Aggressor

4
I shifted a couple of cables out of the way to make room for my feet. I could see Paata and Charlie through the hatch, framed by the TV monitors, as we set off. Beside them, someone had taped a montage of images from Nana’s recent past.
One of them showed her in Fiona Bruce mode, posing at a news desk, wearing make-up and an earnest smile. Captions in Paperclip, Russian and English promoted her for some kind of award. She had certainly kept herself busy. She had exposed corruption in all sections of government, ‘unearthing entanglements of network and patronage at all levels’.
Another shot showed her alongside the Georgian army, covering the siege by Islamic militants in Kazbegi, on the Russian border, not even two weeks ago. According to the cutting, she’d been the first journalist at the scene, and reported live for CNN.
Nobody talked. Nana was very tense and edgy, and it set the tone. The soundproofing in the cab did a perfect job of muting the rain, and it accentuated the awkward silence.
Bastard, true to form, remained oblivious. ‘Now where the f*ck’s that coffee?’
Nana reached into one of the large nylon zip bags on the floor and handed him a stainless steel thermos.
As Bastard unscrewed the top, Koba watched his every move.
‘Do you guys work on the pipeline?’ Nana asked. ‘What are you, surveyors? Engineers?’
Bastard poured himself a generous mug, and the smell of coffee filled the van. ‘Security.’
She turned to me. ‘You security too? Do you have any ID? Koba likes to be sure about people.’
‘It was in my bag, in our Pajero.’ I did my best to look apologetic. ‘We lost everything.’
She switched her attention back to Bastard. ‘We’re planning a documentary about the pipeline. Maybe we could do business one day.’
Bastard was getting the brew down him. It hadn’t occurred to him to offer some to anyone else. ‘Anti, I guess?’
‘Excuse me? Oh, I see.’ She flexed her fingers. ‘Well, don’t you think it’s crazy for an oil pipeline to cut straight through a national park?’
Bastard took a deep breath. We were about to be treated to his state-of-the-nation speech. ‘Listen, lady, you ain’t getting the big picture. It had to come this way, to avoid the Russians down south. That place of theirs ain’t called Military City Number One for nothing. Hey, it’s you people who call them the aggressive neighbour, not us.’
It was clear Koba didn’t like Bastard’s tone and Bastard knew it. ‘What the f*ck you looking at, Lurch?’
Koba’s deep-set eyes didn’t even blink.
Bastard sank the last of the brew and I jumped in to try and stop things escalating.
‘And you, Nana? Why are you going to Borjomi?’
Her eyes narrowed. I knew she didn’t like me; I just hoped I didn’t know the reason why. ‘You probably won’t have heard because it’s just a little local matter, not part of the big picture . . .’ She glanced at Bastard, but her irony was clearly lost on him. ‘Just over a week ago, militant rebels massacred more than sixty women and children in a village called Kazbegi..’
I’d seen that look on her face before. Hazel and Julie had used it too. She tried to compose herself.
‘A farming family in Borjomi lost their only child in the massacre. A little girl. She was seven years old . . .’
She paused again.
‘We were with them on Saturday. We’re going back because they are willing to go live and tell us what it is like to live under the tyranny of Akaki, the militant leader. He is no freedom fighter; he’s a self-seeking, dictatorial thug. These poor people live in fear. But this couple, well – they have had enough.’
Bastard just started laughing. ‘What the f*ck are momma and papa gonna do? They think that’s gonna change the world? They think that’s gonna make Akaki drop his pants and run away? Shit, they’ll just get themselves dead. F*cking dumb-asses.’ He nodded at Koba. ‘Ain’t that a fact, Lurch?’
Koba shifted in his seat. He clearly recognized Akaki’s name, and he didn’t like it one bit.
Bastard couldn’t contain himself now. He was on a roll. ‘That Akaki . . . boy, he’s caused us all a few headaches, over the years.’
‘Headaches? Headaches?’ Nana shook her head in disbelief. ‘Yes, I suppose you could call them that . . . Did you hear of the murder of Zurab Bazgadze?’
She was talking to him, but I had a nasty feeling she was addressing me.
