The Protector Read online

  Stanza’s interest in journalism began some time during high school, probably towards the end of that phase of his education. Several of his friends had decided on careers in the news media and it was more than likely that he’d caught his ambition from them. Whatever its genesis, on leaving high school he made his mind up and firmly set his sights on a career in the news business. But his first significant effort in that direction was shot down in flames, something that was to become a frequent feature of his working life.

  Stanza was the only son of an Italian-American middle-class family and had been brought up in a strongly Irish working-class neighbourhood in the Bridgeport section of Chicago. He was described as a generally quiet boy with a pleasant temperament, unnoticed either on the sports field or in the classroom for the same reasons - he was not outstanding but neither was he an embarrassment. He was more attracted to the idea of academic pursuits and never once appeared on the principal’s punishment list, avoiding relationships with any thuggish, rebellious or ostentatiously cool fellow students. From an early age he was attracted to all things classy and sophisticated but unfortunately class and sophistication were not attracted to him. Even though many of his so-called best friends during high school came from wealthy families it was an exclusive club whose doors he could not pass through. Had he been noticeably talented he might have broken down more of those barriers than he did. When the time came for him and his friends to leave high school and apply for admission to the Medill School of Journalism at Northwestern University in Chicago, one of the finest schools for journalism in the country, he was denied entry because he had neither the grades, a letter of recommendation nor the money to buy his way in. One journalistic virtue that Stanza did have, though, was tenacity and, determined to pursue his chosen career, he enrolled in community college. Two years later, after leaving the college with an associate of arts diploma, he applied for entry into Northwestern but was again denied. He was, however, accepted into the University of Illinois, Chicago and its college of journalism, and after flunking a couple of semesters he eventually graduated at the age of twenty-six with a Bachelor’s degree.

  Undeterred by his non-Ivy League education, and still displaying more naivety than courage, Stanza set about applying for internships with such newspapers as the Chicago Tribune and the Washington Post. After being rejected by all of them, something he was learning to deal with, he pressed on with other notable papers such as the Sun-Times and the Reader. After months of disappointment and on reaching the bottom of his wish list without a single bite he compiled another list of lesser newspapers, and then another of even lesser journals to apply to. Four months after leaving university Stanza was finally offered a position at the Champagne Regatta in southern Illinois, a rag that was second from the bottom of his final list.

  Stanza spent four years with the Regatta before moving to Gary, Indiana and joining the Gary Gazette, a move that was not entirely in defiance of gravity. Gary was a depressing steel town where he was tasked with covering mostly public works and social drama. Undiscouraged, Stanza applied himself to the work and was rewarded four years later with a position at the Herald in Milwaukee, which was without doubt several steps up the ladder. The editor had been impressed with Stanza’s sensitivity when it came to writing about certain social problems and gave him a post at the metro desk covering urban conflict: crime, mayhem, riots and all things grim and disturbing. In Stanza’s case it turned out to be the inspiration he needed.

  On his thirty-sixth birthday he received a reward for his hard work in the form of a significant pay rise, along with a hint that he was to be considered for a post on the foreign desk. Stanza had discovered within himself an affinity for the dark side of news gathering - homicides, domestic atrocities and disasters - and so he focused his reporting talent on human conflict of the more brutal variety. Stanza’s breakthrough came during a period of violent race riots that seemed to be spreading across the country. At this time he could most often be found in the forefront of the worst clashes between demonstrators and police. His first experience was in New Jersey in 2000, the scene of a clash between blacks and Latinos where he learned some serious lessons in self-preservation that included the proper clothing to wear, defence against various uses of pepper spray and CS gas, and where or - more to the point - where not to position oneself in a riot. In February 2001 he covered the violent Mardi Gras disturbances in Seattle and a couple of months later he was in Cincinnati for another round of more of the same until a little too much complacency was almost his undoing. Wearing a balaclava and gloves to disguise his skin colour Stanza found himself in a cauldron of rock- and Molotov cocktail-throwing, where he was first battered by the police and then barely escaped serious injury when a black rioter discovered that he was white and, believing he was a police spy, kicked him almost senseless. Ironically, Stanza was rescued by police who also thought he was an undercover cop.

  When asked by his editor one day why he took such risks Stanza couldn’t think of a satisfactory answer. He didn’t bother to examine this apparent lack of purpose too closely, suspecting that it might turn out to be nothing more than a desperation to succeed. But not wishing to look a gift horse in the mouth, Stanza looked ahead and enjoyed his reputation for daring reporting, finally confident that he could make something of a name for himself. When an editor at the Chicago Tribune hinted to him at a cocktail party one evening that there was possibly a position for him at the renowned newspaper Stanza knew he was finally on his way. Then, shortly afterwards, he made the most catastrophic mistake of his career.

