by Andy McNab
I went back into the room. Jerry was stretched out on the bed, hands behind his head, admiring his prowess with the electrics.
‘No signal – the sat must be the other side.’ I threw the Thuraya on to the bed next to him. ‘The only way out of here is by the lift or jumping. The fire escape is blocked.’
‘Don’t worry, man, this place is as safe as Fort Knox. First things first.’ He had cheered up a lot since the wait in Amman. Maybe he felt we were just that bit closer to Nuhanovic. He sat up on the edge of the bed. ‘You get the beers. I’m going to need some local clothes if I’m going to do the brown thing right.’
We had already agreed that he was going to do the brown-man stuff and I would do the white.
‘I’ll call DC, then hit the mosque over the road in time for Asur and see what I can pick up. That’s if I can get past that tank without them putting a bullet in my Islamic ass.’
I nodded. It was pointless just sitting around waiting for the source to come up with the goods: we had to get out there. Somebody had to know something. Jerry didn’t want to quiz the journalists because they’d sniff a story and either clam up or lie. But there was nothing to stop me getting among the guys working on the circuit.
I checked Baby-G, my own black one this time. I’d left Kelly’s behind: I needed to keep a clear head. Who was I kidding? Looking at my own just made me think about hers – and then about her. It had been wider than her wrist, and took her for ever to fasten.
It was just after three p.m. – seven a.m. Washington time. We’d missed a couple of nights’ sleep. No wonder I was feeling knackered.
30
We took the small, nine-person lift down to the lobby. Jerry, as ever, was clutching his camera; I had my bumbag with my passport in it, along with just over three thousand dollars in cash. The lift stank of cigarettes and stopped at every floor with a disconcerting bounce. We were joined on the fourth by two Filipino guys with MP5s, dressed in black body armour like a SWAT team; on the third, by two military guys trying to look like civilians, which is pretty much impossible when you’re sporting a whitewall haircut; finally, on the second, by two NGO guys with fat Filofaxes and even fatter beer bellies.
Everyone, civilian or military, seemed to have some form of ID round their neck, a nylon tape with a hook and a plastic, see-through cardholder. Were we supposed to have one? What the fuck did I know?
As the doors closed, one Filipino offered the other a cigarette and they both lit up. By the time we reached the lobby I smelt like I’d spent the night in a pub.
There were now maybe a few more Iraqis than foreign businessmen sitting and smoking on the sofas, all with identical thick black moustaches, trousers, shirts, plastic dress shoes and white socks. Whatever else had changed here, the Saddam look was still in.
A pair of Hummers was parked up outside. A group of sweaty soldiers were dumping their body armour and taking off their soaking wet BDU jackets; hot food and bottles of mineral water were being passed round from the back of a canvas-skinned truck.
I could see two or three civilians pacing up and down just beyond the Hummers, chatting away on their sat phones. They must have been staying on our side of the hotel.
The two shops in the lobby were doing a roaring trade in toothpaste, Saddam watches and banknotes, which were still in circulation. Saddam looked the same on the dinars as he did in any picture: big smile, big moustache, and outstretched arm pointing at something we never got to see. You could also buy Arabic coffee-pots, maps, clothes; one guy was putting up a little Bedouin tent to use as a carpet stall. Even DHL were setting up a stand as we walked past – so people could jet their purchases back home in time for Christmas.
As Jerry headed out into the blinding sunlight, I spotted a group of fixers.
I was greeted by three big smiling faces. ‘Hello, Mister, what can I get you?’ It doesn’t matter where you go in the world, everyone in this line of business speaks English.
I shook each by the hand and gave them a smily ‘Salaam aleikum. I need twelve beers.’
The youngest was the first to answer. He looked very smart in his brand new jeans and trainers. ‘Ten minutes. You wait inside?’
The other two left us, still smiling away. They had more than enough custom. I grabbed my boy by the arm as he turned towards the door. ‘There’s a couple more things.’
His smile got even bigger. ‘You want girl? I get you young girl, European. Very new.’
‘No, just two pistols, with magazines and lots of ammunition.’ I didn’t even bother phrasing it as a question.
