Richard House - The Kills

‘This will only be temporary, but we don’t have enough cabins and sharing is necessary. I can’t see any of the others being…’ He wasn’t sure what he wanted to say, accommodating? ‘You speak Arabic?’

‘No, sir.’ Kiprowski shook his head and looked like he had something to say.

‘I thought you spoke Arabic?’

He worked in food services. Remember?

‘No matter. Obviously he speaks English. This whole thing is some kind of mix-up. I can’t see him staying with us for long.’

Stopped at the doorway Rem began to make the introductions and suggested that Kiprowski help find a cot and whatever else Amer Hassan might need.

Kiprowski and Hassan greeted each other affectionately with smiles, a handshake that fell into a brisk hug.

‘We were at Southern-CIPA at the same time.’

The silence that fell after this explanation made it clear to Rem that he should leave.

* * *

That evening Kiprowski brought the translator to the area they’d set aside for eating. Hassan helped Kiprowski start up the portable stoves and watched as they brought water to the boil. He shook hands with the other men, but once Kiprowski had passed out the rations, they sat separate from the group — and about the two men grew a private air.

Pakosta, Clark, and Santo settled to play cards. Samuels and Chimeno returned to their cabins, and sat at their doors, one reading, one writing, while Rem and Watts struggled to find a clear connection to Southern-CIPA.

Markland confirmed the arrangements for the weekend. Chimeno, Clark, Pakosta, Santo, Samuels, and Watts would undertake a firearm safety training course at Camp Arifjan. Howell, who had business in Kuwait, would be there to meet them. With these details settled, Markland began to speak about Route 567, which was now re-designated as a Secondary Supply Route. Neither Rem not Watts understood Markland’s instructions.

‘If anything happens on 80 then we need to have Route 567 secured for military and supply convoys.’

Rem asked if anyone at Southern-CIPA had actually seen the road. ‘In some parts it’s just a graded track. You know that?’

Markland didn’t care. ‘It’s not perfect, but it’s what we have. We’ve had trouble on Highway 80 before, and there’s no option but to use 567 as an alternative.’

A forty-mile stretch either side of the camp was to be checked and regularly patrolled. All activity along 567 was to be monitored, a zone cleared along either side.

* * *

Rem caught Geezler up on the details and found him more interested in Howell’s vehicles than the munitions and the arrival of the translator. They had two new generators and more fuel, which meant, for the evenings, they’d have light. A freezer wouldn’t go amiss. Watts was stringing up a line of lights for the front of the Quonset now, lights also for the food area, such as it was.

Geezler was stuck on the vehicles. He wanted to know how many were now at the Beach. ‘Send me some pictures. I need to see this.’

Rem explained about the new duties, and how they would be expected to monitor part of Route 567. ‘We have a translator. Sent by Southern-CIPA.’

This threw Geezler into confusion. ‘You’re there for the burn pits,’ he argued, ‘not patrols. You work for us, not CIPA. Why has Howell given you a translator? I don’t see why he’s even involved?’

Rem said he didn’t know, doubted there was a good reason, that everything was largely random. Over the coming weekend most of the men would accompany the Deputy Administrator to Kuwait to take a basic weapons training course.

Geezler asked Rem to repeat this. Could he clarify? The most senior government representative in southern Iraq was taking time out to accompany contractors on a weapons training course? ‘Your contracts come from HOSCO. He can’t give you work unless he raises a contract which goes for public tender.’

Rem couldn’t help but laugh. Geezler seriously didn’t understand the territory, the deal with Markland on security was separate. He shouldn’t have mentioned it. As for Howell, what did it matter? Nothing here was logical. CIPA had college graduates running entire government divisions. Why worry over five contractors and a Deputy Administrator who probably only want a weekend off?

* * *

The next morning Rem took Santo on a drive north along Route 567, and found parts in worse condition than he’d reported. In an hour’s drive they encountered no other vehicle. Santo pointed to the roadside, he’d seen something, a dog, or maybe a coyote.

‘They have cats out here. In the middle of the desert. I’ve seen their tracks about the cabins.’

Brooding over his discussion with Geezler, Rem wasn’t listening. ‘You know, when Southern-CIPA speak about contingencies that means something’s going on.’

Santo agreed. They send arms, they send a translator, equipment, vehicles, all without explanation. They shut down the section base in Amrah. Something was afoot.

‘I’m talking about the road, this whole security detail.’

‘Right. I mean, what do we know about him? We don’t know anything. They drop him in the desert with a box of guns.’

‘The translator? You know what he’s doing here. Howell sent him from Southern-CIPA.’

‘That’s what he told you. He could be anyone.’

‘Kiprowski knows him.’

‘You just said you don’t trust them.’

‘Who are we talking about here? Kiprowski, the translator, or Howell? I was talking about Southern-CIPA, and maybe Howell.’ Rem pointed to the vast space about them. ‘Everything about this place is backwards. I think there’s something we don’t know. Those vehicles, this security team. I think there’s information we don’t have yet. I don’t think it’s mysterious. I just think we’re not in the loop.’

‘Think about it. He could be anyone, someone they want isolated, kept away from trouble. Someone we aren’t supposed to know about.’

‘He speaks Arabic, Farsi, and English. He’s a translator.’

‘ Think about it. You didn’t know he was coming. And why do we need a translator?’

‘Santo, who would he be exactly?’

Santo backed down. ‘I don’t know. He could be anyone. Who do you think they’d drop in the middle of the desert with two boxes of weapons and enough ammunition?’

‘A translator?’

‘I’m being serious.’

‘So, who is he? Tell me who you think he is? The translator is here because Howell needs him. The security detail is necessary because we’re remote and Howell wants a team when he does his travels. And for this he needs a translator.’

‘Then why hasn’t he asked the translator to come tomorrow?’

‘For the training? It’s in English? Surely?’

‘And those vehicles? What about the vehicles?’

‘Maybe that’s part of it? I don’t know. Santo, this isn’t anything different. We just don’t have the details.’

‘And the guns?’

‘They stay in the crates.’

Santo leaned away from Rem, folded his arms, a slight edge of disbelief in his gesture as if he didn’t agree, but he was prepared, for the time being, to leave it alone. ‘One last thing. Is Kiprowski officially retarded?’

Rem refused to answer.

‘I don’t want him coming tomorrow. There’s something not right about him.’

‘He isn’t going anyway. You know this? They didn’t ask for him. I thought it was Samuels you didn’t like.’

‘Samuels is run-of-the-mill chicken-shit scared. Kiprowski isn’t normal.’

‘He’s nineteen.’

‘They’re all nineteen, give or take. That’s not the problem.’

‘I hope this has nothing to do with the translator.’

Rem pulled the Humvee to the side of the road and they agreed to return.