Juggernaut

‘If he were an intel target, absolutely not. But his dossier is totally empty. He’s got prints, a mugshot and a magistrate number. We’ve got nothing on him. He’s a non-person. MI say they have a feeling he’s senior Ba’ath. He matters. He’s a player. But they can’t place him anywhere in the party power structure. Sooner or later we’ll have to hand him to the locals. Maybe they can beat something out of him.’

Castillo turned a key and pulled back a barred gate.

‘The lights are out, I’m afraid. Rain. Something blew.’

Castillo led them through the prison. They each held yellow cyalume above their heads.

Dank corridors. Papers scattered on the floor. Pervading odour of sewage.

A woman shouted through the food hatch of a cell door.

‘Heh-dee, bitch,’ yelled Castillo, as they passed. ‘Shut your noise.’

‘You hold women?’

‘Whores. We don’t put them in the main camp.’

Flashing light from the tier above them. Echoing rock music. ‘Welcome to the Jungle’. Strobes and a CD player hooked up to a car battery.

‘What’s that?’

‘Nothing and no one.’

Ghost detainees. Softened for interrogation by a few days of sleep deprivation.

Castillo unlocked a cell.

‘I’ll wait outside.’

Jabril was lying on a bare bunk. Lean, fifties, white beard. He wore an orange jumpsuit and sandals. He had an ID tag clipped round his left wrist. His right hand was missing.

Jabril shielded his eyes from the sickly amber glow of the cyalume sticks.

He looked Lucy and Amanda up and down. He checked out high-end tactical gear. Expensive boots, slick drop holsters, clean Kestrel armour.

‘Salaam alaikum,’ said Lucy.

‘Alaikum salaam. You’re not with Intelligence.’

‘No. We’re civilian contractors.’

‘British?’

‘Long ago.’

‘I’m surprised they let you in.’

‘You might be disappointed to learn you are no longer classed as a high-value detainee. They’ve downgraded your status. You’ll soon be joining car thieves and pickpockets.’

Jabril crouched by the wall. He let Lucy and Amanda sit on the bunk.

‘You speak good English,’ said Lucy.

‘I was schooled by Jesuit priests from Boston.’

The cyalume sticks threw long shadows.

Lucy gave Jabril a pack of Parliament cigarettes and a matchbook. He smiled at the matchbook. Printed by PsyOps and distributed in every major city the previous year. A portrait of Saddam next to gold coins stacked like casino chips. REWARD. YOU DELIVER. WE PAY.

Jabril used his stump to hold the cigarette packet against his knee. He extracted a cigarette and lit one-handed.

‘They want to transfer you to Ganci,’ said Lucy. ‘The tent city. They say it’s a bear pit.’

‘I’ll survive.’

‘You’ve got no kin, no chance to buy your way out. Once you are transferred to the Provisional Authority, you’re screwed. Those tattoo dots on the back of your hand. You’re from Tikrit. Saddam’s home town. Everything about you screams party elite. Your manner, your accent. Once they put you in the main prison population only a matter of time before someone cuts your throat.’

‘That’s my concern. Saddam. Did they hang him?’

‘Not yet. They will.’

‘I haven’t spoken to anyone for weeks. The soldiers bring food. They empty my bucket. They never talk.’

‘We could be your ticket out of here.’

‘Is that right?’

‘You spoke to a friend of mine. During the transfer from Balad. You’ve got a story to share. Let’s hear it.’

‘What do you want to know?’

‘Tell me how you lost your hand.’

Jabril took a long drag on his cigarette.

‘It’s not about the money. I want to make that clear from the outset. It’s not about the gold. It’s about restitution.’

Lucy waited for the man to continue.

‘I was a member of the Republican Guard, years ago. One of Saddam’s elite troops. This is a tribal culture. I was born in Tikrit. I’ve led a privileged life since the day I was born.

‘I was seconded to the retinue of Uday Hussein, Saddam’s oldest son. I was head of his personal security. It was my job to arrange round-the-clock protection. I arranged decoy motorcades each time he left his home. I even had to arrange plastic surgery in Switzerland for his body-double, Latif. Accompanied the poor man to Zurich with a portfolio of reference photographs. Instructed the surgeon to widen Latif’s nose, stretch his eyelids, reshape his earlobes.

‘Uday was a maniac. You have no idea. Loud. Vulgar. Some nights he would cruise the streets in a blacked-out Corniche. He would pick a girl from the sidewalk. It didn’t matter who she was. A young mother with her children. A wife with her husband. No one could protest. He would order the car pulled to the kerb. He would kick open the door and beckon. Sometimes he flashed a machete. He would take them to a hotel. He would clear a floor, order everyone from their rooms. I stood in the corridor, listening to muffled screams.

‘I cleaned up the girls. That was my job. I gave them money, sometimes took them to hospital. The man was impotent. He blamed the girls. Each assignation ended in blood, recriminations, smashed furniture. It was horrible, but what could I do?