The Protector (29 page)

‘I know that. They were on the television. I want to know who I can contact.’

‘And . . . and then . . . you will . . . kill me.’

‘You are not in a position to barter.’

‘My money. You will . . . keep it for yourself . . . I have taught you well.’

‘There is no money, Hassan. Your life is at an end. You are bartering for nothing. Tell me and I will send you on your way. If you do not, then I will leave you here for the rats to finish off. Think about it.’

Hassan understood and quickly came to terms with his drastically shortened future. Death did not horrify him, not as much as it would have appalled a person who had something however small to live for. Hassan had been an unhappy boy who had grown into an unhappy man. To him, no human life had any value beyond what it would fetch in ransom money, not even his own. He had never feared dying and this stoicism had nothing to do with religion. He did not really care what Abdul did to him. Perhaps the alcohol that he’d drunk made this acceptance easier but Hassan would not admit that. He knew this moment was his last and he grinned at the irony. ‘My . . . my father told me . . . my . . . my weakness would one day kill me.’

Abdul was not interested but allowed the man to ramble on in the hope that he would eventually tell him what he wanted.

‘The others . . . they wanted . . . to kill you . . . I said no.That was . . . my weakness.The old fool . . . he was right after all.’

Abdul realised that Hassan had accepted his fate: it was time to go. Despite his earlier threat to leave the man alive for the rats to gnaw he could not risk abandoning him like this in case he stayed conscious long enough for his brother Ali or the others to find him.

Abdul was about to deliver the
coup de grâce
when Hassan struggled to say more. ‘Fallujah,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you in hell.’ Hassan looked for his gun beside him, reached for it and wrapped his bloody fingers around the grip.

Abdul squeezed the trigger. The gun jumped in his hand, the noise making him flinch even though he had braced himself against it. Hassan’s head jerked back as blood gushed from his eye socket, his mouth gaping open. He moved no more.

Abdul walked out of the room and down the hall, opened the door without any difficulty, stepped outside and headed for his car. He tossed his pistol onto the passenger seat, dug the car key from his pocket, started the engine and accelerated down the road, tyres screeching. He passed Hassan’s house, turned the corner at the end of the road too wide, almost hitting a parked car on the other side, switched on his headlights and sped away up the road.

Twenty minutes later he came to a stop outside his apartment block, turned off the lights and engine and sat in silence while he absorbed the implications of the evening’s activities. He had achieved much more than he had ever hoped for or would have believed possible.There was no doubt that he had broken down many barriers since losing his hand but Abdul was shocked at the type and speed of the progress he had made. Then it dawned on him how he could have discovered these qualities in himself long ago had he put his mind to it. All those years of weakness could have been avoided.This night had proven how lethally competent he was when left to his own devices.

Abdul took a deep breath, pocketed his gun and made ready to head upstairs, no doubt to an interrogation by Tasneen. He would not tell her anything, of course. She would never be able to imagine how her little brother had killed a man that night.

Abdul climbed out of the car and took a moment to consider his likely fate from now on. The suspicion that he was on a great journey was even stronger now and that he was developing the skills to complete it. Fate had removed one of his hands but he was now more powerful than when he’d had them both.

Abdul looked to the sky as if he was staring into the face of Allah. ‘
Allah akbar
,’ he said softly. Then he walked to the entrance of his apartment.

11

Plans Within Plans

Stanza removed his headset, got up from in front of the computer, poured himself a cup of coffee and looked through the closed balcony windows over the city. He took a sip of the hot black liquid, enjoying just about the only reminder of home in this God-awful place while pondering the hour-long conversation he’d just had with Patterson. It was early in the morning in Milwaukee and the foreign editor had not appreciated being woken up by his bedside phone to hear Stanza on the other end of the line telling him to get to his computer for an important conversation.

When Patterson came online, though, he was in a better mood and immediately pressured Stanza for the story so far. When Stanza began by describing the immediate problems that faced them it was as if Patterson had not heard him. The man launched into a plethora of thematic suggestions of his own, based on the premise of a young heir to a fortune who fled a stifling future in the family business in search of love and adventure. Stanza asked if old man Stanmore would appreciate the monstrous-father inference but Patterson brushed the question aside. He said that every good plot and subplot had a protagonist and antagonist and that this piece was not simply news. It was an epic.

Patterson went on to impress upon Stanza the need to be prepared for several possible scenarios, at which Stanza rolled his eyes. The first and most ideal was young Stanmore’s imminent release into Stanza’s hands after the payment of a ransom. This would read like a hero’s triumphant return to his family after escaping death at the hands of vile Islamic insurgents.The
Herald
would, of course, enjoy the acclaim for their pivotal role in securing the young man’s release. Then there was the tragic scenario: young Stanmore getting his head cut off.
That
would read like a eulogy for a young life prematurely extinguished while in pursuit of love and adventure. Patterson suggested it should be written in the first person: ‘I did this’ and ‘I did that’, ‘I went here to speak to these people’, ‘I was approached’, ‘I investigated further.’ Stanza had no objections to this idea. Neither did he think Patterson had gone too far when he expressed a belief that the piece would have the potential for a Pulitzer Prize nomination.

