The Kills: Sutler, the Massive, the Kill, and the Hit (67 page)

Clark, compelled to spout the same fact each time he came to the Beach, insisted: ‘It took six hours to get here from Kuwait. Then six days to take the rest of the country. They fucking threw Iraq at us.’

Pakosta complained that he’d missed out. ‘I was too young.’

‘I wouldn’t worry about it.’ Santo joked. ‘The military won’t take people like you. You have to pass basic psychometric tests.’

‘Why are you always riding my back?’ Pakosta cracked open a can and blew off the foam. ‘We’re sitting here like turds attracting flies. We should be doing something useful.’

‘You are,’ Sutler interrupted. ‘You’ll have plenty to go home and talk about.’

‘I said something
useful
.’

Sutler didn’t react, and Santo asked where Pakosta got a word like
turd
from. Samuels started to laugh.

‘You’re not the only one with an education, Samuels.’ Santo took the roll-up out of his mouth and picked at his lower lip. ‘Isn’t that right, Pakosta?’

‘I can read.’ Pakosta pointed at Kiprowski, who sat apart from the group beside one of the flares with his head down to a book. ‘Like Kiprowski-boy there. Is he reading? Is he seriously fucking reading? What are you reading, Kiprowski?
The Princess Diaries
?’

Kiprowski continued to read and ignored the taunts.

‘Hey, Kiprowski,’ Pakosta needled, ‘how do you know your dad is gay?
Cause his dick tastes like shit
. Hey, Kiprowski. Kiprowski. Come here, I want to tell you something. Kiprowski. Come here, man. Kiprowski, don’t ignore me. I love you, Kiprowski. Hey Kiprowski, come on, what’s with the book? I said don’t ignore me.’

Kiprowski closed the book about one finger, stood up, and walked off.

Pakosta sat upright, kicked sand after Kiprowski. Sutler handed Rem a beer and Rem brought it to Pakosta, stood close in front of him and held it out.

‘We didn’t finish our conversation last night.’ Rem held on to the beer as Pakosta took it.

‘I’m not Arab enough for him.’ Pakosta huffed, snatched the beer, and wiped his mouth. ‘Why are you always looking after that boy? And by the way, how’s everything at home?’

Rem walked with Sutler to the fire, and suggested they start cooking.

Sutler battered the side of the barbecue and said he had an announcement. Rem split open packs of meat and handed them to Santo and Chimeno. Santo squeezed the meat to check it wasn’t frozen and muttered something Rem couldn’t catch. Chimeno gave a nasty laugh.

‘Things are starting to move. Like I’ve said, we’re the top choice for the Massive, and in preparation they’ve released funding to start the development of this site.’ Sutler held up his hands. ‘Tomorrow I go to Southern-CIPA to collect the first funds.’

The group looked to each other, unimpressed.

‘That’s a big fat nothing, then.’ Pakosta held up his steak and seeing Kiprowski come slowly back up the dune said: ‘You’ve come back for me. I’m fucking irresistible.’

Again, as earlier, the team divided into clear groups. Only Santo and Kiprowski would directly acknowledge Rem or Sutler.

Sutler rose early, and as Rem sat outside the cabin and slipped his feet into his boots, Sutler came at him busy with ideas.

‘You don’t check for scorpions?’

Rem looked down at his boots and admitted that he only ever remembered after he’d put them on.

Sutler wanted to hustle Southern-CIPA. ‘It isn’t just about the money, they need to get behind the project. Show some support.’ That’s why he wanted Rem along. ‘Support. We’re losing more than time just sitting here doing nothing.’ Sutler laid out his plan: today they would go to Amrah City, collect the first amount of money released for the project. Paul Howell would set up the accounts. Everything was in order. As soon as the decision became official HOSCO would send in workers, more than likely, who would need a work camp, which meant a need for more amenities. This would take time to put together. ‘This is what we should be working on. So today we can make a proper start.’

