The Protector (12 page)

Stanza needed a series of notable stories to propel him into the limelight where the biggest publishers in the country would notice him. His crime, when he eventually committed it, was nowhere near as heinous as those committed by many others - at least, not to those outside the business. But for those within the industry it was precisely the kind of corrupt reporting practice that needed to be stamped out.

Stanza had been searching for an attractive heading for a political piece about the state’s governance that he was developing. He found exactly what he was looking for in an enticing quote made by a local politician that he read on the wires. But the quote came from an interview that the politician had given to another journalist and Stanza needed it to sound as if it had been given to him. So he came up with what he thought was a simple way of making it appear as if that was what had happened.

Stanza telephoned the politician and requested a brief phone interview since he did not have the time to meet him personally. When the man came on the line Stanza asked him if he had indeed given the quote concerned. The politician acknowledged that he had. Stanza thanked him, ended the conversation and finished off his piece in a way that clearly conveyed to the reader that the quote had been made directly to him.

Two days after the piece was printed the
Herald
’s managing editor called Stanza into his office. Also at the meeting were the managing editor’s boss, the executive editor, and
his
boss, the publisher himself. Stanza was dragged over the coals for his ‘lie’ and the only reason he left the office with his job intact was because the publisher wanted to bury any scandal and preserve the paper’s reputation. But Stanza took with him a warning - delivered in no uncertain terms - that he did not have a future with the
Herald
, nor with any other paper for that matter. The management strategy was to keep Stanza at the
Herald
until the incident became ancient history and then dump him.

A year later Stanza was called into the office of Patterson, the paper’s foreign editor. Due to the notably unimproved attitude of his bosses towards him, Stanza suspected that the time had come for him to be handed his cards. But to his surprise he was offered an assignment to Iraq. Patterson did not hesitate to tell Stanza that he had in fact been due to be ‘let go’ that week. But as matters stood the paper had a problem and Stanza was the only solution. Patterson’s dilemma was that no one else at the newspaper wanted to take the risk of going to a war zone that had already claimed the lives of more journalists than any other in history. Patterson hinted that if Stanza did an outstanding job - and it would need to be exactly that - the paper
might
not be in such a rush to get rid of him. The way Stanza saw it was that if he did an outstanding job he could make Iraq his reporting home. He thanked Patterson before leaving the office but when he closed the door behind him he wondered why he’d bothered.

Stanza carried his two heavy bags and a laptop across the arrivals lounge towards a large set of double doors beyond which bright daylight shone. He stepped through them onto a covered concourse where a dozen or so hardened and grizzly-looking Caucasian men were standing around. They looked like mercenaries or ex-Foreign Legionnaires, unshaven, their hair cropped, obviously waiting for people to exit the terminal. Many had pistols strapped to their thighs and wore bulging khaki waist jackets containing radios, spare magazines and God only knew what other military-style gadgetry in the multitude of pockets and pouches. As Stanza passed between them he noticed that the English some of them spoke came in various accents while others appeared to speak a range of Eastern European languages.

Stanza emerged from this collection of ruffians and dropped his bags at the side of a road that ran along the front of the vast terminal building. A handful of vehicles were parked against the kerb and directly across the road was an immense three-storey concrete car park, the lower floor filled with vehicles.

‘Jake?’ a voice called out from behind him.

Stanza turned to see a fit-looking younger man heading towards him. The fellow had short neat hair and a closely cropped beard and was wearing a short-sleeved check shirt. He could have mingled easily with the other mercenary types, although his look was not as menacing. He wasn’t sporting a combat-ready waist-coat, for one thing, and he carried no visible weapons. However, there was an air of controlled, efficient toughness about him and Stanza suddenly felt like a tourist who had arrived in the wrong country.

‘Jake Stanza?’ the man asked again, with a friendly smile.

‘That’s me,’ Stanza said dryly, doing his best to appear self-assured and cool about being in the most dangerous place in the world.

‘Bernie Mallory,’ the man said as he held out his hand.

Stanza shook it, suspecting that the man was English - although he would have to hear him talk a little more before he could be certain.

