A Deniable Death

by Gerald Seymour

It should not have happened. He had hurried, as best he could, from the house and past the barracks, then onwards until he saw the silhouetted figure in the moonlight high on the elevated bund line. The struggle to get the breath into his lungs, the pain from his leg and anger fuelled his aggression.

  ‘You should not be here.’

  Defiance from the Engineer, lit by Mansoor’s torch: ‘I walk where I care to walk.’

  ‘My responsibility is to protect you. You ask me where you walk and when.’

  Said softly, and with no trace of resentment: ‘You forget yourself, Mansoor.’

  ‘I do not.’

  ‘You forget who you are and who I am.’

  ‘I do not forget that it is my duty to protect you. I do my duty as best I can. I cannot protect you if you walk far from your home in the night and I am not warned.’

  ‘Here – at my home – there is a threat?’

  ‘There are thieves. There could be smugglers bringing drugs. There are the marsh people who would slit your throat for a packet of cigarettes or the coins in your pocket.’

  ‘You are dutiful, and I am grateful. Do such imaginary threats equate with the threat to my wife’s life? Call it a matter of perspective.’

  ‘It is my duty.’

  ‘And tomorrow – for how long I cannot say – you are relieved of that duty.’

  ‘It is wrong that I will not be there. I should go with you.’

  ‘Security, I think, is the smallest problem that faces Naghmeh and me. I wanted to walk and think. Now, to please you, Mansoor, we will walk back together.’

  They did. The Engineer had lit another cigarette and Mansoor stayed a half-pace behind him. The moonlight was on the reeds and reflected in silver lines off the water; birds splashed and there were ripples from an otter’s hunting. He apologised – it could go badly for him if the Engineer reported his rudeness. It was accepted and hand slapped his shoulder. It irritated him that he was not permitted, on the ground of cost, he had been told, to travel with them.

  ‘And when we are gone tomorrow, Mansoor, what will you do?’

  ‘Be certain that the old lady does not want for help . . . and I will watch for the ibis. I hope to see it . . . and my prayers will be with you. I will look for that bird. What else?’

  It was, thought Harding, a master class from her in avoidance and evasion.

  He was the only one of the Boys close enough to hear. He didn’t understand everything because they flitted between English and local Arabic. The rest were back, relaxed now, and would have let their weapons hang loose across their legs.

  It was a strange way to do business: he used English and most of her answers were in Arabic, but it helped Harding that he repeated most of what she’d said, translated it. In the business, she represented a charity from Europe of eco-freaks who wanted nothing more or less from their money than to have the most complete survey of flora and fauna in the marshes, with particular emphasis on the bird life. He did not contradict her, but pointed out that the area of the marshes she had chosen for her valuable, welcome research was not inside the triangle that had as its apex the confluence of the Tigris and Euphrates rivers and was the widest, most accessible part of the wetlands, but was hard up against the Iranian border. She spoke of the importance of the habitat. He spoke of the sensitivity of the frontier zone. She told him of the value placed on the wildlife of the marshes, its uniqueness and also its vulnerability. He told her of the suspicion, if her presence were known, of the Revolutionary Guards who patrolled a few kilometres down the bund line. She said she carried references and letters of introduction from people who were in the élite of government. He said it was ‘interesting’ that none had accompanied her on her research journey.

  She held her line, Harding reckoned, and he held his.

  She said she was trained in the preservation of wildlife. He did not accuse her of being in the employ of Britain’s intelligence service.

  She sparkled and flattered. He had mischief in his eyes and humour.

  She remarked that the charity backing her could be generous to those who smoothed paths. He responded that the marsh people would always be grateful to those who showed meaningful generosity.

  It was, to Harding, obvious that her cover story wasn’t believed, nothing of it.