Every conversation with Sutler now revolved around the Massive. Even Kiprowski had commented. Any subject could be bent to the project.

‘What time is Steven getting up?’

‘Steven?’

‘Kiprowski.’

Both men looked at the cabin.

‘About five minutes after the transport arrives.’

Sutler folded and unfolded his arms, checked his watch.

✩

✩

It wasn’t until Rem was in the helicopter that he considered he didn’t know what 1.4 million dollars looked like, and while he doubted that it would come in fives and tens, it would be difficult to barter for equipment with anything larger than a hundred dollar bill. He couldn’t imagine how big or heavy the package would be, or if it would be one package or a number of packages. When Sutler spoke with CIPA they asked him when he would be collecting the shipment, and the word
shipment
sounded large and heavy and difficult to secure. And why bring the money back here? Wouldn’t most of the services, equipment, arrangements be made through Southern-CIPA in any case? Wasn’t it their duty to ensure they hired Iraqi labour, brought in the right local services (which were all, again, based in Amrah)? Not including himself or Sutler, the six men they had on base weren’t enough, and despite Sutler’s assurances, their contracts didn’t cover them for this work. Would Sutler pay them separately? In cash? All Rem knew was that they would be met as soon as they landed and taken to the Southern-CIPA’s Regional Office for Procurement. It was his assumption that they would bring them back to the airfield. Nevertheless he asked Pakosta to come with them for added security.

Rem assured Sutler that neither Pakosta nor Kiprowski understood the real intention of the visit. But given the porousness of information at Camp Liberty it didn’t surprise him to hear Pakosta brag that he had worked one summer delivering diamonds and cash from the mart on Wabash to jewellers and banks in the Loop. This was in Chicago, about three years ago, when he was seventeen. The pay wasn’t great considering the risk – it only occurred to him later that the work was actually dangerous. The diamonds were carried in a backpack, nothing more. There were no guards, no one to watch his back, just him and a backpack coming in and out from the cutters’ and setters’ studios to the shops and dealers on State Street. He blended in with the students and tourists, no one had any idea. He would be crossing the road with dirt-poor people, and if you’ve ever visited Chicago you see some dirt-poor people, who had no idea that right next to them, right within reach, was more money than they would ever make, all in one bag.

Pakosta leaned forward and asked Kiprowski if he missed Chicago.

Kiprowski nodded, and Pakosta sat back.

‘Shut your face. It’s a shit-hole. The whole town is a shitty place.’

‘I like Chicago.’ Sutler shook his head at Pakosta, and straightened the headphones.

Kiprowski turned away and smiled to himself.

Pakosta shrugged. ‘Why don’t you two just get a room?’

When the blades fired up, the vehicle shook so violently that it seemed to Rem that something was wrong, but no one else appeared alarmed. Kiprowski, shoulders shaking, kept his face turned to the window. Sand curtained up and pillowed out, and they rose with the blades’ vibrations riveting through them. The motion made Pakosta laugh, and the pilot asked him to switch his comm-link off. Pakosta whooped and cheered, he loved this, he said, his hips, his shoulders, his head shivering, everything about it. Shot out of a gun. He slapped Kiprowski’s thigh and asked if he liked this. He wasn’t nervous, was he?

*

Following Sutler’s example, Rem and Kiprowski ducked as they disembarked, and ran in a squat. Pakosta swaggered across the airfield with his pack on his back. Sutler held out his badge as he approached the hangar and said to the first of two guards that he was supposed to meet Tom Markland.

The guard held out his hand and stopped them. The pass wasn’t enough. Immediately exasperated, Sutler said it would have to do. ‘Tom Markland,’ he said, ‘is waiting.’

The guard conferred on his radio. No, there wasn’t any Markland at CIPA any more.

Sutler struggled to explain. ‘Markland. The secretary to the Deputy Administrator. Tom Markland?’ When this produced no result he asked to meet with the bursar.

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.