Killing for the Company

But Chet had heard enough. That fragment of conversation he’d heard suggested that the PM was being pressured by the Americans to go to war. But everyone knew war was coming anyway. Certainly Chet could read the signs. Was there anything more to it than that? Probably not. Suze McArthur was just a kid with a head full of ideals. There were a million anti-war campaigners like her the length and breadth of the country. They didn’t understand the real world. They didn’t understand that sometimes war was the price you had to pay for peace.

He realised as he made his way back down the corridor towards the lift that the price for the morning’s events could well be his job. And all thanks to that stupid girl. The bald guy from the Grosvenor Group was clearly annoyed, and it was nothing to him that the chances of Chet finding another job like this were practically zero.

‘Happy fucking birthday,’ he muttered as he limped out of the room. It was time to go find himself a drink.

SIX

Somewhere near the Jordan-Iraq border.

A car drove through the dusk. A red Toyota, automatic transmission. Its chassis showed signs of wear — a large dent along the side, a broken brake light and rust patches all along the undercarriage. But despite being beaten up, it was lovingly decorated. A picture of Saddam Hussein, the disciple of Muhammad, was propped on the dashboard and surrounded by little fairy lights; multicoloured garlands were pinned along the top of the windscreen. Arabic pop music played softly on the radio.

The driver had a short beard. Normally his hair was brown, but he’d dyed it black and applied enough fake tan to darken his skin a few shades. He wore a traditional Arabic dishdash, which fitted loosely enough for his shoulder holster and ops waistcoat to be invisible. It was stained and crumpled, saturated with the previous wearer’s sweat and stinking on account of it. The driver had gone to great pains to make sure he looked like the lowest of the low. The poor were looked down upon where they were headed. They were anonymous. Invisible, almost. That could be a distinct advantage.

The figure in the passenger seat wore a burka: a plain, black outer garment and a long face veil with a small grille for the eyes. At this moment the passenger was staring ahead, along the straight, featureless road with desert on either side. Then he spoke, his voice several octaves lower than the average burka-wearer, and with a Derry accent. ‘If you think I’m wearing this shit once we get in-country.. ’

Luke Mercer winked at him. ‘Finn, relax. You look fucking gorgeous. We bump into any ragheads, you’ll be fighting them off with a shitty stick.’

‘Fuck you, Luke.’

‘Worst comes to the worst, you might have to. You know, for the sake of appearances and all…’

Finn muttered something under his burka that Luke didn’t quite catch. He suspected that it wasn’t entirely complimentary. Finn had been sulking ever since he’d lost the toss to decide who’d be Abdul and who’d be Aisha on their little sortie into enemy territory. Still, Finn was four years younger than Luke and definitely the junior party in their little unit. From what Luke knew about him he’d moved out of the Province to the outskirts of Farnham before he was a teenager and his only ambition in life had been to join the British Army. Nice enough fella, but a bit of a trigger-happy reputation. He was new to the Regiment, though — just six months in. It wouldn’t take long for him to settle down, but as far as Luke was concerned, the coin had landed the right way up.

They were driving along the main road leading east towards the border with Iraq, which by Luke’s estimation was about twenty klicks away. For a main thoroughfare it was pretty empty. Not surprising, really. Given the way the Yanks and the British were flexing their muscles, Iraq wasn’t exactly a top tourist destination at the moment.

‘They still got us?’ Finn changed the subject.

Luke looked in the rear-view mirror. The road might be empty, but one vehicle was staying close: a white pick-up, manned by four other members of their squadron.

‘Rear-echelon motherfuckers,’ Luke said.

Luke and Finn wouldn’t be risking the official border crossing. Too dangerous. The car and its occupants might look authentic to the casual observer; they might have forged entry documents; but it wouldn’t take much to find the gear stashed in the back: two Colt M4A1s — compact, efficient weapons with sight and torch fitted — a Minimi light machine gun, an anti-tank rocket and the chunky black boxes and red wires of their comms gear. There were NV goggles, two boxes of grenades — fragmentation and white phosphorus — and several small blocks of C4 explosive. All in all, not a cargo they really wanted to start explaining to Iraqi border officials.

They drove in silence for a couple of minutes, before approaching a side road that veered off in a southerly direction. Luke slowed down while Finn took a GPS unit from the glove box. ‘This is it,’ he said.