by Dc Alden
Derek had to go.
He checked his new BlackBerry. Nothing. Yasin was too shrewd to call or send a text. If Derek got away before Yasin made good on his threats his team leader wouldn’t have a leg to stand on. Roy had already started building a cover story. Entitled ‘My Job at Heathrow’, he’d created a rough video diary using the movie software on his laptop, overlaying the covert video he’d shot with text about his working day at Terminal Three. It was crude, but someone might just buy it. After that, Yasin could whistle for his twenty-five grand. Roy would be in the clear, free. He hoped.
Max bounced towards him, face smeared with chocolate, empty wrapper clutched in a sticky hand. ‘Good boy, Max.’ He dug inside his daysack for a packet of wet wipes, cleaning his son’s hands and mouth. Max didn’t struggle, just stood there obediently, eyes closed, dark lashes fluttering as Roy worked the wipes across his face. Even after Roy had finished the boy stood there, immobile. He was a good kid, beautiful. Roy felt a rush of emotion. He would miss him terribly.
‘Go on, then. Go play.’
Max clapped his hands and skipped after his football.
Taking him out of school was a good move. If everything went bad Roy would go down for years, and Vicky would never bring Max to visit him. This might be his last chance to spend a little alone time with his son, maybe reconnect with him on some level. He didn’t hold out too much hope but he was enjoying it anyway. And maybe Max was enjoying himself too.
His phone trembled in his coat pocket. As he reached for it a voice said, ‘Roy Sullivan?’
Roy spun around. A man loomed behind him said, tall, wide. Menacing.
Roy twisted off the bench. ‘Max, come here.’
The boy ignored him, puffing across the grass after his ball. Roy placed himself between them. His phone rang again and he thumbed it silent.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,’ the man smiled.
A yank? Maybe Nate had sent him, some sort of intimidation attempt. No, he decided. Vicky’s fiancé wasn’t the type. Sammy, definitely. Not Nate.
‘What do you want?’
Max trotted over, the ball at his feet. Roy swept him behind his legs. He felt Max’s arm wrap itself around his thigh. He couldn’t help himself. He looked down, smiled.
‘That’s a nice kid. How old is he? Five? Six?’
‘None of your business. What do you want?’
‘I’ve come a long way, Roy. I’ve been rehearsing this moment in my head for a long time. Now I’m here, well…’
Roy scooped up his daysack and looped it over his shoulders. ‘You’ve got five seconds, then I’m gone.’
The big man nodded. ‘Fair enough. My name is Frank Marshall. Your brother James worked for me in Iraq.’
Roy froze.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Exactly that. We both worked for TDL Global.’
Roy’s mind raced. There’d been a few over the last three years, timewasters, cranks, even a journalist who’d quickly moved on to other things, but he’d never met anyone in person. Until now.
‘How did you find me?’
‘Through your website domain name. I saw your interview on MSNBC.’
‘Really? Where?’
‘New York.’ The man smiled, his eyes taking on a faraway look. ‘I remember the exact moment when I heard your brother’s name. Hit me like an electric shock.’
The eyes refocused.
‘Your brother didn’t disappear in Baghdad, Roy. He was stationed at a secure compound inside the Al Basrah Oil Terminal on the Iraqi coast. That’s six hundred kilometres south east of the Iraqi capital.’
Roy’s eyes widened. The man knew about the ABOT. He remembered the voicemail, the anxious note of his brother’s voice.
‘…I’m working down on the coast, Roy. Something’s not right down there. Something weird going on…’
‘How d’you know Jimmy was at the ABOT?’
‘Like I said, he worked for me.’
The man reached behind his neck, removed something, and curled it into his hand. He offered it to Roy. ‘He would’ve wanted you to have that.’
Roy stared at the St Christopher in his palm. Then he turned it over.
Safe travels. All Our Love, Mum, Dad, Roy.
Emotion surged, threatening to choke him. The medallion in his hand mesmerized him, reconnecting him to his brother, an invisible bond that stretched across time and space. But the spell was quickly broken. Suddenly the St Christopher weighed heavy in his hand. It told him something else, a truth he’d shut out for so long.
