Behind them a group of vehicles waited to mount a ramp into the open dock of a C-130 Hercules — the entire tail split open for loading.
The guard struck his hand up to his earpiece. As far as he knew Tom Markland was no longer at Southern-CIPA. ‘Howell likes to rotate his boys. He’s gone already. You can speak with the bursar but it won’t do you any good.’ The officer pointed to the aircraft.
If they walked over, he’d radio the bursar for them.
‘What’s his name?’ Sutler fell back as they walked toward the Hercules.
‘The bursar?’ Kiprowski looked shocked. ‘I thought you had it?’
‘I can’t remember.’
‘I think it’s Hispanic. Like Ramirez? Hernandez?’
‘Leave it to me.’ Pakosta walked confidently ahead. ‘These are my people. I know the language.’
Sutler pinched the bridge of his nose. This wasn’t helping. Rem kept pace, fascinated to see Sutler flustered. A forgotten name could be a bad omen.
While Rem had seen these aircraft before, it was only now, on approaching, that he appreciated its size. Pakosta craned to see inside and laughed. Two forklifts worked in alternation, one in, one out, each picking up one pallet at a time. The pallets were loaded with square white blocks wrapped in clear plastic, each about the size of a washing machine, which the forklifts brought down to the runway and set on either side of the ramp under the aircraft’s vast stubby grey tail. Inside, two other forklifts drew the pallets closer to the loading bay.
‘That’s money.’ Sutler pointed at the pallets.
Rem didn’t believe him. Pakosta swore. Kiprowski wanted to take a closer look.
‘I’m serious.’
‘How much do you think that is?’
Sutler shook his head. He had no idea.
A man of tight proportion, the bursar, came out from the aircraft’s belly, a clipboard in hand, clippered hair, pressed shirt, a figure from another generation.
‘You’re Stephen Sutler? You’re looking for me?’ He picked Sutler out of the group and offered his hand. ‘How can I help you?’
Sutler explained that they had come to collect money and that arrangements were made by HOSCO directly with Tom Markland.
‘It doesn’t quite work that way. This is earmarked for the ministries. Some goes to the projects, but that’s not my say.’ The bursar held the clipboard up to his chest. ‘But I can tell you yours isn’t on my list. You’ll need to speak with the CAs at the regional office. They hold some currency in the offices, so he might have it there for you. Now I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.’
Rem couldn’t take his eyes off the pallets, bright white blocks, with the sun hard upon them. One block alone must surely represent more money than he would earn in his entire life, and there were how many? Twenty-three, twenty-five, nine, thirty-four pallets, so far, sitting about them.
* * *
Sutler explained the shipments: the money was divvied up prior to shipping and sent directly to the regional offices, in this case from Newark to Amrah City, as they could not trust ground transport once they were on site. The first batch had been set with dye packs which had burst when the pallets were off-loaded and set in the sun, necessitating the destruction of $1.5 million. It wasn’t just a myth, they’d brought in a special team to dispose of the money, incinerated it right on the airfield. The men Sutler needed to suck up to were much like the bursar, wormy officials, thinner than starved cattle, whose self-worth, it seemed to Rem, was increased by their proximity to so much money. These were the managers. The men who guarded the money and manned the transports were from Special Services provided by HOSCO — heavy-set men, wrestlers dressed in police-department drag, with black flak jackets and automatic weapons, sunglasses so dark you couldn’t see their eyes, so they struck a kind of irony and seemed to be playing themselves, feature-version, not quite real.
Security had increased since Rem’s first visit, and they found the compound barricaded behind a concrete blast wall and double wall of sandbags topped with razor wire. Out on the street a guard post and a row of concrete bollards with chains reached between them cut access to the road. The worry of a car bomb (or suicide bomber bounding over the barricades making it right to the front of the building) made security a clumsy affair of blocks and stoppages. Inside, sandbags obscured three-quarters of the windows so the offices took on a dry air of reflected, indirect light.
They were met inside the entrance by an officer dressed exactly like the bursar, who introduced himself as Howell’s clerk. Squires, Markland’s replacement, would see them in Howell’s office. Rem had seen some young people working in Iraq (among them Fatboy, Samuels, Chimeno, Kiprowski, and Pakosta, who ranged from their late teens to their early twenties), but this boy looked like he didn’t yet shave, and Rem found this disturbing. He wasn’t an officer but an intern. The clerk assured Rem that there would be protection once they’d taken possession of the money; someone would see them back to the airport. There was also money for that. ‘People watch the office,’ he gestured to the street, ‘they know what happens here. Somehow the word gets out.’
Sutler struggled with the information that Markland had left. ‘I spoke with him yesterday. He said nothing. Everything was set up with Markland.’
‘Squires has been briefed.’
While they walked to Howell’s office the boy made a casual comment that the building needed retrofitting. They were going to ask HOSCO to make a survey to see what needed to be done to make it more secure. ‘These aren’t solid, these are prefabs, not much more than a trailer. We’re a whole lot more vulnerable than we look. You could kick your way into here.’ The boy spoke in a flat voice. ‘You’d be surprised what you have to think about.’
The clerk knocked on Howell’s door.
Squires called out that the door was open: on Howell’s desk sat a small packet, a box which might, in other circumstances, contain a cake.
‘Just you two.’ He pointed his pen at Sutler and Kiprowski and told them to close the door.
* * *
The clerk made his excuses and Rem waited with Pakosta who still seemed steamed about the earlier exchange with Kiprowski. He dressed his agitation with further indignation: Sutler.
‘You’re sure you’re not making a mistake?’ he asked. ‘He’s soft. He has stuff going on you know nothing about.’
‘There’s no other stuff, Pakosta. He’s employed by HOSCO the same as you and me.’
‘Why don’t you ask your wife? She knows more about what’s going on here. You have no clue.’
Kiprowski came out of the offices and signalled to Rem. ‘You’d better come in.’
Rem found Sutler standing in front of Howell’s desk, looking small. Kiprowski stopped at the door.
Squires spoke without looking at Rem, his fingers spread to play chords at the edge of his desk. ‘Can you tell me how HOSCO know about the shipments to Camp Liberty?’
‘What shipments?’
Squires pushed his chair away from the desk. ‘The shipments of military property to Camp Liberty.’
‘You mean the boat?’
‘What has this to do with HOSCO? This is none of their business. These matters lay outside their interests. I’d like to know how they know.’
Rem shrugged. ‘I don’t see the difference?’
Sutler bowed his head. ‘He’s telling us we can’t have the money. He wants to know how HOSCO managed to hear about the transports being made to Camp Liberty.’
‘I told them. Why wouldn’t I?’
Squires shook his head. ‘Those vehicles and the property on which they are kept are managed by the United States military under our authority. Why didn’t you come to us? This is Southern-CIPA’s business, it has nothing to do with HOSCO. You will leave them where they are.’