Stanza eventually steered the conversation back to his main concerns: the need to find the people who were holding young Stanmore and open up a line of communication with them. To Stanza’s utter amazement Patterson said that he thought Stanza was already involved in that stage. Stanza’s frustration grew with every revelation of Patterson’s ignorance of the realities of Iraq. Finally, unable to contain himself, he burst out exclaiming that it was not a case of simply picking up the phone, calling directory enquiries and asking for insurgency headquarters and the offices of the Black Banner Brigade. Patterson did not appreciate the sarcasm.

When Stanza introduced the subject of money Patterson was not so responsive and simply made excuses about why there was no progress to report in that area. Stanza’s mood turned ice-cold at this point and he warned Patterson in no uncertain terms that the success of the story depended on hard cash. Stanza did not allow Patterson to interrupt and went into detail based on Abdul’s suggestions. The summing-up was simple: no money, no story. It was the first time that he had experienced Patterson unable to deliver a tirade in defence of an indefensible position. When Patterson finally asked how much money he needed Stanza held on to the first figure that came into his head, doubled it and then doubled it again. ‘One hundred thousand,’ he said.

Patterson went quiet for several seconds but then calmly said he would get as much of it as he could to Baghdad as soon as he found a quick way of doing it.

‘And the ransom amount?’ Stanza asked.

‘It’s being discussed.’

‘I need a ballpark figure at least.’

‘We don’t have one yet.’

Stanza felt it was safe to assume that no one at head office had been willing to start such a discussion.‘Fine,’ Stanza said. ‘My advice is to be prepared to part with five to ten million.’

Patterson was stunned.

‘Those are the figures the French and Italians are rumoured to have paid,’ Stanza said. ‘I’m afraid they’ve set a tough precedent for high-profile kidnapping payments.’

Patterson had little more to say after that and assured Stanza that he would get back to him as soon as he had talked with the publisher and old man Stanmore.

Stanza was satisfied by the way the conversation had gone and felt that his stock with the
Herald
’s management had greatly improved. It was now up to him to produce the goods. The only scenario Stanza wanted to see unfold was one where he made contact with the kidnappers and eventually negotiated young Stanmore’s release. But for the moment the chances of that appeared to be hanging on the abilities of one young disabled fixer and somewhere between the previous afternoon and that morning Stanza had for some reason lost confidence in Abdul. He began to doubt that he would ever hear from the man again: he’d sent him on an errand that was clearly out of his league. The question was who he could contact next. Mallory was his only source at present but having come up with that one-handed Arab youngster in the first place it reflected badly on him.

A knock on the door snapped him out of his thoughts. He put down his coffee and went to answer it. ‘Who’s there?’

‘Abdul.’

Stanza was surprised. Suddenly he hoped he was wrong about the young Arab. He would learn soon enough, he reckoned, and opened the door to see Abdul standing back politely. ‘Come in,’ Stanza said.

Abdul entered, closing the door behind him.

‘Want a coffee?’

‘No, thank you.’ It was less than twenty-four hours since his introduction to the team when he’d been so nervous but his self-confidence had soared since the previous night’s experience.

‘What have you got for me, then?’ Stanza asked.

‘I managed to track down someone involved with the kidnapping.’

‘You did?’ Stanza asked, his amazement followed immediately by suspicion. ‘How did you manage that, if you don’t mind me asking?’

‘I was in the police, remember.’

‘And you tracked down the insurgents who kidnapped Lamont?’

‘No,’ Abdul said, shaking his head and wondering if Stanza was being facetious or just plain stupid. ‘Most kidnappings are not carried out by insurgents. They are done by criminals who then sell those they’ve kidnapped to insurgents. Many of these criminals are known to the police.’

Stanza nodded. That made sense. He wanted to ask why the police had not done anything if they knew who the kidnappers were but he chose not to go there, for the moment at least. ‘And this person can help us?’

‘No . . . But he pointed to where we can look.’ Abdul paused to align his thoughts. ‘If you want to make contact with those who now have Lamont we will have to go to Fallujah.’

‘Why?’ Stanza asked. ‘I take it you have a reason to believe that Lamont’s there.’

Abdul had thought about it long and hard and it was an obvious choice in the end. It had been obvious to Hassan and had been the man’s last thought before he died. Fallujah had become a popular location with kidnap gangs over the past year. The bodies of several beheaded western kidnap victims had been dumped outside the town. The place was also the headquarters for the Sunni rebellion. Many of the rebels were also criminals and, being a Sunni himself, Hassan would know them or at least know how to make contact. Abdul had no doubt that Lamont was there. ‘It is the Black Banner Brigade that has Lamont,’ Abdul said. ‘And they are based in Fallujah.’

‘But we only need to make contact with those who have him. Surely they have a representative in Baghdad?’

‘I agree. But I don’t know who to ask.’

‘This man you met. He actually told you that Lamont was in Fallujah?’

‘He made that suggestion.’

‘Did you ask him if he knew a Brigade contact in Baghdad?’

‘No.’

‘Then go back to him and ask.’

‘That is not possible. He has gone and will never return.’