‘Sure. For you I have Saddam’s own pistols, good price. You want rifle, I get you Saddam’s own—’
‘No, mate, just two pistols. Saddam’s or not, I don’t care. Make sure they’re semi-automatics.’
‘Sure. For you, tomorrow morning. I bring here, OK. OK?’
I nodded and pointed towards the coffee area. ‘I’ll wait in there for the beers.’
He ran off before I’d had the chance to ask him about vehicles. Through the glass entrance I saw that Jerry had joined the other members of the Thuraya club and was waving his free arm about like a windmill. I hoped his source was coming up with the goods.
One of the soldiers who’d been eating outside came into the lobby and homed in on one of the fixers. He spoke low and close up. There was a smile as the fixer showed him the size of the breasts he was about to get hold of. These two hotels were probably Shag Central for the grunts, for whom business would be conducted quickly in the toilets.
I left them to it; money changed hands as if it was a drugs deal.
Whoever had designed the café-bar area had opted for plastic banquettes and gone for the seventies, dark, sophisticated and moody look. They’d got the seventies, dark part of it spot on.
The carpet was threadbare and the air was heavy with cigarette smoke and country-and-western music. An old guy dressed in a red shirt and shiny plastic shoes, his hair immaculately combed back, was sitting flanked by a couple of speakers, an amplifier and a Casio Beatmaster. Apart from the Saddam moustache, he was a dead ringer for Johnny Cash’s dad.
A few Iraqis sat half listening, drinking glasses of tea, as a couple of big white guys with flat-top crewcuts, one with a goatee, tried to do business with them. They exchanged a few words with each other in what sounded like Serbo-Croat, then switched back to something approaching English for the next stage of their mumbled negotiation. Their accents were so heavy, all they needed was a black-leather jacket each and they could still have been in the Balkans. I’d need to find out where exactly they came from before bouncing in and asking about a Bosnian. The war might have officially ended, but for a lot of these guys the Dayton Accord was only a piece of paper.
Asmall bowl of boiled eggs, a plate of cheese and some bread rolls looked rather tired on the bar top, carefully guarded by two guys in crumpled white shirts with elasticated bow-ties who were trying hard to look as if they were doing something useful.
One finally made it to my table. I wasn’t going to drink Arab coffee so I ordered a Nescafé with milk, and a couple of the rolls.
He went away to put the kettle on.
A news crew came past, talking English but sounding French, with a couple of the local boys in tow. They sat down to hammer out what they were going to do tomorrow and how long they’d need the driver and interpreter. It wasn’t long before everyone was nodding and one of the Frenchmen peeled some dollar bills from a wad and handed them over. The going rate seemed to be ninety dollars a day for an interpreter and sixty for a driver, paid in advance – and if the French wanted to go anywhere outside Baghdad it would be extra.
My coffee, rolls and a foil-wrapped pat of butter turned up as the two Balkan boys got up to leave. Their Iraqi companions had a little waffle among themselves, puffed happily away on their cigarettes, and went back to listening to Johnny Cash’s dad.
31
I was half-way through my first mouthful when I realized I had com
petition. The oldest biker in town was making a beeline for the buffet. He was late fifties, early sixties, only about five foot five, but powerfully built, with big freckled arms and hands the size of baseball gloves. He ordered eggs, rolls and cheese with his Nescafé and, judging by the size of his gut, it wasn’t for the first time: it strained under a black Harley Davidson T-shirt that shouted: ‘Born To Ride, Born To Raise Hell’. The image was completed by a long grey beard, jeans, and a big black belt with a Harley buckle. His head was totally bald, and he’d been out here for ever, by the look of it. He was nearly as brown as Jerry.
He was certainly pretty pleased with himself. He waved at the French, who were now in a smoking competition with the Iraqis, as he settled himself on a stool a few down from me, and treated me to the sort of nod that said, ‘Later, we’ll talk.’ I treated him to one that said I was in no hurry, but I had a feeling it wouldn’t be long before we were best mates and he was offering me the use of his house, car and wife next time I was in the States.
