The man asked how good it sounded now, and Rem, understanding that the figure represented his potential monthly earning, not his yearly gross, admitted that it was starting to sound very, very good. Kuwait had paid well, except the agency had subtracted a sizeable monthly fee. This guaranteed considerably more.
When Rem said he’d like to think about it, the man sucked in his breath and placed his hand flat on the papers.
‘Sure,’ he cleared his throat, ‘of course you do. You can’t take a decision like this lightly. You need to consider it, think it through. I understand. I can hold this offer for a week. Think about it, talk it over, do whatever you need to do. If it takes more than a week I won’t be able to offer the same package. We have quotas, and once those are full we won’t be hiring any more. This is our final drive, there aren’t so many places. I’m offering the last of what we have. It’s a favourable package. If you need a week, take a week. I’ll hold it for you. I can’t promise any longer.’
Rem took up the pen, but said that he could not sign without speaking first with his wife.
The man pushed the papers forward.
‘It’s four months,’ he said, ‘you’ll be back before anyone knows you’re gone.’
* * *
Rem folded the contract into his back pocket as he came out of the building, the shift in temperature, from crisp air-conditioning to the humid outdoors, made him hold his breath. As he unlocked his car door he noticed Rob sat on the barrier across the parking lot, an attitude about him, a deliberate wait. A man smoking with intent, thin legs stretched out, looking like the slightest gust would push him over.
‘You didn’t sign anything, did you?’
Rem again wanted to explain what he was doing — just the once.
‘I didn’t sign.’
‘No? Not yet, but you will. You’ll go home and think it over. You’ll think about the money until it sounds so good you can’t see the harm in it. Be careful, though. Take a good look at these people before you agree to anything.’
Rem didn’t have the heart to explain how he’d done this before, as good as. What could be the difference? A complex in Amrah City? A hotel in Kuwait City? Two contained environments.
Three security guards came out of the building and waited under the awning, arms folded. ‘This is public property,’ Rob shouted across the road. ‘I have every right to be here.’
The men watched but kept their place.
‘They think they know me. I’m not a journalist,’ he said, ‘I’m an interested citizen.’
* * *
The two men sat outside the Intercontinental bar on a balcony overlooking the highway. Rem watched the cars and cabs turn off for the terminals, the hive-like hum of the highway, the hotels, the concrete spill of the parking lot and the approach to the airport, he felt part of a larger vista — the wind carried breadth and distance, a scope of land running right the way to Nebraska, Wyoming, the idea of a prairie holding a sense of potential, of unknowing. He let his eye hop over the billboards running alongside the airport approach — hotels, airlines, credit bureaus — as Rob paid for the drinks.
Six weeks with a fifty-thousand-dollar bonus from Geezler.
No tax.
‘I’m not saying the money isn’t good. They get kids direct from high school, promise them three, four times as much as the military, then whisk them out, and what for? You know how many contractors have been killed this year?’ Rob stabbed out his cigarette. ‘You don’t want to know. The equipment is substandard, nothing can cope with the heat or the sand. They say they’ll provide protection; the military won’t touch the gear they use. And the place you’ll be staying — they can’t protect you, whatever they say. Security is a joke. I tell you this for free. If you go, stay clear of the military. Have nothing to do with them, they’re leaving, they don’t care what happens next. It’s only HOSCO that won’t admit it’s over. Avoid Iraqis whenever possible. Don’t go there to make friends. Get in. Get out. Better still, get a job managing food services, or something so remote no one knows you’re there. Have nothing to do with guns or any kind of munitions. At the moment Amrah City’s nice and quiet, but it won’t last long. All this talk of rebuilding? They’ve poured millions into reconstruction, to satisfy agreements that no longer stand. It’s about taking one more bite out of that apple before they dump the barrel. Nothing is being done right. The whole thing’s failed. The idea that they can rebuild a dying city right at the edge of the desert is a dumb idea cooked up in Washington where they don’t know anything about Amrah or the Arab mentality. Fact is, no one can control the districts, they think they have one place settled, and then the next day they’re right back where they started.’ He lit another cigarette. ‘You signed, didn’t you. I know it. You haven’t said a word.’
In the air, still, that sense of space. Rem held up his glass and closed his eyes.
Fifty thousand dollars, in hand, plus wages, no tax, every cent he earned. Money for his business. Money for their debt. Money for Cathy’s medical. Plenty of money.
* * *
He called Geezler. Read from his notes, and broke the day down, hour by hour. He repeated Rob’s concerns verbatim. Allowed himself a little joke when speaking about Steve, but had to admit, in the final analysis, that the man didn’t seem to know his subject.
‘There was pressure,’ he said, ‘and it was confusing. I’ve had an easier time buying a car. They come across as desperate.’
Geezler became most interested when Rem began to talk about the contracts. ‘They follow a script,’ he admitted, ‘how did it sound?’
‘Unclear. They could stick to the information. Give a few hard facts. Even with the contract it just was hard to follow.’
‘You’ve done a good job. I’d like to use you more. I really would.’
‘Would you offer more than fifty?’
‘You’re considering this?’
‘More than fifty?’
‘Fifty is my discretionary limit. But you’re considering this?’
‘I can’t say I’m not tempted.’
‘I’m guessing that you’ve already decided.’
* * *
The men from Unit 409 were called to a meeting. One of HOSCO’s division directors, a man from Hampton Roads, Virginia, intended to visit Amrah and wanted to meet one of the teams in situ. He’d spend an hour at the compound, inspect the site, and most likely be accompanied by a photographer. Rem sat next to Santo and wondered what, actually, was the reason for the visit.
‘This isn’t to honour us,’ Santo shook his head, ‘this is PR. You’ve seen the news? The protection. The vehicles. The body armour. It’s all sub-substandard. Might as well be wearing targets. He’s here because of Fatboy getting shot through one of their shitty vests. Some lawyer smelling trouble has made them do this.’
Rem sat back, Fatboy’s notebook in his hand.
‘What are you doing with that?’
‘You’ve seen this before?’
Santo looked Rem in the eye. ‘Depends.’
‘On what?’ Rem scoffed, this was absurd. He’d either seen it or he hadn’t.
‘I’ve seen it.’
‘The names?’
Santo gave a shrug as a yes.
‘You’ve seen the names?’ Rem opened the notebook on his lap. ‘Then you know what all these crosses are about?’
Santo took the book. ‘Fatboy was keeping a slate.’
‘Betting? I don’t follow. On what?’
‘On who was going to get hit. Fifty per contractor. One hundred if they worked internal with military or security. Two hundred if they worked over the line. Hit. Maim. Kill. There’s hit, which is just hit, nothing more, maybe something superficial, anything that heals or is non-essential. Accident or deliberate, doesn’t matter. Loss of anything smaller than a hand, fingers as such, ear, nose, anything they can reconstruct classifies as a hit. Then maim, pretty obvious, no? Non-replaceable damage, loss of limb, use of limbs, sight, dick, you name it. Then there’s kill. Kill speaks for itself. See, he marked the odds with crosses.’ Santo flicked through the book. ‘It’s a shame about what happened, because it was just getting started. I mean it’s been going for a while, but it was just getting properly started. These guys,’ he pointed out the names on the first page, ‘they’re small. They never go out. Waste of time. This place would have to take a direct hit to get money on them. The big money is on these guys. You pay two hundred to start, because they’re more exposed. Anyone working over the line is more vulnerable, so naturally you pay more. See here: Pakosta, Watts, Chimeno, these are the prime candidates. They work in transport, security, and comms. They go out every day.’