The Wreckage - Michael Robotham [43]
He came to Iraq with the US Army Motor Pool, but later resigned his commission and opened up his own transport business. Now he’s the Hertz, Avis and Budget of Baghdad, all rolled into one.
He glimpses the Skoda and walks around it slowly. Impressed.
“What happened?”
“We got shot at.”
“No shit!”
Luca glances into the lot. “I need another set of wheels.”
“I got nothing to spare.”
“What about them?” He points to the SUVs.
“They cost two grand a day.”
“I’m a freelance journalist.”
“And I’m a businessman.”
Jimmy takes him to the office where Johnny Cash is singing “Ring of Fire” from an iPod speaker and a dog is sleeping beneath his desk. Pitted with scars and eczema, the animal reacts to every visitor as though expecting a boot.
“You want a drink, Scoop?”
“No thanks.”
Jimmy hammers a soft drink machine in the corner and a can drops into the tray. The dog jumps and then slinks into a corner, looking at him with rheumy, half-closed eyes.
Vehicles aren’t Jimmy’s only business. He also provides armed bodyguards and drivers. Armor plating is extra. The full package comes in at four thousand dollars a day, but he still bleats that insurance is killing him.
His two regular mechanics are Iraqis, half his size. Brothers. Jimmy calls them sand niggers, camel jockeys and ragheads, but the mechanics seem totally unfazed.
“You can still drive the Skoda,” he suggests.
“It’s rather conspicuous.”
“I could swap a few door panels.”
“It’s leaking oil.”
“Might need a new engine.”
“How much will that cost?”
“Seven grand.”
“Three.”
“You got to be kidding. Six.”
“We’re mates.”
“Mates are going to send me broke.”
“Make it five and we’re done.”
They shake hands. “That’s how to do a deal,” says Jimmy. “These camel jockeys want to serve you tea and fondle their worry beads, telling you how poor they are and how you’re stealing food from their children’s mouths.”
A helicopter thumps the air overhead. Luca has to wait for the noise to pass.
“I have a question about trucking.”
“Stick to journalism.”
“If someone had a large amount of cash they wanted to smuggle out of Iraq, where would they take it?”
“So we’re talking hypothetically?”
“Of course.”
Jimmy crushes the can and sends it arcing over Luca’s head where it rattles into a bin. “Take your pick—Turkey, Jordan, Syria, Saudi, maybe not Iran—they’re all within reach and porous as hell. I’ve never met a border guard who couldn’t be bought.”
“What about the Syrian border, by way of Mosul?”
“That’s a pretty busy crossing. On any given day maybe a thousand trucks go through carrying everything from sheep to shit-rolls.”
“Who are the drivers?”
“TCN’s mostly.” Third Country Nationals, the bottom of the food chain. Pakistanis, Indians, Filipinos, Afghans, Sri Lankans… most of them working for less than ten dollars a day. “It’s a rat run.”
“Meaning?”
“Some of them are running passengers, six at a time in SUVs, charging about twenty bucks per person. They take people out and come back with boxes of stuff that’s hard to get in Iraq—laundry powder, dishwashing liquid, that kind of thing.
“Others are still smuggling oil. They take old station wagons and turn them into fuel tankers carrying five hundred liters of diesel. Mad fuckers.”
“Why do you say that?”
“The TCNS travel without protection, unlike the military convoys. One stray bullet or errant spark and boom, they’re decorating the desert with body parts.”
“If I wanted to talk to some of these drivers, where would I go?”
“The trucking camps,” says Jimmy. “That’s where they live when they’re not driving. They get food and water; live behind barbed wire; compare bullet holes.”
Luca asks Jimmy if he can make a few enquiries—ask