Sergeant Spence a few quid for three mobile air-con units – one careless owner.
Parking up outside the same Portakabin, Flt Lt Croft saw me through the window and came out. ‘Back so soon?’
‘I have some goodies for you, sir, got a few men to carry?’
Flt Lt Croft banged on a window and three Sergeants came out, soon lugging the air con units, followed by the beer. With the air con units plugged in and working, people marvelled at the stream of cold air.
‘This beer,’ a sergeant began. ‘It says zero alcohol.’
‘That’s there to fool the Saudis. It’s six percent proof,’ I explained.
‘What do we owe you?’ Croft asked, desks now littered with beer boxes.
‘Lenience, sir. Lenience.’
‘What have you done?’ he asked with a frown.
‘Nothing yet, sir, but ... you can hold a favour for when I do.’
He nodded, examining the beer bottles.
Picking up the Air Commodore in the morning, he said, ‘Had a good report about you from your new CO, he seems happy.’
‘I got him fifty bottles of Tiger beer, sir.’
‘Ah, that might explain it.’
‘He was in a Portakabin with no air-con, so I got him three small units.’
‘Do I need to ask which lorry they fell off?’
‘Hear no evil, sir, speak no evil, that’s my policy.’
‘Have no air con, feel no cold air – is what the previous owner of the air con units say.’
I laughed. Before I dropped him off, I said, ‘The next fight is Saturday night, sir. Did you ... want to attend?’
‘An illegal back street fight, with illegal gambling, and an enlisted man in my care working for Mi6? An Air Commodore in the crowd?’ He stared at me. ‘Yes, get me a ticket.’
‘Will do, sir.’
I trained hard in the days that led up to the fight, and I knew what I wanted to practice, and my speed improved a little. I felt more confident than the first time, but was still nervous; if I made a mistake I’d be the one getting my eyes gouged, a knee damaged.
> Saturday night came around too soon, and I was nervous again, but I was not sure why. When I stopped to think about it, I was suddenly worried of a slip-up that left someone sticking his thumb in my eye, or breaking my collarbone or jaw.
Sergeant Crow asked if I was nervous, and I replied, ‘Always a chance that I slip up and someone breaks my jaw, and I spend three months eating through a straw.’
‘So don’t slip up then,’ he helpfully suggested as I changed, leaving me glancing at the various fighters. If anything, they appeared smaller than the previous lot, but I then noticed the small Thai fighter staring at me, and he did not look happy.
‘That Thai fighter is back,’ I told Sgt Crow.
‘I don’t think he’s a fan of yours,’ Sgt Crow warned. ‘And he won’t make that mistake again. Once thrown out of a ring ... is enough for anyone.’
As was normal practice I would come on later, save risking early injury to the reigning champion, and when ready we ambled out through the screaming crowds – thicker today it seemed – and to the side of the ring, and I got to watch a good fighter take down three men, although I considered that Haseem had put the weakest fighters up first. The man looked British, about my height, and was well-defined compared to his opponents, but not compared to me.
Sgt Crow turned his head towards me as he followed the action. ‘Don’t hold back, get angry, do some damage.’
‘Did I hold back last time?’
‘Yes.’
I nodded. I guess I did a bit, and I wondered about my aversion to hurting enlisted men, and all too soon it was my turn, the crowd cheering, and I wondered where the Air Commodore was now sat. I did, however, arrange protection for him from two sergeants in the motor pool. I also gave him $1,000 to bet on me.
Clambering into the ring, I sized up my opponent, my unhappy face presented to him to try and intimidate him, and when he saw me close up I could see the fear in his eyes. My head down, my shoulders down, I stared at him, waiting for the bell, my opponent showing some blood above one eye, and he was now glistening with sweat. I wondered if he knew me, and figured not.
Ding!
I stepped forwards confidently, aiming to finish this quickly, wary of any kicks, but certain that he had not used any up to now, at least with his last three opponents.