Chapter Two

The dream woke Savage. He stared at the air con unit on the wall trying to remember. A woman's face, no body, a fall from height, a whisper in his ear.

'Why did you kill me?'

Just thinking of the voice made the hairs on his arms stand on end.

His eyes played over his room on base. Fresh carnage made it seem like the first time. It always did. Home for too long, he could leave everything behind in a moment. His only real needs cash, passport and a gun.

It also doubled as his office. In or out at any time of day or night, he didn't necessarily want anyone else knowing what he was up to. It had been used for interrogation, more than once. The echoes lingered.

A divider in the middle of the room kept his bunk and personal effects segregated. A bowl for washing in, some pictures on the walls. The colours in every picture: white on black with red somewhere in the background. The subject, always the same thing. The silhouette or shadow of a man seen from a distance. Different poses, positions and actions, but always the same faceless icon.

He didn't know why he liked it, somehow it just resonated.

On the other side was the office. Books and files on the wall, wide open desk, clean apart from computer screen and keyboard and the laptop plugged into them. Stacked paperwork, three folding chairs, lamp, an extra standing fan, for when the air-con packed in.

The dream had left him covered in icy sweat and upright on the bunk in the middle of the night, again. He waited a while longer for the guilty images to come.

Nothing happened. Beta-blockers, it seemed, worked.

If only he'd known about them years ago. Is that what woke him? The years gone by?

He padded over to the desk naked. The bag he'd taken from the dead journalist lay there. He pulled the blind and looked out over the rooftops. The cool night air tickled his skin, caressed aches and pains he hadn't noticed when he'd dragged Andre onto base.

He'd slammed into ex-Colonel Henry's meeting room and dropped the head on the desk with a cheery, 'Mission accomplished. One good man wounded, one scared man standing, permission to pass out, sir?' He'd fired off a mock salute and walked out again.

Henry, his mentor, would kick his arse. The other men around the table had been ex-military too, they liked authority, chain of command, all that.

Savage towed the line for years in his old life, did as he was told, been a good boy. And for what? Grief and heartache.

He'd had principles once.

Only six months after his arrival, a trophy video appeared on the company website. Bored operators with little experience shooting out civilian cars, killing Ahmed Bloggs to test their mettle, sometimes just for fun. The local police nearly started a minor war in retaliation.

Henry's hatchets came out. Savage one of them, Andre another. When they took the men's trigger fingers and gifted them to the local captain it never happened again. Not on this base.

Live by your principles Savage thought. Where the hell are they now?

He seized the journalist's bag, took out the journal and recorder, pressed 'play all files'.

The first recording was just the white noise of someone trying to figure out how to use the thing, followed by a woman's muffled voice.

He flipped open the journal. Every page thick with writing. Lots of different jobs. She'd been an immaculate reporter. Everything had a date, story name and location on it. The latest entry, July 14th, Press Con, 'Reconstruction Successes', US Army. Side interview: Abdul Dawood, Ministry of Information. Her clear soft voice came on the recording.

'This is Jess Price... sorry, is this on?' a beat, 'This is Jessica Price for Universal News, with me is Mohammad Al-Rashid, a member of the new reconstruction parliament who claims police units run by the Ministry of the Interior are operating sectarian death squads and re-opening secret prisons run by the former dictator. I'm here today to examine the evidence, Minister, please continue.'

'I've been investigating these reports for several months,' the minister said, 'and now I am forced to go public. The police threatened me with assassination if I continue.'

'Are these threats real?'

'Extremely,' he paused, swallowed, 'last week nine family members from out of town were turned away from my son's wedding. According to witness reports they were followed and executed—'

'Executed?'

'The flyers they left said: this is what happens to enemies of the administration, congratulations to the killers for their noble deed.'

The minister, a professional speaker, tempered his anger with perfect pronunciation.

'If you examine the films we shot secretly in the prisons, you will see hundreds of men held without trial. They are tortured, sexually abused and their families threatened with rape in front of their eyes—'

'Why?' she said.

'To secure confessions to crimes the men have never committed. If you had a choice between watching your family suffer and, well, what would you do Miss Price?'