  Around the time when Stanza was joining the Herald in Milwaukee the newspaper industry was suffering numerous blows to its reputation because of the exposure of various hoaxes, gross exaggerations and entirely untrue stories that had appeared in various prestigious journals, many of them written by well-known reporters. On one occasion a Pulitzer Prize had to be returned. Heads, some of them very senior, rolled within the various organisations responsible. Safety measures were introduced across the industry in an attempt to ensure that such scandals could never occur again. However, to vet for authenticity every quote and observation produced by a journalist was impossible. In many cases the problem lay as much with the editors and publishers as it did with the reporters themselves. Competition for readers was fierce and the pressure placed on hacks of all kinds to produce popular stories was intense.

  Stanza needed a series of notable stories to propel him into the limelight where the biggest publishers in the country would notice him. His crime, when he eventually committed it, was nowhere near as heinous as those committed by many others - at least, not to those outside the business. But for those within the industry it was precisely the kind of corrupt reporting practice that needed to be stamped out.

  Stanza had been searching for an attractive heading for a political piece about the state’s governance that he was developing. He found exactly what he was looking for in an enticing quote made by a local politician that he read on the wires. But the quote came from an interview that the politician had given to another journalist and Stanza needed it to sound as if it had been given to him. So he came up with what he thought was a simple way of making it appear as if that was what had happened.

  Stanza telephoned the politician and requested a brief phone interview since he did not have the time to meet him personally. When the man came on the line Stanza asked him if he had indeed given the quote concerned. The politician acknowledged that he had. Stanza thanked him, ended the conversation and finished off his piece in a way that clearly conveyed to the reader that the quote had been made directly to him.

  Two days after the piece was printed the Herald’s managing editor called Stanza into his office. Also at the meeting were the managing editor’s boss, the executive editor, and his boss, the publisher himself. Stanza was dragged over the coals for his ‘lie’ and the only reason he left the office with his job intact was because the publisher wanted to bury any scandal and pre
serve the paper’s reputation. But Stanza took with him a warning - delivered in no uncertain terms - that he did not have a future with the Herald, nor with any other paper for that matter. The management strategy was to keep Stanza at the Herald until the incident became ancient history and then dump him.

  A year later Stanza was called into the office of Patterson, the paper’s foreign editor. Due to the notably unimproved attitude of his bosses towards him, Stanza suspected that the time had come for him to be handed his cards. But to his surprise he was offered an assignment to Iraq. Patterson did not hesitate to tell Stanza that he had in fact been due to be ‘let go’ that week. But as matters stood the paper had a problem and Stanza was the only solution. Patterson’s dilemma was that no one else at the newspaper wanted to take the risk of going to a war zone that had already claimed the lives of more journalists than any other in history. Patterson hinted that if Stanza did an outstanding job - and it would need to be exactly that - the paper might not be in such a rush to get rid of him. The way Stanza saw it was that if he did an outstanding job he could make Iraq his reporting home. He thanked Patterson before leaving the office but when he closed the door behind him he wondered why he’d bothered.

  Stanza carried his two heavy bags and a laptop across the arrivals lounge towards a large set of double doors beyond which bright daylight shone. He stepped through them onto a covered concourse where a dozen or so hardened and grizzly-looking Caucasian men were standing around. They looked like mercenaries or ex-Foreign Legionnaires, unshaven, their hair cropped, obviously waiting for people to exit the terminal. Many had pistols strapped to their thighs and wore bulging khaki waist jackets containing radios, spare magazines and God only knew what other military-style gadgetry in the multitude of pockets and pouches. As Stanza passed between them he noticed that the English some of them spoke came in various accents while others appeared to speak a range of Eastern European languages.

  Stanza emerged from this collection of ruffians and dropped his bags at the side of a road that ran along the front of the vast terminal building. A handful of vehicles were parked against the kerb and directly across the road was an immense three-storey concrete car park, the lower floor filled with vehicles.

  ‘Jake?’ a voice called out from behind him.

  Stanza turned to see a fit-looking younger man heading towards him. The fellow had short neat hair and a closely cropped beard and was wearing a short-sleeved check shirt. He could have mingled easily with the other mercenary types, although his look was not as menacing. He wasn’t sporting a combat-ready waist-coat, for one thing, and he carried no visible weapons. However, there was an air of controlled, efficient toughness about him and Stanza suddenly felt like a tourist who had arrived in the wrong country.

  ‘Jake Stanza?’ the man asked again, with a friendly smile.

  ‘That’s me,’ Stanza said dryly, doing his best to appear self-assured and cool about being in the most dangerous place in the world.

  ‘Bernie Mallory,’ the man said as he held out his hand.

  Stanza shook it, suspecting that the man was English - although he would have to hear him talk a little more before he could be certain.

  ‘I’m your security adviser,’ Mallory said.

  ‘I guessed that much,’ Stanza said light-heartedly.

  ‘How was the flight?’

  ‘Great,’ Stanza replied, looking around and wondering where the transport was. Several people in suits walked out of the arrivals lounge and were ushered into a couple of heavy-duty 4×4 vehicles by some of the armed thuggish-looking types.

