Richard House: The Kills

He saw no chance of escape. As they approached Amrah City the craft dropped in stuttered steps to avoid attack — a message came to Ford via the pilot: business at Southern-CIPA would need to be brief. Howell had other appointments. He had time to make the transfers, just about, but any discussion of the project, that over-view he’d asked for, wasn’t going to happen today. Kiprowski and Pakosta bickered over a small backpack, some fresh awkwardness breaking between them. He regretted his decision to allow Pakosta and Clark along. He also regretted his decision that they should wear the uniforms Howell had provided. On landing, Kiprowski became so restless that Ford began to wonder if he was somehow involved.

* * *

The offices for Southern-CIPA sat in the grounds of a former school in the centre of Amrah City. A perimeter fence and blast wall followed the rough circumference of the playground and nominally protected the offices from the covered market and a row of businesses — although most were empty, the glass shot out of the fronts, the walls blackened in a recent attack, the owners returned to Kuwait and Saudi, some to Iran. The school itself was long gone, firebombed then blasted with rockets until nothing remained but a level lot. The painted outline for a mini-soccer pitch still visible on the concrete slabs.

HOSCO had provided the buildings, the same prefab units as the cabins at Camp Liberty, dropped onto blocks and welded one to the other. Ford didn’t like to think about the kind of people who would bomb a school. Burn it down then blow it away. The fact that the new regional government sited their offices on the very same spot seemed ironic and prescient. An invitation. A school smell haunted the new offices, a sourness, not quite the end-of-day musk of unfresh bodies, but some reedy tang that stuck with the place. In meetings he felt this odour creep up on him. The longer the meeting, the more he held his breath, the less he talked.

* * *

Ford unravelled the plans across the Deputy Administrator’s desk and took care not to displace the many objects or damage the paper — Howell, with his practised mid-Atlantic accent, loved his tat: the glass pen-holder, the fountain pens, the name plate, the weathered baseball, the photos of his wife, son, and daughter, and more framed on the wall behind the desk (Howell shaking hands with heads of state, Howell beside the few celebrities that paused on their way to Camp Anaconda or from Camp Navistar). Everything set just so. In all of his visits Ford had yet to see the Deputy Administrator sit at the desk. The man liked to pace. He’d heard stories about Howell at Camp Liberty from Pakosta, rumours that didn’t match what he knew.

The maps demonstrated Ford’s craft as a draughtsman and his serious approach to the project. Howell unrolled the sheets one by one, and muttered ‘Ah, our legacy,’ a little sarcastically. ‘The Massive.’

The plans sketched in soft blue pencil, a pleasing exactness to the lines. Layer one: the existing camp with the huts and burn pits. Layer two: the proposed work quarters and fabrication huts. Layer three: the burn pits dug out and in-filled. Layer four: the basic structures for water, power, sewage. Layer five: the airfield expansion. In a series of twelve overlapping sheets a small compound for remote waste disposal became the basic structure for a new military base and new city.

Howell, owlish, white hair and wire glasses; cool, disinterested, moved around the table and leafed slowly through the plans despite the earlier warning that he would be busy. He muttered a complaint that Ford should not have allowed his men to wear uniform. ‘Not here,’ he said, ‘they only wear these uniforms when they accompany me. They aren’t legitimate officers.’ Uninterested in a reply, Howell read then raised his hand, indicating that Sutler should wait as he left the office.

Ford waited, first he leaned against the table, then he stood upright with his arms folded. He took in the room. Two iron safes backed against the wall, designed to be built into vaults, they were set instead side by side and took up a quarter of the space. Beside them a row of glass cabinets of sport trophies and more framed photographs. A wall clock mounted opposite the desk. Already eleven o’clock, barely one hour left. He expected Howell to return with the military police. He wondered if they knew his name, and how they might have discovered him. The warrant will be issued at noon.

Ten minutes later, Howell came to the door alone and asked if Ford had set up a junk account. ‘You’ve done this already?’ The man could not remember. ‘And the other accounts, is everything set up?’

‘Yes,’ Ford appeared surprised.

‘You have the details?’

Ford searched through his documents and found the handwritten list of numbers.

‘Have you spoken with Paul Geezler about the accounts? You know the restrictions on the operation accounts? I can make the transfers but anything above over twenty-five is automatically flagged to Central-CIPA. Payments or transfers.’

Ford nodded, although he appeared uncertain.

Howell held out his hand for the list of account numbers and transfer amounts. ‘One moment.’ His mouth tightened in thought. ‘Four operations, one junk. How much did Paul agree for the junk account? Two? Or two-five?’

Howell retreated back through the door saying he would make it two-five. Two, or two-five? All a little freakish to be speaking in single numbers and mean not two dollars, but two hundred thousand dollars; not two dollars and fifty cents, but two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. A tidy two-five. Handsome payment for six weeks’ work.

* * *

Ten minutes later, at exactly eleven-fifteen, Howell returned smiling, pleased with himself. ‘I’ve written the default access codes next to the account numbers. Don’t keep the account numbers and the pass codes together. Have you set the security level before? Do you rotate your pass codes?’

Ford said he didn’t understand, and Howell winced.

‘Unless you set the security your accounts will be vulnerable. This is all the information you need to access them, unless you set an additional line of security.’

Ford thought there was some mischief in Howell’s tone. He looked blankly at the numbers. Howell drew his laptop round to show him, and asked Ford to open the HOSCO website and sign in. ‘To stop anyone else from gaining access you need to set the security to an appropriate level.’

Ford opened the site, checked into Finance. Howell pointed at the screen.

‘Click there — Privacy. Enter. Type in the number that starts HOS/JA. That’s your junk account. There at the top. Click Hide. Only you can see the account now. Click there for security.’

The screen turned black, then the account number reappeared, and then the balance.

‘See. In a minute that zero will change.’ They watched the screen, but the figure didn’t change. ‘Give it a moment.’

Howell checked the account number against Ford’s note. ‘While we’re waiting you can set the security level. You can set up to eight sets of codes to access the account, anything between four and twelve characters.’ Howell straightened up. ‘I’ll leave you to it. If you take too long it will lock you out.’

Ford stared at the screen. Kiprowski waited behind him, and he sensed a hostility toward Howell. At the bottom of the screen a clock ticked down from ninety. Anxious to complete this, Ford set the security at level four, which opened four screens, demanding one new code per screen. Struggling for an idea, Ford used the numbers for the new operational accounts.

Once the codes were entered the screen again turned black, and Ford closed the laptop.