by Iain King
The food satisfied only his stomach. The fact that it was stolen made him feel sick.
Doing the right thing had been important to Myles ever since his mother had died. As a fourteen-year-old, he’d decided that his extraordinary brainpower would be wasted on maths problems or the puzzles of physics. Perfect solutions lost their appeal. It was the human world which mattered: accepting it could never be perfect, the right thing to do was to make it better. Was Myles doing the right thing now?
He wondered. Justifying theft in an effort to stop a terrorist plot was a bit like taking up Juma’s deadly offer from when they had first met at the Libyan border: kill one man himself to stop Juma killing more. It might be the best thing to do, but did that make it right? Myles couldn’t work it out.
The puzzle was as nasty as Myles’ current situation, although now even more was at stake. Much more. He cursed himself, and tried to rest.
After several hours in the car, interrupted only by a toilet break, Myles was confident he had no contagious diseases. Placidia’s mistake in picking a grave from the Antonine Plague of 169AD – rather than the much more lethal Justinian Plague of 541-542AD – was lucky for him.
He remembered Placidia at university. She would have never slipped up like that. It was a relief to know Placidia was making mistakes now.
He wondered where to go next. His only lead was from Helen. She had identified the IP address of a computer which had placed files on his laptop, files which detailed the Navy Seal rescue operation in Libya, files which had led to his arrest in Rome. He had to track down the address. That would clear his name, and might help uncover more of the plot to destroy America.
He remembered Helen’s drowsy words: the IP address belonged to Galla Security, based near An Nukhayb in Anbar Province, Western Iraq.
So Myles connected the ignition on his Fiat, moved into gear, and prepared himself for a day and a half’s drive to Turkey’s south-eastern border with Iraq.
The first half of the drive was uneventful. Myles had enough fuel to drive past the modern capital, Ankara, and along the highway into the mountainous central region of Cappadocia. There he decided to abandon the Fiat, parking it on the roadside, and begin hitch-hiking. He didn’t have to wait long in the sun: he was offered a lift by an elderly couple from Denmark who were touring the area. They took him to Diyarbakir, where he managed to get picked up by a long-distance haulage lorry about to go over the border into northern Iraq.
At the Iraqi border post, Myles noticed the signs of recent renovation. A new shiny metal roof now shaded part of the road. The gates and bollards were clean and had just been installed. The entry system was computerised. There was even high-powered air-conditioning for the offices. Myles knew where the money for the upgrade had come from: it was American money.
There was also a deeply sinister presence overshadowing the border post: the threat of Islamic State extremists. It meant Turkish military hardware was on hand, and stationed in depth, in case the jihadis tried to stream across. The barbed wire had been strengthened recently, and there were new CCTV cameras covering all the crossings. Several men loitered around, probably Turkish intelligence staff, gathering whatever they could find. Myles tried to avoid them all.
Getting to Galla Security near An Nukhayb involved crossing from the benign Kurdish-dominated northern part of Iraq to the much more volatile western area, where Islamic State held sway. Anbar Province was dominated by Sunni Arabs, who had a reputation for taking up arms against the Americans and, more recently, official government forces. The west of Iraq was wild.
Myles was taken by the lorry driver into Iraq and as far as Zakho, the border town in the north. There he found a pool of long-distance drivers all working for firms which had won large contracts from USAID, the American international development agency. One of these was driving to Al Kut, and offered to pass him to someone else driving towards Jordan. Myles accepted, and the driver duly did as he promised. In return for what the driver called, in broken English, Myles’ ‘honourable nature’, he gave Myles some water and much appreciated food – chunks of chicken meat in pitta bread sandwiches.
The last lorry driver was a former dentist from Mosul called Mustafa, who had four children. He took Myles to the outskirts of An Nukhayb where he wished Myles farewell with three cups of tea, consumed by the busy roadside. Myles tried to be as generous as he could in return, although he had nothing to repay him with other than good company.
After shaking hands with Mustafa, and watching as his lorry drove away on the dusty tarmac highway, Myles walked along the road, conscious that his height, skin and features marked him out as a Westerner. Anyone wanting to act out their grudge with America might see him as a legitimate target.
But again, Myles was lucky, or at least it seemed that way. He was able to walk for more than a mile without any attacks or other violence from vehicles passing by. He also found the place he was looking for. Corralled by an unfinished breeze-block wall which defined the very large perimeter for the site, Myles could see the buildings and the offices of Galla Security in front of him. He wondered whether the premises had ever been inspected by a government official and guessed they probably hadn’t.
It was from here that someone at Galla Security had sabotaged his computer.
Myles sensed much worse things had been done here, too.
Forty-Nine
An Nukhayb, Iraq
Myles paused to survey the outside of Galla Security. Built on the edge of the town, the site seemed to consist of a few low buildings by the road, then a long and fairly thin sliver of land leading off into the desert. The breeze-blocks which defined the perimeter were unpainted and uneven. Myles guessed the whole structure was less than three months old.