‘Jimmy’s dead, isn’t he?’
The baseball cap bobbed up and down. ‘I’m afraid so.’
Roy slumped onto the bench, winded. He scooped Max up and held him close. It wasn’t a shock, not any more, yet it still felt like a punch to the guts.
‘When?’
‘Three years ago. At the ABOT facility.’
Dead, this whole time. ‘How?’
The man held out a plain brown envelope. Roy fixed the pendant around his neck and shifted Max onto his other knee. He took the envelope and turned it over in his hand. It was unmarked, unsealed.
‘What’s this?’
‘The classified report into your brother’s death.’
Roy weighed the envelope in his hand, his eyes flicking between it and the man standing before him. ‘Who are you exactly?’
The stranger sat down next to him. When he spoke he did so quietly, his eyes scanning the landscape in all directions.
‘I worked for TDL Global for many years, running covert operations for their Security Division. SD is a private army, the biggest in the world, made up of the best ex-military contractors money can buy. Your brother was assigned to a special project, his tasking to provide security at a TDL subsidiary called Terra Petroleum on the Iraqi coast. He didn’t like what he saw there, tried to do something about it. It cost him his life.’
Roy was stunned. Denied the information he’d craved for three years, he forced himself to take it slowly. One step at a time.
‘It’s Marshall, right?’
‘Frank.’
‘You knew Jimmy?’
Frank shook his head. ‘Not personally. I managed the security operation for the programme he was assigned to. It’s all in the report.’
Roy weighed the envelope in his hand, the pill that would banish the pain of uncertainty. A restless Max reached for it, trying to grab it with his chubby fingers. Maybe Max wanted to know what happened to his uncle too. So be it.
He took a deep breath and thumbed open the envelope. He extracted two plain, neatly typed pages of text.
No corporate headings, no logo.
Roy turned the pages over and back again.
‘This is it?’
Frank nodded, watching the world over Roy’s shoulder.
Roy began to read…
CONFIDENTIAL
SUBJECT: JAMES SULLIVAN/UK NAT/CL5
CONTRACTOR/DECEASED//
REF: FMSDMS2177/TKANE/281133//
DIST: /CL 1-2/EYES ONLY/MESSINA//
*************************************
JAMES SULLIVAN (63176311) was a UK National contractor assigned to the MESSINA programme. Sullivan was a member of BAKER TEAM and worked a 28/5-day shift/R&R pattern, rotating between the TERRA PETROLEUM corporate compound in Baghdad and the Al-Basrah Oil Terminal, southern Iraq. As per SOPs, Baker Team was tasked to provide shore based and mobile escort duties for shipments and key personnel, transiting to and from MESSINA as part of—
‘What’s Messina?’
‘Just keep reading.’
Roy complied. There was much that seemed irrelevant, military speak and logistical stuff. It was the second page that made Roy’s heart pound.
--During the course of Baker Team’s fourth rotation to ABOT, Sullivan was observed taking clandestine photographs of marked shipping crates. His actions were reported and a local surveillance operation was authorised. Sullivan was observe
d undertaking several illicit activities over a period of three days, culminating in a nocturnal trespass at the compound offices. Sullivan was challenged by a security patrol and found to be in possession of several classified documents. He was shot while attempting to escape. Sullivan’s personal cell phone was found to contain twenty-nine images of classified materials and eight external shots of the MESSINA facility itself. Tech team have confirmed that these images were not transmitted in any form or downloaded to any other digital device. A search of Sullivan’s personal possessions and subsequent interviews with Baker Team personnel proved inconclusive. Sullivan’s body has since been removed from site and disposed of. In conclusion--
Roy scanned the cold text several times. Finally he said, ‘What happened to him?’
‘He was laid to rest at sea, out beyond the offshore facility.’
‘Laid to rest?’ Roy scoffed. ‘With military honours and a brass band?’
‘I wish that were true. He deserved it.’
‘Why did you keep his St Christopher?’
