The Kills: Sutler, the Massive, the Kill, and the Hit by Richard House Page B
Authors: Richard House
Ads: Link
They’re siphoning gasoline from the cars. The military is running out of fuel. Agri, Van, Hakkari, Siirt, Kurtalan, Mardin.’ He plotted an area on the map, point to point. ‘The only transport now is north and north-east. These towns are all closed. If we can’t get visas by Friday then we’re in trouble. We can’t go back and we can’t go forward. We should have stayed where we were.’
Heida nodded and Grüner nodded back, mouth full. ‘There’s no news about the visas. There’s a message from yesterday saying the border will remain closed.’ He glanced up, lips greasy with oil. ‘The only flight into Baghdad is from Düsseldorf. That’s it. Everything else is military.’
‘What about Damascus? If we go to Damascus or to Haleb, maybe there’s something from there, a convoy or something?’
‘There’s nothing. That’s it. And anyway, by the time we get there it will be too late.’
Evidence again of Grüner’s fatalism. Heida cruised through the channels looking for news. ‘Crazy,’ she said, ‘it’s just crazy.’ Grüner set the computer aside, stuffed the last of the food into his mouth, and, chewing, reached for her buttocks.
Indifference, this was the word she wanted. This was what she felt about the people outside, about their visas, and about Grüner, especially Grüner, too tall, ungainly, with his fat mouth and busy hands. And there, without warning, appeared the face of the man they’d dropped at the bus station. Heida gasped.
Misreading the signal Grüner pulled her down to his lap. She shoved him away, regained her balance, and pointed to the television. She watched his expression change from hurt to open-jawed amazement.
‘It’s Howell.’ The name came to her, clear and correct. ‘He said his name was Howell.’ She placed her hand on the screen below Ford’s face and pointed out the name Stephen Lawrence Sutler. ‘Now we can leave.’
Within moments they were searching for clothes. His scattered carelessly about the floor, hers folded one item on another.
2.5
At the last moment Parson asked if he could interview Pakosta and Clark, the contractors arrested alongside Paul Howell. If possible he wanted to speak with both men at the same time, as one man’s memory might prompt the other. He wanted an idea of Sutler’s intentions prior to the event. If the man was running with a plan, something set in order, there would be a thread to discover, a trace at the very least.
Parson sat outside a row of uniform grey unit offices while he waited for the response to his request. The security wing, manned by contracted non-combatants, was uncomfortably quiet. The furniture, doors, and partitions marked with stickers:
HOSCO, Hampton Roads, Virginia, USA. Manufactured with Pride
.
Bothered that he knew the facts but couldn’t see under the skin of them, he figured through Sutler’s last morning. A collection of dockets and transport passes provided no detail about the events of that morning. Within thirty-five minutes of Stephen Lawrence Sutler’s arrival at Southern-CIPA, the offices had come under attack, and Sutler had walked from the devastation through a compound heavy with dust and open gunfire, leaving one man in pieces. His flight, from its outset, unnatural, contrary to instinct. Parson couldn’t see how any man could so thoroughly vanish unless he was vulnerable, foolish, naive, or halfway gone to start with. People like Sutler rarely managed to disappear unless accident or foul play played some part.
These buildings, provided by HOSCO, were little more than seaside trailers. Flimsy frames and fire-retardant material. Nothing much of anything.
Clark and Pakosta were held under military supervision, dressed in standard orange overalls, and confined to a small, temporary cell. They answered questions about the weekend prior to Sutler’s disappearance, and admitted with a little discomfort that Paul Howell, as Deputy Administrator for Project Finance, had paid
Heida nodded and Grüner nodded back, mouth full. ‘There’s no news about the visas. There’s a message from yesterday saying the border will remain closed.’ He glanced up, lips greasy with oil. ‘The only flight into Baghdad is from Düsseldorf. That’s it. Everything else is military.’
‘What about Damascus? If we go to Damascus or to Haleb, maybe there’s something from there, a convoy or something?’
‘There’s nothing. That’s it. And anyway, by the time we get there it will be too late.’
Evidence again of Grüner’s fatalism. Heida cruised through the channels looking for news. ‘Crazy,’ she said, ‘it’s just crazy.’ Grüner set the computer aside, stuffed the last of the food into his mouth, and, chewing, reached for her buttocks.
Indifference, this was the word she wanted. This was what she felt about the people outside, about their visas, and about Grüner, especially Grüner, too tall, ungainly, with his fat mouth and busy hands. And there, without warning, appeared the face of the man they’d dropped at the bus station. Heida gasped.
Misreading the signal Grüner pulled her down to his lap. She shoved him away, regained her balance, and pointed to the television. She watched his expression change from hurt to open-jawed amazement.
‘It’s Howell.’ The name came to her, clear and correct. ‘He said his name was Howell.’ She placed her hand on the screen below Ford’s face and pointed out the name Stephen Lawrence Sutler. ‘Now we can leave.’
Within moments they were searching for clothes. His scattered carelessly about the floor, hers folded one item on another.
2.5
At the last moment Parson asked if he could interview Pakosta and Clark, the contractors arrested alongside Paul Howell. If possible he wanted to speak with both men at the same time, as one man’s memory might prompt the other. He wanted an idea of Sutler’s intentions prior to the event. If the man was running with a plan, something set in order, there would be a thread to discover, a trace at the very least.
Parson sat outside a row of uniform grey unit offices while he waited for the response to his request. The security wing, manned by contracted non-combatants, was uncomfortably quiet. The furniture, doors, and partitions marked with stickers:
HOSCO, Hampton Roads, Virginia, USA. Manufactured with Pride
.
Bothered that he knew the facts but couldn’t see under the skin of them, he figured through Sutler’s last morning. A collection of dockets and transport passes provided no detail about the events of that morning. Within thirty-five minutes of Stephen Lawrence Sutler’s arrival at Southern-CIPA, the offices had come under attack, and Sutler had walked from the devastation through a compound heavy with dust and open gunfire, leaving one man in pieces. His flight, from its outset, unnatural, contrary to instinct. Parson couldn’t see how any man could so thoroughly vanish unless he was vulnerable, foolish, naive, or halfway gone to start with. People like Sutler rarely managed to disappear unless accident or foul play played some part.
These buildings, provided by HOSCO, were little more than seaside trailers. Flimsy frames and fire-retardant material. Nothing much of anything.
Clark and Pakosta were held under military supervision, dressed in standard orange overalls, and confined to a small, temporary cell. They answered questions about the weekend prior to Sutler’s disappearance, and admitted with a little discomfort that Paul Howell, as Deputy Administrator for Project Finance, had paid
Similar Books