‘I’m your security adviser,’ Mallory said.

‘I guessed that much,’ Stanza said light-heartedly.

‘How was the flight?’

‘Great,’ Stanza replied, looking around and wondering where the transport was. Several people in suits walked out of the arrivals lounge and were ushered into a couple of heavy-duty 4×4 vehicles by some of the armed thuggish-looking types.

‘Our transport is in the car park,’ Mallory said, pointing across the road. ‘Those are VIPs,’ he added, suspecting that Stanza was wondering why he had to walk to the car whereas the suits had been met at the terminal. ‘Let’s try and beat the rush,’ Mallory said, stepping past Stanza onto the road. ‘We don’t want to be hitting the BIAP road with the rest of these targets,’ he said, ignoring Stanza’s bags.

Stanza picked up his bags and followed. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked Mallory who was a few feet ahead of him and heading towards a footpath into the car park.

‘We’re all targets,’ Mallory said, half-turning his head. ‘Westerners. The BIAP road is the most dangerous in the world. Averages a couple of kills a day . . . They know when the flights come in from Amman, the bad guys, and it doesn’t take much savvy to figure out that half an hour to an hour later the passengers will be coming out. They’ll be looking for a target.’

It got darker and cooler as they entered the vast concrete car park. Stanza followed Mallory between dozens of civilian cars, many with armed thugs hanging around them.

Stanza’s laptop slipped off his shoulder and he shuffled on, trying to ignore the added discomfort and wondering why his security guard had not offered to help with his bags. But the BIAP road was a more important subject at that moment as he thought about the dangers they were to face almost immediately after landing.‘Isn’t there another road out of here?’ he asked.

‘Yep,’ Mallory replied. ‘It’s quieter but if you do get hit you’re more isolated. At least on the BIAP road there’s a chance that a US convoy might come by if you’ve had a contact. Then it’s down to luck if they get involved.They don’t always bother when it’s a fight involving civilians.’

Stanza wondered if the man was being serious or just trying to get the new journalist in town all wound up. He decided not to ask any more questions for the time being - he’d try to assess things for himself as they developed. When Stanza had first heard that he was to have a personal security officer in Baghdad he’d been hostile to the idea - not that he’d had any choice in the matter. But that had been back in Wisconsin and despite his uncertainty about this Brit he was beginning to suspect that there might be some sense to it. Apparently the security adviser was just part of the life-insurance package anyway, which was expensive enough for a journalist in Iraq.A personal security guard significantly reduced the premium. Patterson would not have hired one for any other reason. Certainly not out of any altruistic concern for Stanza’s well-being.

They carried on into a darker, dustier section of the robust concrete structure. The only light came in through narrow openings on either side, which left the centre area quite dark. Trash was everywhere and there were strong smells of sewage, rotting garbage and urine.

Stanza and Mallory walked past the seemingly endless rows of concrete pillars that supported the vast low ceiling. Most of the vehicles they passed were SUV types, four-wheel drive and solidly built. More armed men were positioned among them, looking like modern gladiators, all adorned with weaponry of various types. One group they passed was guarding four heavy trucks modified with what looked like steel plates that were all painted matt black.
Mad Max
came to Stanza’s mind as he studied them. The last vehicle had a large board tied to its rear with the words ‘GET BACK OR I’LL KILL YOU’ written on it in large letters and an Arabic translation beneath.

Mallory led Stanza around the corner of a broad ramp that came down from the floor above. Ahead, Stanza saw two very ordinary-looking cars parked away from the others.Two smartly dressed Arab men in their thirties were leaning back against one of the cars, chatting and smoking. They stood up and put out their cigarettes as Mallory approached.

On seeing Stanza struggling with his bags, one of the Arabs hurried forward to help him.The other Arab took Stanza’s laptop from him.

‘Easy with my computer,’ Stanza called out, his voice echoing in the concrete cavern as the men opened the boot of one of the cars and loaded the luggage inside.

‘These two are Farris and Kareem,’ Mallory said, introducing the Iraqis who paused to beam and nod hello. ‘They’re our drivers.’

‘Hi,’ Stanza said, forcing a smile.