  They liked each other. The sheikh let her know he had a brother who sold real estate in California, and that another brother had been hanged by order of the old regime in the Abu Ghraib gaol, that he himself had been imprisoned, then released, and allowed to return to lead his people but – of course – had never willingly served Saddam Hussein and the Ba’athists. Harding watched the dance played out. The sheikh could drive away, head for the army camp at al-Amara, report her presence and earn credit for future favours. Also, he could send someone across the border to the first road-block on the Ahvaz road and tell the men manning it that he had brought a message for an officer of the Revolutionary Guard Corps. That would earn him money and he’d be repaid also with safe passage for smugglers bringing him opiate paste for onward selling.

  Harding, seven years with Proeliator Security and fourteen with the American marines, did not play cards for money – never had. The aunt who had raised him regarded any form of gambling as the devil’s work. Card games, he assumed, were about bluff and trickery. Who, now, tricked whom? Who could depend on a bluff not being called? He watched, listened, and his mind flitted from the sheikh sitting on the crate and his Jones lady now cross-legged in the dirt. His thoughts had moved on . . . Strange guys, neither to his liking. He didn’t think that the older man or the younger one would have joined him on the whore hunt in Dubai, or would have been with him when he shivered at night on street corners or shared the lie he lived. Neither would have made him laugh or drunk with him until they were unable to stand, but he would go to his Maker defending them. Why? Loyalty was the creed he lived by. As loyal as the men from a marine platoon had been who’d fought their way through towards four of them holed up in a house as crowds gathered and cut off a retreat route. Loyalty was a duty. Whether they could stay in place and exercise the loyalty owed to the two men who were forward depended on her ability to negotiate.

  The radio stayed silent, and the guys up ahead had nothing to report. Hours ticked by and little time was left. He could imagine a scrape, the weight of the camouflage gear, the flies, ticks and mosquitoes, the smells, hunger and thirst.

  The sheikh might sell them to his own military or to the Iranians across the border, and be well rewarded by either. She might buy them time. They negotiated: a local leader of education and authority over a swarm of peasants and an officer of an intelligence agency; they were equals. He didn’t play card games but had watched others: she had only a fistful of dollar bills and a sweet, girlish charm.

  He couldn’t say how the game would play out. He thought hard on the guys up ahead and the moon had risen high, and the mosquitoes had gathered in droning clouds. If the sheikh reckoned a better deal lay elsewhere, pushed himself up off the crate and walked back towards his car, then it was over for all of them, and loyalty to the guys, far forward, was well fucked and bust.

  ‘It is deniable because . . . ?’

  ‘It is deniable because it is illegal.’

  ‘Who sanctioned it?’

  ‘From high up, someone sitting on the top of the mountain, but don’t look for a written minute, young ’un. You’ll not find an electronic trail, and don’t imagine there’s schedules of meetings. Look back at it.’

  ‘What am I looking back at?’

  ‘Start with the people you met, the transport there and the place, then focus on the people. The transport was unmarked and you can lay good money, or bad, that somehow the flight records have been mislaid, and no flight path was filed or can be found for the chopper, and the big house takes guests but nobody signed a register. Anyone goes back to that house and tries to prove we were there in the face of bland denials, it won’t be provable. Their grandson was killed by one o
f those bombs, side-of-the-road IEDs, and they’d rather like the bastard who built it to be killed, put on a flat slab of granite in a wilderness, left as carrion for the birds. Are you getting the picture?’

  ‘What about the people?’

  ‘Was there anybody of seniority, anybody who cut the mustard – had authority, was natural with power, expected to be listened to? If this had been a police operation there would have been a commander, perhaps an assistant chief constable. They weren’t there. Nobody of rank was . . . Had one of them been allocated he would have called in sick. Any bastard with a career worth preserving, a pension to look after and the hope of a gong, would have stayed away – and they did.’

  ‘You called him Gibbons and I called him “Boss”. What was he?’