He pondered climbing into the site, but it was daytime, and he suspected there would be security cameras. Even if he waited until dusk, it looked as though there was no cover inside the breeze-block walls except the buildings themselves. Breaking into the premises without being caught would be far harder than the factory in Germany – and he had been caught there.
Myles brushed the dust from his clothes which had been gathering since he entered Iraq. He pulled his collar taut and tucked in his shirt, trying to hide the tatters on one side. Unusually for Myles, he wanted to look smart, even though there was little he could do about it.
He walked on towards the metal front door of the walled compound. There he found a small plastic button connected to a painted wire leading inside. He pressed it firmly.
After a few seconds he heard a sharp voice with a thick Arabic accent. ‘What is it?’
Myles cleared his throat. ‘Er, hello? I’d like to have a look at your premises.’
‘American?’ queried the voice.
‘English.’
There was a pause. Myles eventually heard the squeak and clank of a gate opening in one of the buildings. Footsteps, then the metal of a bolt was slid back, and the door in the perimeter wall was opened enough for a face to push through. The man looked aggressive, and had an AK-47 on his shoulder. Myles could tell the man wasn’t local. He looked East African. Myles guessed he was from Somalia, like Juma.
‘Hello,’ said Myles, trying to be respectful. ‘I’d like to look around your site.’
The Somali guard clearly understood but didn’t know what to make of the request. ‘You want to hire our security men?’
‘I may need you for some work,’ lied Myles. He tried to look as agreeable as he could.
The guard still looked sceptical. ‘You are alone?’
‘Yes, I am alone.’
The guard peered behind Myles to confirm he was telling the truth. There was no car waiting for Myles, and no burly mercenaries with their weapons poised. Although this made things safer for the guard, it also made him more suspicious. The Somali gunman frowned and squinted at Myles, noting his tattered clothes. The man was wondering whether Myles was mad or just naive to travel in this part of Iraq without protection.
Ahead of him was a newly built office building. The security guard led Myles to a walk-through metal scanner, which wasn’t working. Hardly the grand entrance of a major security company…
Then Myles was invited to sit in a reception area. There he was brought tea, heavily laden with sugar, by another Somali-looking man, who soon disappeared again. The security guard seemed to lose interest in Myles, too, focussing once more on the perimeter gate.
Myles waited. Several minutes passed. As he drank his tea, Myles wondered if he was being ignored or forgotten. But the tea was very refreshing. Myles realised there was no reason to hurry his hosts for their attention.
On the table in front of him was a brochure. Myles picked it up and started browsing.
It was the company report for Galla Security. He flicked through the pages. The document had been produced cheaply, and probably printed locally. Myles saw the posed photographs of security guards aiming their guns into the distance, as if they were defending against an unseen foe. In poorly translated English, it listed ‘Services Offered By Us’:
Protecting People
Protecting Sites
Other Services
For this third category, clients were invited to telephone a number or send an email with their request, explaining what their ‘other service’ was. All prices were negotiable.
Myles flicked to the back, where there was some detail on ‘company information’. It said that Galla Security was certified by a trade association. There was a poor quality close-up of a signature, with the name of an official underneath. The document seemed to imply that this was a sufficient guarantee of quality. Then there was a reference to the ‘Alliance of Iraqi Private Security Firms’. Apparently Galla Security was owned by this conglomerate.
Myles logged the information in his mind. The amateurish nature of Galla Security was oddly comforting. It made the firm seem genuine. And that made his question more puzzling: Why would someone from this firm upload files onto his computer? And how would people here get the information in the first place – information about a Special Forces raid into Libya?
Myles turned back again to look at the security guard. Myles could easily imagine the man was connected with Juma.
Then he turned back to the pages of the brochure. The security men in the first picture looked like oversized cops from the southern states of America, probably retired. Other photos showed more beefy Westerners. He saw a few home-grown Iraqis with guns on other pages. None appeared like the men in the building with him now. Even the picture of the offices looked like it was staffed by Iraqis and white men, portrayed as working harmoniously together. He peered closer. Half-hidden by an outstretched sleeve in the office picture was a logo. Myles could make out some words: ‘Alliance’, ‘Iraqi’ and ‘Security’.
The Alliance of Iraqi Private Security Firms.
The brochure had been compiled by the conglomerate which owned Galla Security. They’d even used their own picture library to put it together.
Myles wondered why Helen hadn’t discovered the link to the holding company, the Alliance, when she’d first investigated the firm. Helen would have been thorough, so Galla probably kept their link with the Alliance of Iraqi Security Firms off their website. Was that deliberate?
It was still possible it was a genuine private security firm, perhaps set up by amateurs and bought out by the larger ‘Alliance’, whatever that was. But it could also be a money-laundering front, pretending to receive revenue from clients when really their cash came from more sinister sources.