Frank touched the skin around his neck. ‘I was going through a breakdown. Your brother’s courage made me feel ashamed. I took it, to remind me what he’d risked. To remind me what a worthless piece of shit I was.’
Roy sat in silence, his emotions tumbling like washing in a machine. He held Max close. Jimmy was dead, and Roy had never given up on him, not until the pain of reality had begun to invade his sleep. Now the dream made sense. His brother had spoken to him from beyond his watery grave, and that gave Roy a strange sense of comfort. He felt something else too, a stirring resentment directed at the man next to him, a man who’d suddenly stiffened. He stared over Roy’s shoulder.
‘Do you know a woman, mid-thirties, dark brown hair, five-eight?’
Roy frowned. ‘Why?’
‘Because a lady of that description is headed straight for us. And she looks mad.’
Roy spun around.
Vicky.
He stood up, swinging Max to the ground. Vicky marched towards them, high-heeled boots clicking on the path, a rain mac belted around her waist, designer handbag slung over her shoulder. Roy braced himself for the storm. He wasn’t disappointed. She opened up from ten paces away.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing? How dare you take him out of school!’
‘I needed to see him—’
‘Liar!’ she seethed, snatching at Max’s hand. She bent down, pulled the bobble hat off his head, smoothed his ruffled hair. She held his hands and cooed in his ear.
‘Stop panicking. He’s fine.’
Vicky pulled the hat back on, adjusted Max’s scarf. She grasped his hand.
‘How dare you do this? I’ve called you a dozen times, for Christ’s sake.’
Roy reached for his phone, saw the string of missed calls. ‘I’m sorry. I just needed to spend some time with him, that’s all.’
‘Why? Max has always been a chore in the past. What’s so special about now?’
‘Nothing. I needed to see him.’
‘On a school day? And what’s this rubbish about taking him to a specialist?’
‘I made that up, just to get him out. I was going to have him back by lunchtime.’
‘Thank God one of the other mums saw you.’
‘They should mind their own business,’ he snapped. Then he shook his head. ‘Look, I’m sorry. It’s hard to explain.’ He held up the report, the wind plucking at the pages. ‘I’ve got some news about Jimmy. This is Frank, by the way.’
The big American lifted his cap. ‘Ma’am.’
Vicky looked bemused, suspicious eyes flicking between Roy and Frank. ‘What about him?’
Roy hesitated, fingering the chain around his neck. Maybe now wasn’t the time. ‘I’ll tell you later.’
Vicky held his gaze for a moment longer. ‘Max needs to get back to school.’
Roy knelt down, gave Max a hug, felt his tiny lips on his cheek. ‘I think we’ve bonded a bit,’ Roy said.
‘I’m glad.’ Her words sounded hollow. ‘Say bye-bye to Daddy.’
Max did, a silent wave of farewell.
‘Don’t ever do this again,’ she warned. ‘Next time I’ll call the police.’
Roy held up his hands. ‘I promise.’
She scooped Max up and hurried away towards the park gates. Roy and Frank watched her go. It was Frank who spoke first.
‘You let that one get away?’
‘Stupid, right?’
‘Very.’
Frank turned to face Roy. ‘Look, I know this news isn’t what you hoped for. Your brother was a popular guy, well liked and respected by his peers. Brave, too. I hope you can find some comfort in that truth. Closure, perhaps.’
Roy folded the envelope into his pocket.
‘Why was he taking pictures? What’s Messina?’
Franks eyes wandered around the horizon. ‘I came here because it was important to me that you knew the truth about James. I also came to warn you, to give you a chance to save yourself from what’s coming. I hope to God you take it.’
‘What are you talking about?’
Frank took a step closer. ‘Pretty soon the news is going to get bad and it won’t get any better. Before that happens you should find a place to live, far from any city, and learn to be self-sufficient. Liquidate your assets, buy gold, a gun too if you can, and stock up—water, tinned food, dried goods, fuel. Buy some good books on survival, food production, basic medicine. And stay away from people. If you do that, you and your loved ones will probably see it through. After that, I can’t say. But short term, you’ll live.’