  ‘Our transport is in the car park,’ Mallory said, pointing across the road. ‘Those are VIPs,’ he added, suspecting that Stanza was wondering why he had to walk to the car whereas the suits had been met at the terminal. ‘Let’s try and beat the rush,’ Mallory said, stepping past Stanza onto the road. ‘We don’t want to be hitting the BIAP road with the rest of these targets,’ he said, ignoring Stanza’s bags.

  Stanza picked up his bags and followed. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked Mallory who was a few feet ahead of him and heading towards a footpath into the car park.

  ‘We’re all targets,’ Mallory said, half-turning his head. ‘Westerners. The BIAP road is the most dangerous in the world. Averages a couple of kills a day . . . They know when the flights come in from Amman, the bad guys, and it doesn’t take much savvy to figure out that half an hour to an hour later the passengers will be coming out. They’ll be looking for a target.’

  It got darker and cooler as they entered the vast concrete car park. Stanza followed Mallory between dozens of civilian cars, many with armed thugs hanging around them.

  Stanza’s laptop slipped off his shoulder and he shuffled on, trying to ignore the added discomfort and wondering why his security guard had not offered to help with his bags. But the BIAP road was a more important subject at that moment as he thought about the dangers they were to face almost immediately after landing.‘Isn’t there another road out of here?’ he asked.

  ‘Yep,’ Mallory replied. ‘It’s quieter but if you do get hit you’re more isolated. At least on the BIAP road there’s a chance that a US convoy might come by if you’ve had a contact. Then it’s down to luck if they get involved.They don’t always bother when it’s a fight involving civilians.’

  Stanza wondered if the man was being serious or just trying to get the new journalist in town all wound up. He decided not to ask any more questions for the time being - he’d try to assess things for himself as they developed. When Stanza had first heard that he was to have a personal security officer in Baghdad he’d been hostile to the idea - not that he’d had any choice in the matter. But that had been back in Wisconsin and despite his uncertainty about this Brit he was beginning to suspect that there might be some sense to it. Apparently the security adviser was just part of the life-insurance package anyway, which was expensive enough for a journalist in Iraq.A personal security guard significantly reduced the premium. Patterson would not have hired one for any other reason. Certainly not out of any altruistic concern for Stanza’s well-being.

  They carried on into a darker, dustier section of the robust concrete structure. The only light came in through narrow openings on either side, which left the centre area quite dark. Trash was everywhere and there were strong smells of sewage, rotting garbage and urine.

  Stanza and Mallory walked past the seemingly endless rows of concrete pillars that supported the vast low ceiling. Most of the vehicles they passed were SUV types, four-wheel drive and solidly built. More armed men were positioned among them, looking like modern gladiators, all adorned with weaponry of various types. One group they passed was guarding four heavy trucks modified with what looked like steel plates that were all painted matt black. Mad Max came to Stanza’s mind as he studied them. The last vehicle had a large board tied to its rear with the words ‘GET BACK OR I’LL KILL YOU’ written on it in large letters and an Arabic translation beneath.

  Mallory led Stanza around the corner of a broad ramp that came down from the floor above. Ahead, Stanza saw two very ordinary-looking cars parked away from the others.Two smartly dressed Arab men in their thirties were leaning back against one of the cars, chatting and smoking. They stood up and put out their cigarettes as Mallory approached.

  On seeing Stanza struggling with his bags, one of the Arabs hurried forward to help him.The other Arab took Stanza’s laptop from him.

  ‘Easy with my computer,’ Stanza called out, his voice echoing in the concrete cavern as the men opened the boot of one of the cars and loaded the luggage inside.

  ‘These two are Farris and Kareem,’ Mallory said, introducing the Iraqis who paused to beam and nod hello. ‘They’re our drivers.’

  ‘Hi,’ Stanza said, forcing a smile.

  The men went to hold out their hands, unsure if Stanza was the polite type or not. Iraqis were quite formal when it came to greetings. When meeting one of their own kind they usually broke into a pantomime of t
raditional gestures and phrases.

  Stanza took their hands in turn and shook them somewhat limply in what he reckoned was an adequate effort to bond with the natives.

  ‘D’you have body armour?’ Mallory asked.

  ‘No,’ Stanza said, apparently unaware that he needed any.

  From the back of his car Mallory dragged out a heavy flak jacket covered in a durable blue cotton material and with a stiff high collar. He held it out to Stanza. ‘Try that,’ he said.

  ‘Do I put it on now?’ Stanza asked, looking at it in Mallory’s hands.

  ‘I would advise it,’ Mallory answered dryly.

  Stanza took hold of it. As Mallory released it, it fell to the ground, its weight almost wrenching Stanza’s arms from their sockets. He hadn’t been prepared for that and after taking a firm grip on it he heaved it up and plonked it on the bonnet of the car.

  Mallory opened one of the car’s front doors, took off his short-sleeved shirt to reveal a thin nylon T-shirt covering a taut muscular torso and lifted a light pair of armoured plates off the passenger seat. They were connected by a series of Velcro straps and Mallory placed them over his head and fixed them tightly on his shoulders and around his back and chest.