The men went to hold out their hands, unsure if Stanza was the polite type or not. Iraqis were quite formal when it came to greetings. When meeting one of their own kind they usually broke into a pantomime of traditional gestures and phrases.

Stanza took their hands in turn and shook them somewhat limply in what he reckoned was an adequate effort to bond with the natives.

‘D’you have body armour?’ Mallory asked.

‘No,’ Stanza said, apparently unaware that he needed any.

From the back of his car Mallory dragged out a heavy flak jacket covered in a durable blue cotton material and with a stiff high collar. He held it out to Stanza. ‘Try that,’ he said.

‘Do I put it on now?’ Stanza asked, looking at it in Mallory’s hands.

‘I would advise it,’ Mallory answered dryly.

Stanza took hold of it. As Mallory released it, it fell to the ground, its weight almost wrenching Stanza’s arms from their sockets. He hadn’t been prepared for that and after taking a firm grip on it he heaved it up and plonked it on the bonnet of the car.

Mallory opened one of the car’s front doors, took off his short-sleeved shirt to reveal a thin nylon T-shirt covering a taut muscular torso and lifted a light pair of armoured plates off the passenger seat. They were connected by a series of Velcro straps and Mallory placed them over his head and fixed them tightly on his shoulders and around his back and chest.

Stanza removed his jacket and after a brief study of the flak jacket’s configuration he put an arm through an opening and heaved it on as if it were a saddle.

‘I thought these things were lighter nowadays,’ Stanza said.

‘They are but the
Herald
can’t afford ’em,’ Mallory replied as he put his shirt back on and buttoned it up. ‘That one must be ten years old.’

Stanza zipped up the front of his armoured vest and, clearly unable to get his jacket back on over the top, stood and waited for Mallory’s next command. It was all so very foreign to him. ‘As long as it works,’ he said, trying to sound relaxed.

He watched Mallory pull out of a bag a rifle that he guessed was a Kalashnikov, load a magazine, cock the gun loudly, apply the safety catch and put the weapon on the floor beside the front passenger seat. Beside it was a large pouch with several spare magazines protruding from it. The sound of two more weapons being cocked startled Stanza - the noise was accentuated in the cavernous place - and he looked around to see the drivers casually placing semi-automatic pistols into their hip holsters, which they then covered with their jackets.

Stanza’s discomfort became more palpable.

‘You set?’ Mallory asked Stanza, a serious tone to his voice. ‘A quick brief, then.’

The drivers came over to Mallory, the confidence of those familiar with their responsibilities evident in their relaxed yet alert body language. Stanza remembered his wallet in his jacket pocket and decided to put it in his trousers.

Mallory looked at him. ‘This is mostly for you,’ he said, sounding like a schoolteacher.

‘Oh, right,’ Stanza said.

‘You’ll travel in the back of my vehicle,’ Mallory said to Stanza. ‘I’ll be in the front. Kareem will be in that car following behind. His job is to tail us at a distance without looking as if he’s with us. If anything goes wrong, if we get hit and our car fails - flat tyre, whatever, anything that stops us - Kareem will pull in front of us and we’ll debus into his car. If we run into a contact, a firefight or an IED - improvised explosive device - we’ll try and push through if we can.You get your head down but be ready to act if I tell you. Just do whatever I say, OK? If we have to debus you stay close to me. D’you understand all that?’

Stanza nodded since it was all he could do. He didn’t feel as if he had any time to think. He had questions but didn’t want to appear nervous or overly concerned. He knew they were driving to the hotel but he was not prepared for these warlike precautions. He felt as if he was taking part in a military operation.

‘What route do you want to take?’ Mallory asked Farris.

Farris shrugged to indicate his indifference as he glanced at Kareem for his thoughts. ‘Blue four, seven, then railway red two,’ he said, more in the tone of a suggestion than a statement.

Kareem also shrugged. ‘That’s good,’ he agreed. ‘My brother he called, said IED one hour past at black nine flyover. There may be ’nother so we not go there.’

‘Sounds good to me,’ Mallory said. Then, to Stanza, ‘You done a hostile environment course of any kind?’