If only he had the films.

He found the pen-drive in the bag, Arabic writing on it's side 'itbat' if you said it out loud. Its meaning: evidence or proof.

Nice signpost. Savage the uber-investigator strikes again, bonus time if this had been in the mission brief.

He woke the computer and, while he waited, read further back through the journal entries. A load of support info, names of ministers supposed to be in charge of the death squads, their main officers, dates and times of specific acts.

Seemed the military contractors weren't the only ones taking a free and easy approach to reconstruction.

But one entry caught his eye for the second time, 'Maclays Banking Group???' It was circled, extra vigorously. The name Sutherland scribbled next to it in the margin. He flicked through the pages, found no other reference.

The pen-drive was the story's money-shot. All the evidence Price would need. Filmed interviews and footage of imprisoned Muslims of one sect – who held only slightly different beliefs to Muslims of another sect – the ones doing the killing. One believed a religious bloodline should be followed, the other believed its leaders should be drawn from those worthy to do it.

Any historian of royalty or democracy could spot the flaws in either argument Savage thought. Belief could be dangerous, each thought themselves right, surely they couldn't both be wrong?

Savage copied the video and audio files then opened his internet browser, waited for the dodgy connection, then re-routed all his traffic through his personal VPN – virtual private network. It meant he could surf without any of the corporate, military or religious monitoring programs knowing what he was doing.

Maclays. Their homepage said they had two clusters of business: global retail banking and investment banking and wealth management. Their latest quarterly reports showed record profits, while everyone else, worldwide, was down. How? Apparently their overseas investment arm avoided suspect housing debts the rest of the world devoured and they remained, unlike everyone else, very flush and very sexy to any investor. Their current CEO was called Sutherland.

Using his superman-like powers of deduction Savage typed “Maclays” + “death squads” + “middle east shit-pit” into the search field. It spat back websites discussing the illuminati and the 'economic death squads' of most major banks – those who invested in companies that sold or manufactured arms. Not much else.

The bank did help process all the reconstruction dollars flooding through the region. And, of course, lots of wealth management. Reconstruction made people rich.

So, the internet didn't have all the answers. Who knew?

He'd have to look elsewhere. But it was the middle of the night and with sleep no longer an option he'd be climbing the walls before dawn.

He showered and dressed in his local garb then headed out past security.

*

A few doors hung open on the street, harsh fluorescent light spilled out as men prepared themselves for work.

He skirted rubble, hopped over high kerbs and sauntered past a bombed out building with a garden of scraggly date palms. Dead to any western eye fresh off the plane, but, after a while, even a hint of green was like walking through a corridor of French maples.

The café's sign was a brightly lit composite of food, coca cola and perfect surf. He pulled up a chair at one of the tables beneath the fantasy. Two tired men with big moustaches smoked shisha pipes, he looked again. Taxi drivers at the end of their shift.

Yusef, stuck his head out of the door and salaamed.

'Qahwa?' he said.

'Na’am,' Savage said back.

A few moments later Yusef returned, a big pot of the sweet grain-filled murk that Savage had grown to love, two small cups and water to rehydrate afterwards. Yusef sat down at the table and poured.

'Good morning, my friend,' Yusef said in English. 'How are you?'

The man's genuine warmth always brought a smile to Savage's face.

'I am well Yusef,' a small bow of the head, 'A little tired perhaps.'

'You work too much. Will you go home this year?'

Savage shook his head. The last holiday two years ago, to see his sister in England, had been disastrous. Life experiences had pushed them apart, they hadn't been able to connect. Instead of heading to the states to see his mother and brother, he cancelled and came straight back. He hadn't left since.

'My friend, how would you say my English is this year?'

'Excellent Yusef,' big smile, 'And you have helped me keep mine fresh.'

'You're welcome.'

They sat for a while, waking up, relaxing in each others company before the bustle of the day kicked in. English skills were more valuable for Yusef in his business dealings than any other thing Savage could give him.

'And how are your family?' Yusef said.

'Very well.' A lie. He didn't know. Savage hadn't spoken to any of them since that last trip. 'And yours? Your mother is better?'