I’d just filled my second roll with butter and shoved it in my mouth when the baseball glove appeared in front of me. ‘Howdy, I’m Jacob. How’s it hanging?’
I swallowed fast but my reply still emerged in a shower of crumbs. ‘Fine, how about you?’
‘Good, real good. Big day tomorrow. My son’s in town.’
His T-shirt should have said ‘World’s Proudest Dad’. None of his worldly goods heading my way, then.
‘Here in Baghdad?’
‘Sure. He’s in the 101st, up north. Ain’t seen the boy for months. I’m kinda excited.’
His food turned up and he started to make himself an egg and cheese roll. I finished my Nescafé and ordered another. Why do Arabs only serve the stuff in thimbles? ‘So, you’ve come to Baghdad to see him?’
His gut quivered with laughter as he sliced the eggs. ‘Hell, no. I work in power – been getting the juice back on for five months now. I’ve got another son here, too – Apache pilot. Pretty cool, eh?’ He beamed. ‘Yep, he’s west of here. I’m gonna go see him some time soon. He can’t get into the city.’
A group of American squaddies came in, looking as if they should have had schoolbags over their shoulders, not automatic weapons. Shit, I used to look like that. They unloaded their belt-kit and body armour and dumped it beside the sofas.
Jacob smiled at them and they smiled back. He got back to his roll and coffee. ‘Yep, been following my boys about since Grenada.’ He chuckled so hard his beard threatened to slide off his chin. ‘My boys destroy the power, their daddy gets the contract to fix it. Kinda neat, ain’t it?’
I was seeing the United States military industrial complex at its lowest binary level. ‘Sounds like the perfect family business.’
He roared with laughter. ‘Where you from?’
‘The UK. I’m looking after a journalist.’
‘You one of them snake-eaters? Hey, I got two myself.’
‘By the look of you, you’re one of the few people around here who doesn’t need them.’
He liked that. But it was true. ‘You know the companies, they gotta look after their people. It’s Crazyville out there. But I was in the service myself. Nineteen years in the 82nd. Damn proud of it.’
I thought this might be a good time to get on and do the white thing. ‘Reminds me of Bosnia . . .’
He wiped some crumbs from his beard and shook his head. ‘One gig I never got to. There wasn’t that much work for us.’ He nodded towards the French. ‘Them cheese-eating surrender monkeys got most of it.’
I smiled as he shoved another lump of cheese into his mouth. ‘Well, it looks like the Bosnians are about to level the score. I heard they’re here in force. You bump into any along the way?’
He shook his head. ‘Not in the reconstruction game.’ He gave me the sort of wink that used up most of the muscles in his face. ‘Some other kinda game, maybe? You got a special interest there?’
I didn’t answer. The Casio sparked up a bit, and Johnny’s dad began to knock out the theme tune to Bonanza. War or no war, a man had to feed his family. He plucked away, eyes closed as if he had the music tattooed under his lids.
‘Say, how long you staying here?’
‘Dunno,’ I said. ‘A week or so?’
‘Cool, maybe we’ll crash into each other. You can meet my boy.’
Two bullet-headed MP5 slingers headed in our direction. All they needed was the boom mikes and they could have gone into partnership with the CPA Action Men at the airport.
Jacob lifted a hand as they reached our table. ‘Hey, boys, nearly ready.’ He finished shoving egg slices into his last roll and squashed it into his left hand, then stood up and held out the other for me to shake. ‘Good to meet you. Say, I didn’t catch your name . . .’
‘Nick,’ I said. ‘Good to meet you too. I hope you get to see your sons.’
He nodded away. ‘Yep, I hope so too, Nick. Maybe catch up tomorrow.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘I’ll look out one of those little Bosnian ladies for you . . .’
He joined the two BGs and slapped each of them on the shoulder. ‘Come on, boys – let’s go make some juice.’
He disappeared to the final chords of Bonanza and I threw down the last of my Nescafé. Jacob might be right, this was Crazyville, but I’d definitely made the correct decision coming here.
32
Ten minutes for the beers, my arse. I went and joined the Saddam-lookalike competition on the settees; I just didn’t bother trying to smoke myself to death at the same time.
