from behind his shades.
Sadr City was in the eastern suburbs. Before the invasion it had been called Saddam City and before that, Revolution. But none of that changed its inherent nature: Sadr City was a slum, quickly and cheaply built at the end of the 1950s to house the urban poor. These days there were even more people here, packed into houses and apartment blocks that had already been crowded when the concrete was still wet on the walls. And the market was where they all came to do their shopping. Right now was the busiest time, with everyone stopping by on the way home from work to buy fresh food, refrigerated through the heat of the day at someone else’s expense. So many civilians crammed into one space made it an operational nightmare.
A few years ago someone had ridden a motorcycle packed with explosives straight through a sloppy evening checkpoint and blown himself up by the main entrance, taking seventy-eight other people with him. By the looks of the rickety buildings, they had simply dragged the bodies away, hosed the blood off the streets and carried on. You could still see craters in the walls where chunks of shrapnel had torn holes. But the thing that made this a suicide bomber’s paradise also made it a preferred meeting place for his ultra-cautious contact: there was no better place to hide than in a crowd.
Hyde was cautious too. He had arrived early and claimed the best seat in the cafe for surveillance. It offered a one-eighty degree view of the street, with a solid wall behind making it impossible to approach without being seen. He’d bet himself that he could spot his man before he got to him. It was a game he liked to play every time he was sent on this particular detail. The contact was known for his ability to appear and disappear with ease. It was why he’d never been caught, despite the best efforts of several agencies on both sides of the political street. But Hyde had something of a reputation too. Back when he was in 8th Recon he had been the sharpest scout in his platoon. He’d prided himself on never letting anyone creep up on him, though his buddies had constantly tried; they’d even had a name for the game — Hyde and Go Seek. Now he was in civilian life, he had to work harder to keep those skills honed. He’d seen what working for the private companies could do to you; men who had been out of the army just two, three years, their muscle turned to flab, still trading on reputations they’d long since lost. That wasn’t going to happen to him. Get sloppy in a place like this and pretty soon you’d get dead. So he pushed himself, treating every assignment as if it was a hot mission, just in case it turned out to be.
He started another sweep of the market, left to right, comfortable in his tactics. He had just reached the furthest point where the wall blocked his view when the scrape of a chair made him whip his head round.
‘You have the money?’ the Ghost said, settling into the chair on his blind side, his strangled voice barely audible above the noise of the street.
Goddamn — he did it again.
Hyde folded the newspaper and placed it on the table, trying not to appear rattled. ‘What, no chit-chat? No “Hi, how’s it goin’? How are the wife and kids?”’
The Ghost stared at him, his pale grey eyes cold despite the trapped heat of the day. ‘You don’t have a wife.’
‘And how would you know that?’
‘Nobody in your line of work has a wife — at least not for very long.’
Hyde felt anger catch light inside him. His fists clenched. He’d got the divorce papers from Wanda in the mail six weeks ago, after she’d hacked his Facebook page and found some messages she was not supposed to see. But this guy couldn’t know that. He was just trying to push his buttons with a lucky guess. And it had worked. Right now he wanted to drive his fist straight through the middle of those freaky grey eyes.
The Ghost smiled, as if he was reading Hyde’s thoughts and feeding off his anger. Hyde looked away and reached for his coffee, draining it to the thick gritty dregs before he’d even realized what he was doing. He’d met some hard characters in his time, but this guy was something else. He was taller than the average Iraqi and wiry with it. He also carried about him a sense of danger and physical threat, like a grenade with its pin pulled. The local crew said he was a desert spirit and refused to have anything to do with him. That’s why Hyde always got these gigs. He didn’t believe in spirits, he just did what he was told; old army habits died hard.
‘It’s in the bag under the table,’ he said, staring out at the market crowds rather than engaging with the grey eyes again. ‘Got my boot stamped down on the handle. You give me the package, I lift my foot.’
Something clunked down on the tabletop and a scrap of sacking was pushed towards him.
Hyde shook his head in exaggerated disappointment. ‘Zero points for presentation.’ He flipped open the sacking and examined the object inside. The stone looked incredibly ordinary. It could almost have been one of the chunks of masonry you found lining the streets in piles all over the city. He turned it over and saw the faint marks on its surface, just lines and swirls. ‘Hell of a price to pay for a chunk of old rock,’ he said, wrapping it up and lifting his foot off the bag containing fifty million Iraqi dinars, worth around forty thousand American dollars.
The Ghost stood up, the bag already in his hand. ‘Make the most of it,’ Hyde said, relaxing a little now the money wasn’t his responsibility. ‘Looks like the cash cow’s about to get slaughtered.’
The Ghost hesitated then sat back down. ‘Explain.’
Hyde savoured the look of confusion on his face. Now it was the freak’s turn to be caught out. ‘You really should stay more in touch with the burning issues of the day.’ He slid his newspaper across the table. Above the fold on the front page was a picture of the Citadel of Ruin next to the headline:
WORLD’S OLDEST STRONGHOLD ABOUT TO FALL?
‘If the holy guys in the mountain aren’t around to drive up prices, guess the bottom will drop right out of the market for bits of old stone.’ Hyde trapped a greasy note under the empty coffee glass and hoisted the bundle of sacking under his arm as he stood to leave. ‘This might be your last big payday my friend.’
‘The Citadel has never given up its secrets,’ the Ghost muttered, opening out the page and staring at the three photographs of the civilian survivors on the bottom of the page.
‘Nothing lasts for ever,’ Hyde said. ‘Just ask my soon-to-be-ex wife.’ Then he turned and walked quickly away, before the freak with the grey eyes had a chance to come back at him.
Hyde felt good as he left the dangerous buzz of the market behind and headed back to his 4x4. For the first time he’d got one over on the Ghost. He wasn’t such a badass after all. He’d looked like he was going to puke when he saw the newspaper. He was just another hustler, trying to make a buck.
He squinted up at the deepening sky. Sun down was in an hour and so was curfew. He needed to get across town and rejoin the rest of his crew at the hotel. They’d be heading out of town again at dawn, returning to the oilfields in the dusty badlands west of the city. He preferred it out there. Less noise. Less people.
He rounded another corner and saw the truck parked in the shade of a row of buildings, the red company logo on the door the only splash of colour in the drab street. Tariq was in the driver’s seat, keeping guard to make sure no one stuck rocks up the exhaust pipe, or booby-trapped it in some way. Vehicles belonging to Western companies were always getting blown up or sabotaged.
Hyde waved to draw his attention. Tariq looked over and froze. Hyde spun away, sensing movement from his left, instinctively reaching for the automatic inside his jacket. He turned his head and found himself staring into a pair of pale grey eyes.
‘You forgot this,’ the Ghost said, draping the newspaper over Hyde’s extended gun. He stepped closer, ignoring the gun pressing into his chest. ‘These people,’ he tapped the photographs on the cover, ‘they may come here, searching for — something. If they come, let me know.’
Hyde glanced down and saw a satellite phone number scrawled beneath the three photographs. His lip curled into a sneer as he prepared to tell the Ghost where to go, but it was too late. He had already gone.
7
The Citadel, Ruin
The sound of the lament hit Athanasius like a wave as he and the other heads stepped into the cathedral cave and made their way to the front. It was the one space in the Citadel big enough to house everyone, and here everyone now was, united in their grief.
At the back were the numerous grey cloaks, the unskilled monks yet to be assigned a guild, separated from the higher orders by a vivid red line of guards. The brown cloaks came next — the masons, carpenters and skilled technicians who maintained the fabric of the Citadel — so tired after the work of the past week that Athanasius