Stanza wished he had been at the meeting and had taken control of it.‘What about others? This guy didn’t kidnap Lamont alone.’

Abdul shook his head. ‘It is very dangerous, even with money . . . Fallujah is the best chance you have. The Brigade controls Fallujah. The military and the police will not be able to find Lamont easily. The Brigade will do business. They paid money to get Lamont and they will sell him for a good profit. They are businessmen.’

Stanza sipped his coffee as he contemplated the prospect of going into the infamous town.‘How would we get hold of someone from the Brigade if we went there?’

‘I have a cousin who lives in Fallujah. He would find someone who knows. That will not be a big problem . . . You are offering money, yes?’

Stanza nodded. ‘How much would we need?’

‘My cousin will want some. Not much. A thousand or two. But the insurgents? I don’t know. A lot. This will be discussed at the first meeting.’

‘And what about our safety - or should I say mine. I’m the wrong colour, not to mention the wrong nationality.’

‘My skin or my religion will not save me from them either. We will have the rights of negotiators. This is something they will respect as businessmen,’ Abdul said, reflecting on Hassan’s comments on the business sense of the insurgents. ‘Before you are introduced, I or my cousin would get assurance that they will accept you as a negotiator.’

Stanza could see a distinct change in the young man since the day before. He was far more relaxed and self-assured. ‘So you would go to Fallujah and prepare the ground for me to go there at a later date?’

‘That is possible.’ Abdul contemplated the idea. ‘But if I set up a meeting for you soon after getting there I would have to come back for you. Perhaps they will have questions I cannot answer. They might not trust me or believe me. They will believe you because you are a white man. And moving in and out of Fallujah is not easy right now. I think it is best that we go there, do our first piece of business and leave.’

Stanza could see the argument but that didn’t make it any easier to accept. Stanza might be white enough to initiate negotiations but at some stage the deal’s bona fides would have to be confirmed even further. Verification would be required that the transaction was ultimately being conducted by Stanmore’s family. Stanza would like to see some evidence of that for himself.

He decided to play along for the moment, as if he were planning on going to Fallujah with Abdul, and in the meantime see how it panned out. ‘How would we get into Fallujah? The Americans have the town surrounded.’

‘I will call my cousin. He will know how to get past the Americans.’

‘That doesn’t sound reassuring. I mean, I’m sure your cousin is a capable guy but there’s an entire army out there.’

‘It is impossible to cover every inch of ground, even for the Americans. There will be ways in.’

‘You’re sure about that?’ Stanza could not control the constant doubts he had about Abdul.

‘You have read of many insurgents from all over, called by their masters to move into Fallujah for the great battle against the Americans. They arrive every day and bring many weapons with them and the Americans cannot stop them. I have also heard that many of the car bombs that are used in Baghdad still come from Fallujah.’

Stanza had read stories about that on the wires too. He had also heard it from official American military sources. The insurgents’ defences were being strengthened and weapons were arriving from Iran and Syria almost daily.‘OK . . . So we find a way in.Then what?’

‘Then we will find the Black Banner Brigade and begin negotiations.’Abdul shrugged as if nothing could be simpler.

Stanza felt that he was in danger of becoming infected with Abdul’s optimism and had to bring himself down to earth for a reality check. Nothing went that easily, especially in Iraq. ‘We would drive, I guess?’

‘Yes. But you cannot use your existing drivers.They are Shi’a.’

Stanza suspected that Kareem and Farris would refuse to go anyway. But as far as he was concerned the fewer people the better - which raised the question of Mallory. Judging by the way the guy treated a simple drive to the Green Zone convention centre a jaunt to Fallujah would be way out of the question. But that would mean going without him. Still, a single security guard wouldn’t be much help against an army of insurgents anyway and another white man could only increase the danger. Mallory probably wouldn’t go anyway. The best thing was simply not to tell him. ‘You’ve not discussed any of this with anyone else? The drivers? Mallory?’

‘Of course not.You said I was not to.’ Abdul hoped that Mallory would not be brought into it anyway. ‘What would you like?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘What would you like me to do now?’Abdul watched Stanza, gauging him. The man looked doubtful about the operation and Abdul suddenly felt that he would choose not to go. The thought disappointed him and for the first time he found himself anxious for Stanza to act bravely. Abdul wanted very much to reverse the fortunes of Lamont but he had not realised until that moment that his heart was so very much in it.

Stanza went to the window in the hope of inspiration but all he could see was danger. ‘I’ll think about it. See what else you can find out about the route into the town, checkpoints, that sort of thing.’ Stanza needed more time to decide. His journalist side was shouting at him to get on with it. But it was the self-preserving side of Stanza that was holding everything up. He was now fully confident that Abdul would arrange things if he was given the go-ahead but the thought of climbing into a car and driving to Fallujah filled Stanza with dread. His hand reached for his gunshot wound that had begun to itch.

‘I will call my cousin. Perhaps he can make contact with someone in the Brigade today.’

Abdul’s words only increased Stanza’s anxiety. ‘That would be great.’

‘I’ll call you later,’ Abdul said as he went to the door. Stanza continued staring out of the window without acknowledging Abdul’s parting words.