Faces flowed constantly in and out of the hotel, and I recognized one. It was Rob, on his way out. He was on his own, with no ID laminate round his neck but an old semi-automatic on his hip. The Parkerization had worn away, exposing the dull steel beneath. In his hand was an unloaded AK, Para version. It had a shorter barrel than the normal assault rifle and a collapsible butt. Great for close-quarters work or in a car. That, too, had seen a few years’ wear and tear.
He caught my eye and smiled. Things were different now: we were on our own. I hauled myself off the settee. ‘Hello, mate, I thought you were dead!’
His big nose crinkled into a grin. ‘What’s going on, you on the circuit? I thought you’d dropped out years ago.’
‘Sort of. I’m working for an American. A journalist. He’s here for maybe a week to get a picture – a Bosnian guy, here in Baghdad, if you can believe that.’
He could. ‘There’s plenty of weirder stuff going on here – listen . . .’
Three German ex-Paras were singing their regimental song by the newly erected Bedouin tent as two Russians loading AK mags chatted to each other about the noise. Going by their crewcuts, tattoos and scars, they’d spent longer in Chechnya than in Moscow.
‘What about you? What firm you working for?’
‘None of those wankers.’ Rob had always wanted to go his own way. ‘I work for an Uzbek – he’s in the oil business.’
‘Staying here?’
‘No, the al-Hamra. Famous for its swimming-pool, chilled beers and dancing girls. Allegedly. It’s not as well protected as this, but he’s a private sort of guy, and it’s not like he’s not used to a bit of drama, if you know what I mean. That’s why I’ve been looking after him for the last three years. He’s a good man, as it happens.’
‘Even better. How long you here for?’
‘Four, five days? We’re not too sure. But no more than a week. I came to pick these fucking things up.’ He hefted the AK. ‘Three fifty they wanted for this heap of shit.’ His nose crinkled again as he had a thought. ‘What you doing tonight? CNN are having a pool party here.’
‘Without water?’
My fixer arrived with the beer. It had a Bavarian-looking label, and was probably brewed just up the road. There’d never been a problem with alcohol in Muslim countries like this, even in restaurants. You just brought your own and asked if it was OK to drink it.
I gave the guy fifteen dollars instead of the five he’d asked for. The t
en was to make sure he came back in the morning with the weapons. As he left I turned back to Rob. ‘What time’s kick-off?’
‘Eightish? You’re here anyway.’
We shook hands and I watched him loading a mag on to his AK as he headed for the door.
The best part of an hour must have passed back on the settee before I heard the sudden sound of a heavy machine-gun, then short bursts of 5.56, both from less than three, four hundred metres away.
Jerry came through the main doors as if his tail was on fire. ‘You hear that? Fuck . . .’
I stood up. ‘Any luck at the mosque?’
‘Nope. Nothing at all. I’ll try again at Maghrib.’ His eyes scanned the activity in the lobby. ‘I got no news from DC either. I’ll keep on calling. I know if he finds out we’ll find out.’
‘So, come on, you can tell me now. We’re here, so it doesn’t matter. What paper does he work for?’
His eyes locked on to mine. This was going to be the last time he told me. ‘Look, Nick, you know the score with sources. I can’t, and won’t, say zip. He’d lose his job, man, everything. We gotta respect that shit.’
He was right, of course. But it didn’t stop me wanting to know.
He had an afterthought. ‘You want to use the phone?’
I shook my head.
‘What are you, Billy-no-mates?’
‘Something like that.’ I held up the beers. ‘Here, for you. I ain’t touching this shit.’
He took the bag off me as we headed for the lifts.
‘You staying in all night to drink those?’ I hit the lift call button. ‘Or you want to come to a party and maybe find Nuhanovic?’
33
There was a knock at the door. It couldn’t be Jerry. He had left ages ago for the mosque to catch Maghrib at around last light. I opened it to find two old boys, cigarettes in their mouths. One handed me a sliver of soap and a hand towel. The other gave me some thin sheets that had gone grey a few hundred wash cycles ago. Everything stank of cigarettes.