  ‘A journeyman. They’re stacked shoulder to shoulder, that type, at the Box and Six. They’ve reached a plateau of promotion, going no higher and too bloody frightened to quit, walk out and find a job in the marketplace. They hang about, do what they’re told. They thank God they’re still coming up to London on a commuter cattle truck, allowed to have a bloody briefcase with EIIR in old gold on it and still – just about – belong. Maybe, in his time – forgiven, not forgotten, held in the files – there was one of those messy little matters that he could be reminded of when they wanted someone to go down into the sewers. The American was Agency, would provide the cash and be looking for one last hurrah before heading to Florida and condominium life. Then there was the Israeli, humourless little bastard, the liaison for the hit – it’s sub-contracted out and the Israelis are happy to slot Iranians of sufficient sensitivity, likely queue up for the chance. The major is exactly that, not a general or brigadier but a man who will have dirtied his hands in the sand defusing those bombs. What I’m saying, young ’un, is that these are the people who fight wars, not the ones who start or finish them. Then there’s us.’

  ‘What are we?’

  ‘We’re deniable. We never existed and never came here, and there’s no record of us . . . And then there’s only the lovely Alpha Juliet. I wouldn’t hold your breath.’

  ‘Hold my breath for what?’

  ‘For the belief she’s different from any of the rest.’

  ‘Explain.’

  ‘It’s her shout. Miss Alpha Juliet’s the instigator. Put it together. Give you a good ride, did she, young ’un?’

  ‘None of your business.’

  ‘My business, that she handled the recovery of a device from which DNA could be extracted, and put assets on the ground to verify that this target matched the sample. Why not have those same folk keep hanging round there and listening for the gossip, whatever? Because they’re dead, and because the likes of them have fast burn-out. Luckily dead because they were thieved from, could have been worse. There’s a security apparatus in Ahvaz, down the road from here, where they’re skilled at doing things to fingernails and testicles. They know where the body shows up most for pain. In case you listened to the rubbish talked at home about torture, truth is that it works. Locals don’t have fieldcraft – they don’t have the backbone of training and skills, so they bring in you and me. I’m vain and like to be asked, and you’re an idiot who doesn’t know what questions to put. The whole operation is down to pretty Miss Alpha Juliet, who’s hard as pig metal and would lie through her teeth for the cause.’

  ‘What’s the cause?’

  ‘We came to Iraq looking for flower petals thrown under the tracks of the tanks. We were liberators. The politicians basked in it, and it lasted a few weeks, but we hung around a few years. We destabilised and put a new kid on the block as far as power went. We handed influence to Iran. They, the good mullahs, didn’t want Caucasian troops right up close and personal on their borders and set their clever people to work on shifting us out. Their bombs did it. They reduced us to regiments of men and women cowering in barracks, and our military operations ended up as “force protection”, which is army jargon for looking after your own arse and your own base and searching for an “exit strategy” with a whiff of respectability. But when that’s inflicted on you it’s predictable that you’ll hate. Hate who? Hate the bastard that tweaked the old lion’s tail. The lion now is moth-eaten, has bad teeth, and fleas crawl over him. The target had a hold of the tail and abused it. The lion wants to show it still has some useful claws.’

  ‘Nothing to do with turning a scientist, bringing him over, getting him to switch sides and provide intelligence?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘About revenge?’

  ‘An act of vengeance. Some caution against, and others revel in it. But we’re not, young ’un, in the hands of the cautious. The ones who’ve won the day would talk of “the long arm” and “making the bastards look over their shoulder”. Most of all they talk about “sending a message”, and the Israelis like sending them, and that’s why they’re on board.’

  ‘You know all this because?’

  Foxy growled, ‘Because I’m smart enough to listen – and while you’re chatting her up in the vehicle, then screwing her, I’m talking to her guards, rather sad guys who are growing old but don’t know how to, who’ve gone out of the military family and can’t replace it. They like to talk. I don’t suppose you did much talking or listening while you were screwing her.’

  ‘It’s illegal?’

  ‘Of course it is.’

  ‘Under international law?’

  ‘Under international law, and likely under the law practised on the High Street in Wolverhampton, Warrington or Weymouth.’

  ‘That wasn’t explained,’ Badger said, flat.

  ‘You seemed up for it, a chirpy volunteer.’

  ‘I was.’

  ‘Sow the seed and reap the whirlwind.’

