Still, curious enough to show up, Rem accompanied Santo to the meeting.
* * *
The commissary was sectioned off with small rope barriers to mark out a rough rectangle. Men from the unit sat on either side of the tables interested in the boxes stacked alongside the vending machines. Two of the tables were marked with a ‘reserved’ sign.
The Division Chief arrived with a posse of bureaucrats: uniformly dressed in white shirts, chinos, buckskin boots.
‘Jesus Christ,’ Santo whispered, ‘would you look at that. The Banana Republic hive mind. They sleep in one big bed, swap clothes. Have interchangeable limbs. They have no genitals.’
Rem watched the group approach, the Division Chief concealed by the huddle, then, as the deputies spread out, revealed. Large in every sense, he wore a white linen suit and carried a light-blue handkerchief with which he mopped his forehead. Disproportionate, tall, and so overweight that walking appeared cumbersome. The man swung his arms, breathed through his mouth, had a sprightly edge, and seemed, at least to Rem, uncommonly alert.
Santo swore under his breath. A chuckle stirred through the unit, then the men fell unusually silent.
The Division Chief was introduced by the section head, Mark Summers, who appeared decorous beside the chief.
Santo complained that he hadn’t heard the Division Chief’s name, and the answer came back, whispered down the row: Mann, David Mann. Division Chief for Europe.
‘What happened to the last guy? The one for the Middle East?’ Santo asked in a voice that was not so quiet. ‘You think he ate him?’ The men looked back and considered the possibility.
Summers stood beside the boxes and began to speak. His shirt was wet at the armpits, his hair matted. The boxes contained new protective jackets.
‘These,’ he said, struggling out one of the black flak vests, ‘are what we’re offering all ground personnel. Gratis. You can take these now.’ He opened the vest, spoke about the new neck guards, the crotch-bib.
‘What did I tell you?’ Santo nudged Rem. ‘I must be psychic. They’ll take pictures now, and this goes in the company magazine. Gets sent to the newspapers.’
To Summers’ embarrassment the men stopped in their seats. Rem kept his eye on Mann and was surprised that he did not intervene, but appeared, instead, to study the men.
Summers, quieter, squeakier, said that the men could sign for the jackets at the PX. ‘One each,’ he said. ‘One.’
* * *
Rem hung around the visiting party as Summers and Mann were shown ‘the ovens’. He overheard Summers ask if he could see the men’s quarters, and the mistake stuck with Rem, not because of its irony, but for the lack of understanding. Neither Summers nor Mann had visited a live compound before. They couldn’t have. The accommodation was no different from HOSCO’s usual provision: inadequate for a combat zone. As European Division Chief, David Mann could be forgiven. Summers had just never left his office.
Rem followed with his arms folded.
* * *
That evening Rem found Paul Geezler in the commissary. Paul Geezler. In Iraq. Amrah City.
Rem picked a soda from self-service and stood at a distance. Geezler wore a blue shirt with HOSCO sewn in white along the right breast pocket, a plate of pasta-bake in front of him.
Aware that he was being watched, Geezler looked up. ‘Gunnersen.’
‘What are you doing here?’
‘I’m with the Division Chief. One day. In. Out.’ Geezler indicated the seat opposite him. ‘Join me. I was hoping to speak with you.’
Geezler shifted his tray to make room, asked Rem if he was eating. ‘I haven’t heard much from you lately?’
The air-conditioner focused a fine stream between Rem’s shoulders.
Geezler spoke of his business, a tour to Singapore then Indonesia. ‘Denpasar. They insist, even now, on a face.’ He gave a resigned shrug. ‘You like it here? It’s a sincere question. Do you like your work?’
‘It’s complicated.’
‘Have you thought about staying?’
Rem couldn’t help but laugh.
‘You’ve been useful.’
‘There hasn’t been much happening.’
‘I have what I asked for.’
‘I want to get through this without trouble. I had a friend—’
‘The boy who shot himself.’ Geezler nodded as if considering a personal sorrow. He paused, set down his fork. ‘I don’t think we’re using you to your full advantage. I’m thinking you’re in the wrong place.’
‘I have two weeks.’
‘Hear me out. What if I could offer you something uncomplicated? How would that sound?’ Geezler’s eyes were a perfect blue, disarming in a man. ‘People are frightened of you. Did you know that?’
Rem shrugged. ‘I want to go home. There are things happening, I should be home.’
‘Maybe you want something safer?’
‘Safer is good. Home is better.’
‘How is that business of yours? Can you go home and start that up again? Will the money be enough?’
Rem looked at the man and focused on not giving a response.
‘I need a manager. Have you heard of Al-Muthanna?’
‘It’s the desert. In the south.’
‘Remind me what you earn?’
Rem held up his fingers.
Geezler nodded again. ‘What if you earned that in one month?’
‘Total?’
‘Total. No tax, as per.’ Geezler held up his hands and looked at them. ‘You’ll need to decide quickly.’ He asked for a napkin. ‘I see you as a manager. What do you know about the burn pits?’
Rem pushed a pack of towelettes across the table.
‘Tell me. What have you heard?’
Rem shook his head.
‘Everything we’ve brought here needs to be taken away. What can’t be taken away needs to be burned. We have four sites. Camp Bravo, up north. SB Alpha and Camp Victor, both central. And Camp Liberty, south-west. Every one except Camp Liberty is manned. I need a manager to assemble a team. No more than seven men. You’ll be your own man. It’s secure, remote, and absolutely safe. HOSCO have set up the pits, the systems, the deliveries and sites are independent.’
‘How long?’
‘Two months. It’s hard to tell. Until we close them down.’
Rem reflected for a moment. Kiprowski in a paper hat, a white bib, tall and lanky, waited behind a counter, head forward, arms behind his back, bored.
‘You can pick whoever you want.’
‘You need an answer now?’
‘I leave in three hours,’ Geezler checked his watch, ‘but let me know by the end of play tomorrow. I won’t ask anything else of you.’
* * *
It took Rem an hour to find Santo down in Transport watching the TCNs being dispatched. ‘Makes me feel bad watching them go like that. You ever seen those convoys?’
Rem said he hadn’t and followed Santo across the central quad.
‘I have a proposal. There’s a man here from HOSCO and he’s asked me to put together a team. Seven men to go down to Al-Muthanna. They need a team. He’s asked me, but I think I could persuade him to take you if it’s something you’re interested in?’
‘Why would I want to go? Things are working fine here.’
‘It’s double the money.’