It could even be worse.
Myles was caught up in his thoughts. He went to take another sip of tea, but realised he had already drunk it all. He wondered what to do next.
The man who had brought him the drink appeared again, poking his head around a pillar. Myles tried to catch the man’s attention, but he was gone before Myles could speak to him. Something about the man’s movements made Myles think he was checking up on him. Myles looked down again at his empty cup. Clearly the man hadn’t come to offer him more tea.
Then Myles saw a door open at the back of the office. A woman appeared, completely shrouded in a translucent birka, her head bowed as she approached.
Myles recognised the figure immediately. His eyes widened in alarm, and he sensed his pulse pump fast in his neck. Despite the air-con, he felt sweat break out all over his body.
Reflexively, Myles stood up to hug her.
But the woman lifted up her veil to confront him. ‘You made a mistake coming here,’ she said.
Placidia’s eyes were as fierce as ever.
Fifty
Galla Security Offices, Iraq
Myles tried to hide his reaction. He forced himself to remember what he had learned from the factory in Germany and the excavation site in Istanbul: Placidia had sent several men on missions which were sure to kill them. She had tried to poison the world with lead, and infect it with a deadly plague. He was standing in front of a ruthless woman – a woman who had committed herself to destroying America and crippling civilisation.
But the sight of her face also reminded him how he used to feel. He remembered their long conversations, and sharing coffee with her. He remembered trying to make her laugh, and trying to distract her from her high-minded causes.
Placidia kept staring at him. Myles returned her gaze. They stood opposite each other for several seconds, neither of them speaking.
Then she touched him on the shoulder. With a tilt of her head, she indicated they should walk towards a more private inner office. Myles was unsure whether he should accept her invitation, but found he was already following her.
The inside of the office was plain with the rough walls painted white. Myles realised it had no outside windows – only a skylight. There was one desk in the room, which had three computers on it, all plugged in with several cables.
Placidia closed the door behind them as they entered. Two sofas faced each other, divided by a low coffee table. She directed Myles to sit in one seat while she sat opposite.
They were alone.
Myles realised this was the first time they’d been alone together for almost twenty years. His head started calculating exactly how long it was – how many years, months, days, retreating for protection into a world of numbers.
If Placidia had found more time to be alone with him all those years ago things could have turned out so differently…
Placidia sat looking at him, still silent. She was sitting with one leg crossed over the other, her head on one hand, while she rested her elbow on the back of the sofa. It was how a Western woman would sit.
‘So, Helen Bridle is your partner, now?’ she asked with a faint smile.
Myles nodded.
‘She seems nice,’ said Placidia. ‘I knew you’d do well for yourself, Myles.’
The conversation was making Myles uneasy. He wanted to fire back, but knew he shouldn’t. He spoke as casually as he could. ‘And you’re married?’
Placidia nodded.
‘How long have you known Juma?’
‘A few years, now,’ she replied, briefly looking down at her wedding ring.
Myles knew he ought to compliment her husband somehow – to be polite, and to show he respected her choice. But he couldn’t – there was nothing pleasant to say about him.
Placidia filled the silence. ‘I know what you’re thinking Myles: he’s not the sort of husband you expected me to pick at university.’
‘That’s true.’
‘You’re surprised?’
‘I’m sure he’s…’ Myles struggled for a nice word. ‘I’m sure he’s…capable.’
Placidia leant back and laughed. It was a strained laugh. It soon stopped. ‘Yes, he’s very capable. Capable of killing, piracy, t
errorism. Torture every now and then.’ She spoke with a resigned smile, still staring straight at Myles. ‘And before you ask, yes, he’s very good at what he does.’
The next question was obvious. For Myles, the ultimate puzzle. His pulse still racing, he couldn’t resist asking. ‘So, Placidia: why did you marry him?’
Placidia remained silent.
‘Love?’ suggested Myles, offering her a get-out.
She shook her head. Her smile faded and her gaze turned down. This time she resisted eye contact with Myles as she spoke. ‘I’ve always tried to do what’s best. Marriage offered me a chance to do just that.’
Myles listened as Placidia slowly raised her eyes to meet his.
‘Myles, you know at university I was committed to changing the world for the better, right?’
Myles found himself nodding involuntarily.
‘Well,’ she explained, ‘what better way to make a positive difference than to find a powerful man and persuade him to do good?’
Even though her thought process was bizarre, Myles sensed Placidia was being sincere. ‘So you married Juma hoping to change him?’
‘To change him and a part of Africa where hundreds of people die each day – yes.’ She shrugged.
Marrying a psychopathic pirate chief to make the world a better place would be absurd from anybody else, but from Placidia it was logical. Myles knew she had a habit of taking morals to their extreme and beyond. Perhaps she was naive. Myles accepted Placidia really did think she was doing the right thing.
‘And have you saved lives, by marrying Juma?’