  ‘Yes. Thank you, Foxy.’

  ‘Pity you never had an education, young ’un, and ended up so ignorant.’

  It was time to open the last water bottle.

  He packed the case. She sat on the end of the bed.

  There was little talk between them. She spoke only when she needed to indicate to him which clothing he should take from the wardrobe, and which underwear from the chest. Earlier she had asked him what she should take, and he had replied that it would be better if she did not parade her faith: she should be modest but within limits. She had allowed him to choose what was appropriate. It was the only time in their married life that he had decided what she should wear. He was concerned that she had lost the will . . . Her last decision had been concerning the children. He was quiet as he moved about the room and his voice was subdued. The children, Jahandar and Abbas, were in his and Naghmeh’s bed: he and his wife would sleep that night till dawn, when the car would come, with their children between them. It had been her decision. He had not argued.

  The blinds were up and some of the glow from the security lights played through the open windows. She should have had the windows closed, the air-conditioning switched on, the flies and mosquitoes kept out – she would have slept better. He had not challenged her. A mosquito flickered close to Jahandar’s face but she did not swat it away. He had suggested Naghmeh undress and get into bed, but she had shaken her head. It was because he, in the consulting room at the hospital in Tehran, had demanded more expert attention. Perhaps he refused to accept the inevitable, perhaps he denied dignity to her and heaped stress on her.

  It was past midnight.

  He closed the suitcase and applied the small padlock. He carried it outside the bedroom and put it by the front door. He looked out. There was purity in the silver strips of the moonlight, and crudeness in the bellowing of the frogs. It was said that the marshes, the waters and the reed beds were the cradle of civilisation. He felt humbled – and unworthy. It was the place of great artists and great scholars, great scientists and great leaders: he was the maker of bombs that killed young men.

  He went back into their room.

  She asked, ‘How will it be in that town?’

  ‘It is where they make the sweet that i
s marzipan, with the almond taste. They have been making it there for two hundred years. I saw it on the net. It is very famous, the marzipan they make there. We will bring some back for the children.’

  He could say no more. He would have choked on his sobs. He turned from her so that she should not see tears on his face, and she held him.

  It should have been a night of triumph but, with the food barely eaten, conversations hardly started, introductions not completed, the consultant had pleaded a headache.

  He could not have said that his wife, Lili – elegant in a gown of understated expense – showed any sympathy. He said he wanted to go home, to the villa on Roeckstrasse. There was no headache. It did not concern him that she had entered this reception in her social diary some four months earlier, that friends and peers were there, and that it was an opportunity for her to show off her husband in an atmosphere of wealth and privilege. He held her hand tightly, said that the headache destroyed his enjoyment of the occasion and demanded that she accompany him home. She stood her ground, dug her stilettos into the Rathaus floor.

  He did not belong. Never would and never could. In the afternoon, or early evening, of the following day it would be demonstrated to him that his life was not berthed in the pretty, affluent city of Lübeck, capital of the historic Hanseatic League of celebrated traders, home of the writer Thomas Mann, given the accolade by UNESCO of a World Heritage Site. It was not his home. It was where he lived courtesy of marriage, and where his name had been altered to make it more acceptable, his ancestry disowned. The next afternoon he was to be ‘called back’, as if a long unused door had been opened again. His home was not Lübeck – the restaurants, the beer, the river trips, the quaint passageways and homes so lovingly restored from war damage, the boutiques and the university – but was across continents. The man who had come from the embassy in Berlin, his cheeks encrusted with stubble, had dragged him back from the dream. He had no place here. He was from Tehran. His father and mother were martyrs of the war with Iraq, had given their lives to the Islamic Republic, killed in the front line while helping the wounded. He had been educated in Tehran; the state had trained him. A professor of oncology at the University of Medical Sciences had given him love and a family. He had shown his devotion to the state by working in the slums of south Tehran. He thought that a rope was tied around his ankle and he had been allowed a degree of freedom, as a horse was allowed to graze. Then the rope had been jerked and he was dragged back into a compound.