'As much as expected. My wife is visiting.'

'Alone?'

'With my sons and daughter. It is important for them to know their family.'

Savage angled his head. Yusef's in-laws lived only a few miles from where Savage had been the night before – the boy's bloody face was now clearer in Savage's mind than it had been in reality.

Tricky thing the mind. Savage knew all the things he should do: avoid replaying the images, remember the facts – the boy tried to kill him – that information discovered after the event cannot have bearings on your initial actions. Savage knew what his brain was going to do next but couldn't stop it.

'Do you worry about them?'

'Of course. But I have taught them as well as I can. They are good children.'

'You ever teach them to shoot?'

'Never. Men use weapons to force others to do what they want, or to make them believe what they want.'

'But if other men attack you, you will fight back?'

'I would give my life for my children. It is a difficult thing you ask. I do not know the answer.'

Savage saw Yusef's son in his mind, the blood of the dead boy on his face, then the girl in the pink dress, her angry eyes, the gun in her hand.

Savage pushed the image back down. Damned beta-blockers wearing off.

Yusef looked at Savage. 'What's wrong?'

Savage gripped his friend's forearm and stared in his eyes. 'Yusef, you are a good man. My regards to your family.'

Savage turned to go, his eyes welled up.

'Peace be upon you my friend,' Yusef called after him.

Savage stalked off into the night. At the corner he broke into a run. His sandals caught on the ground, one fell off. He ran past the early risers, tried to ignore their questioning eyes.

A visceral thud of adrenalin hit him, he could almost feel the bullets whistle past, he never heard them during a fight, only afterwards. He shouted, a primal roar, punched the air, no idea whether he cursed in Arabic or English.

Outside the base, he held onto the wall and composed himself. He kicked off the other sandal then walked in, a nod to the sleepy guards.

In the kitchen he yanked the ice-box open. The woman's head still stared at nothing.

Would it go to the family? The only open casket they'd get was a shoe box.

He closed the lid, grabbed a diet-coke and headed back to his room.

The computer was on, Savage had work to do.

*

The woman sat in the dark while the others slept. She heard their breathing beneath the gentle rattle of her fingers on the keyboard.

The curtains billowed like streamers against the cool, crisp night. The promise of more sun in the morning, just one cloud over the man-made mountains of glass and steel in the financial district across the Thames.

She cursed. Deleted everything in the long message that had taken so long to write, then typed one simple line. Far more powerful, one little meme only he would know.

With his curiosity aroused would he come? No way to tell. No guarantees.

She pressed send, sat back, and looked out over the city.

*

Across the river at the heart of London's power base the new man in the chancellor's chair paced the floor of his 11 Downing Street office. Working late again.

The chancellor liked to think of himself as his own man. He'd come a long way. But he hadn't gotten where he was by being anyone's lackey, although those were the claims. He hadn't gotten where he was by following protocol either. Although everyone thought he towed the line, it was in reality simple artifice.

He'd been a scholarship boy. He'd kept his head down. Made associations rather than friendships, never gave too much of himself and never played the games of others to move up the social ranks.

Instead he made his own games. Found the weakest of the most powerful children, those destined to be leaders of industry, lords, or politicians, despite themselves. He made them jump through his hoops. It worked. Second most powerful man in the country. One day, who knew?

Now he intended to do something good. Something righteous.

His father would have been proud of the speech he held in his hands.

He had days left to practice. And he could normally drive a crowd to a frenzy with just a few crib notes. But this was different. He was about to change the very foundations on which the country was built.

He had to get it right. In one move he could either ruin or save the land he loved.

'The money illusion is over,' he said aloud to his imaginary audience. Working the troubled line. 'This country can no longer be slave to...slave to...ahhh!'

He scrunched the sheet of paper he held in his hands and threw it at the wall.

It landed next to a growing pile of similar paper balls on the floor. He ran his hands through his hair and held his head. Maybe he should let the spin doctors write it after all. He shook off the thought and opened the door to his office.

'More coffee?' he said.

Lost in her own late night thoughts, his secretary looked up. They shared a warm smile for a brief moment, she nodded, then he slammed the door.