Roy didn’t answer straight away. Instead he scrutinised Frank for the first time. His face was thin, dyed hair peeking beneath his baseball cap, dark clothes, running shoes. He was a strange one, and Roy sensed an air of danger about him. If he was Jimmy’s boss then he was probably a Special Forces type, and that made the danger real, yet Roy didn’t feel threatened at all.
‘You came here to help me, right, Frank?’
‘I did. I hope I have.’
‘Look, I know how Jimmy died. I need to know why. What’s TDL doing in Iraq that’s so bad it got my brother killed? He called me you know, before he went missing. He was scared.’
The American popped his collar up as a light rain began to spot the pathway. ‘It doesn’t matter, now. The clock is ticking, Roy. Leave town while you still can, before martial law is declared and the streets fill with the dead.’
Roy paled. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’
‘I’m talking about Messina. What I know will get me killed. I don’t want you caught in the fallout. Neither would your brother.’ He snapped his arm out, checked a high-tech digital wristwatch. ‘Just remember what I said. Save yourself, and your family. And good luck.’
Frank tried to walk away and Roy sidestepped into his path.
‘You can’t just leave it like that.’
‘I must. There’re things I have to do. People are coming after me.’
‘What people?’
‘Bad people. Anyone who gets in their way will die. I won’t put anyone else in danger, Roy. I have to keep moving.’
‘You said you were compelled to come here, right?’ Roy dug into his pocket, flapped the report in the American’s face. ‘And this is all I get? This and Jimmy’s chain? I need more than that, Frank. You owe me, and you owe Jimmy.’
Frank looked away, shook his head. ‘There’s no time.’
‘Then make time. You said Jimmy was brave, that his actions made you feel ashamed. Jimmy had a story, Frank. He’d want you to tell it to me. Please.’
The wind whipped around them. Frank swore under his breath. ‘Is there somewhere quiet we can sit, get a coffee?’
‘There’s a cafe, down the hill.’
‘You go there much?’
‘Hardly ever.’
Frank checked his watch again. ‘Okay, let’s go.’
They walked in silence across the park. R
oy’s life was already spinning out of control and now it was about to go faster. He had that feeling again, stronger now, that events were coming to a head. Jimmy still had a voice, something to reveal from beyond the grave, and Roy was about to find out what it was.
He shivered as the wind picked up and the rain began to fall.
The storm that rumbled over the horizon, the one that had troubled Roy for so long, was about to break.
Chapter Fifteen
They crossed the park to a quiet, tree-lined avenue, its quaint shops and gentrified houses a world away from the grey mass of the Fitzroy.
The cafe was wedged between an upmarket wine shop and an estate agent. The interior decor was pastel painted, the fittings, floor and furniture all fashionably distressed. Classical music played in the background. A tattooed girl smiled at them from behind a glass counter filled with cold pastas, meats and salads. Her nose stud winked under the hanging copper lights. She took their order. They took a seat in a quiet corner. Two young mums chatted at a table by the window. Babies bounced and gurgled on their knees. Frank watched them, watched the door, the street outside. The girl brought their drinks, two mugs of dark coffee.
‘Enjoy.’ She smiled and walked away.
Roy folded his arms on the table. ‘So, tell me about Jimmy.’
‘He was a brave kid. Stupid too.’
‘Excuse me?’
Frank smiled over at the mums. ‘Lower your voice. Your brother was stupid only because he underestimated the ruthlessness of his employers.’
‘What’s Messina all about, Frank? And why the bullshit story about him going missing in Baghdad?’
‘Initially you made some noise. Questions were asked. TDL wanted to avoid an investigation. The public don’t have much sympathy for hired guns, right? A man wears a uniform, takes a bullet, he’s a hero. The same guy swaps his uniform for Five Elevens and a corporate pay cheque, suddenly he’s a mercenary. No one cares about those guys. Missing or dead, people lose interest fast. The tactic worked.’
‘Jimmy was a pro. He’d never do anything stupid like leave the Green Zone by himself. I didn’t believe it from the start.’