‘The saint guy, right? The one who tried to get in the way of the pipeline?’
‘With very good reason.’ She glanced at Koba too. Her expression seemed to tell him that he needn’t worry about ripping Bastard’s head off. Any minute now, she’d do the job herself. ‘As you may have spotted, the soil structure around here is extremely unstable. It’s an area of considerable geological complexity, particularly vulnerable to landslides and earthquakes. In the event of pipeline rupture, there’s a risk of catastrophic environmental damage.
‘Zurab knew it would devastate the natural springs. Bottled water is Georgia’s number-one export. The people round here, their livelihoods depend on it. No-one championed their cause more vigorously than he did.’
‘Zurab, eh? He a friend of yours, missy?’
‘He became so. I interviewed him many times over the years; most recently, just before he died. He was here on Saturday, visiting the bereaved family. He was very good like that. A man of the people. We were to film him at length on Sunday morning, but he had to return to Tbilisi at short notice, so we were only able to grab a few minutes with him . . .’
Her look was defiant, but I thought I could see tears in her eyes.
‘Now, of course, I wish we’d tried harder to persuade him to stay.’
I leaned forward, elbows on my knees. ‘You’re 60 Minutes, right?’
She nodded.
That figured. The Georgian Times had said that 60 Minutes and Baz had been due to have a love fest when he presented his affidavit.
‘We got sensors in the pipes to show up any fractures,’ Bastard said. It was as if he hadn’t listened to a single word. ‘It’d be sealed in days.’
Somehow, she managed to keep her cool. ‘By which time the whole area would be contaminated. That’s precisely why Zurab got an injunction to stop the pipeline coming this way. But your . . . friends . . . got it revoked. Zurab said that the decision came all the way from Washington; that your freedom-loving president intervened.’
Bastard wasn’t really listening. His face was boiling up nicely, as if he’d just caught this woman setting fire to the Stars and Stripes. ‘Hey, lady, that saint of yours knew you people were getting a good deal out of this. If it weren’t for us, you’d still be living in the dark ages. We’re bankrolling you. We’re giving you independence, freedom and stability – and in exchange for what? A few miles of metal tube. My president is even taking time out to come here and show you guys he means business. What more did your f*cking saint Zurab want from us?’
Koba was looking more and more pissed off. Nana soothed him with a few mumbled words and shook her head sadly. ‘Zurab just couldn’t understand why, if you’re so devoted to democracy and stability, you support a government whose corruption knows no limits. The people see very little benefit from your so-called altruism, so the people think you are just here for the oil.’
Bastard’s face had turned purple. ‘You know what, lady? I don’t give a f*ck. Bazgadze and his kind make me sick right up to my back teeth – complaining about this, complaining about that. Jesus, you were spending all day lining up for bread before we came along, yet all he did was complain about your government, my government, the Russians, the energy corridor. But you know what, lady.’ He put his finger to his temple, compressing the veins until they bulged. ‘I don’t give a shit if the Georgian government are driving round in Cadillacs. That was his problem, not mine.’
‘I agree, it was his problem. But it is also mine, and Georgia’s – and make no mistake about this, it’s yours as well. Zurab was right. He knew your country was more interested in oil than democracy. Democracy is just an excuse, a convenient flag to wave. You are behaving no differently here than you do in South America, Africa, the Mid-East. You invest in the military, keep corrupt governments happy, and build bases for your own troops to protect your oil interests. Meanwhile, our people, their people, the people who really matter, get nothing.’
I leaned back against the aluminium boxes. Charlie’s ‘little guy getting f*cked over’ theory was receiving its most articulate airing yet.
‘Zurab knew very well that you, America, use the war against terrorism and paranoia about national security to underpin your foreign deployments, while your military becomes the protection force for every oil field, pipeline, refinery and tanker route on the planet. And the price we will all pay is higher than you can possibly imagine. You think it is measured in dollars, but it’s not. It’s measured in blood.’
There wasn’t a whole lot even Bastard could say to that, but he didn’t have to. Paata turned and leaned back through the bulkhead. ‘We are here.’