by Andy McNab
The raffia cabanas and fencing now made sense to me. They hadn’t done it to make it look good: it was to stop outsiders having an unrestricted view and therefore a good arc of fire into the compound. It obviously worked. Everybody looked very relaxed, even though a random cabby into the fencing might take any of them out. But fuck it – as Gaz would say, ‘It’s a war, innit?’
Quite a few more people wandered around the pool as Bob Marley sparked up from the speakers and went into competition with Johnny’s dad, but neither of them was making much headway against the rumble of conversation and laughter. The whole lot got drowned out as a helicopter swooped low over the rooftops just the other side of the hotel.
Jerry came out and watched it go as he clipped his bumbag round him. ‘Must be the cheese-wire patrol . . .’
As we headed for the lift I wondered if Rob would turn up. I hoped so. Seeing these people again made me feel as if nothing had changed, and I liked that. It wasn’t as if Rob and I’d been in and out of each other’s houses during our time together in the Regiment, but whenever we met up we connected – mostly because we were the sad fucks who hadn’t scored down town all night and were still trying to chat up women at the Chinese takeaway on the way back to camp.
The lobby was still heaving. Loud Arab music drifted out of the wedding reception and the women were warbling big-time. They’d be knackered by the morning.
Outside, a crowd had gathered round the far end of the pool, waiting to collect food from the barbecue. The necks of beer bottles stuck out of big bins of ice like the spines of frozen hedgehogs. An Apple PowerBook had been rigged up to a couple of speakers, its screen displaying the music menu. The Wailers were fighting hard to make themselves heard over the country-and-western.
Jerry swayed to the beat and pointed at the strings of fairy-lights in the palm trees. ‘This could be the Caribbean, man.’
‘Must be what makes it so popular,’ I said, as I made my way along the pool side. ‘And I bet the Yardies don’t have many of those.’ A tracked vehicle screeched noisily down the road just the other side of the wall and helicopters clattered across the sky.
The guests were mostly Brits and Americans and seemed to know each other. The news agencies always did have a pretty incestuous set-up, with the same crews moving from war zone to war zone. None of their protection was carrying: the guys all had their party kit on, lurid Hawaiian shirts and Bermudan shorts. It was fun time, and we were the right side of the fence. They outnumbered the women by about sixteen to one, and hovered round the few available like flies round shit.
Jerry picked up a beer for himself and a Coke for me and we gave the place a good scan, me keeping an eye out for Rob, him for anybody who looked like they might know the secret of the Bosnian ayatollah. We must have looked like the proverbial spare pricks.
Sporadic gunfire punctuated the hubbub of conversation, but it was obviously too far away to worry about. I wondered how they defined too close for comfort. A hundred metres? Fifty? Or wait till someone drops? That really would be effective enemy fire.
A huge contact sparked up nearby. This time everybody did look up. An amazing amount of heavy .50 cal tracer stitched hot dotted lines across the sky. Every pair of eyes followed its trajectory, but once they realized it wasn’t going to fall on our heads, their owners got back to their chats and beers.
I was just treating myself to a swig of Coke when I got a huge slap on the back that made my teeth bang against the bottle.
‘Wanker!’
I recognized the broad Geordie accent even before I turned round. I’d known Pete Holland for years, but thankfully not that well. He was one of those guys who had an opinion on everything, and a lot of them disappeared when you held them up to the light. Built like a prop forward, he was known in the Regiment as a good Bergen carrier, a strong back you could depend on to get kit from A to B. So strong, in fact, he could make the muscles in his back bulge like bat wings. His nickname was, of course, Lats-Like-A-Bat.
We shook hands. ‘All right, mate? How’s it going? This is Jerry.’
It wasn’t long before Jerry made his excuses and left, probably so I could start quizzing Lats about Nuhanovic. But I’d need to be pretty fucking desperate before I went that route. He’d want to know why, where, when – and how much I was willing to pay him for answering.
Pete had a beer in one hand and a spare in the other, what he called ‘having one on the loading tray’. He’d been in the Artillery before the Regiment. That was his problem: once he’d started on the beers, the loading tray was as busy as a factory conveyor belt. He could have given Ezra a lifetime’s work.
He nodded at the two Balkan boys I’d seen in the coffee-bar area, who had just joined a group at the end of the pool. The one with the goatee had a huge smile on his face as he offered round his pack of cigarettes. ‘Not working for them cunts, are you?’
I shook my head. ‘A journalist. That guy Jerry. You?’
He stuck out his jaw and pranced around on the spot as if he was sizing up to throw a punch. ‘Doing me own thing. A wee bit of freelance. I’m on a good number, BGing some Japanese. Five hundred a day. Champion.’ He took a hefty swig of free beer.
How did you answer that? ‘Five hundred. Good for you, mate. Listen, those flat-tops. They Bosnian, Serb, what?’
‘Fuck knows. I fucking know what they’re up to, though.’ He pointed at the others in the group with his bottle. ‘Don’t these cunts know what they’re doing? Some of them are younger than my two girls.’
It clicked. These two were part of the Balkans’ globalization campaign. It didn’t sound like they’d be spending much time with the ayatollah.
He took another swig, not that he needed it, and I realized what the posturing was all about. He was trying to keep his balance. No wonder he was on his own. Anybody working for a decent firm and found drinking on a job would be thrown out, no exceptions, no second chances. And word flew round the circuit quicker than tracer. He wasn’t an independent by choice. No one would vouch for him. It was a big deal to do that. If the guy you vouched for turned out to be crap, that meant so were you. It was just the way it was.
I hoped he hadn’t come over and slapped me on the back because he thought I was a kindred spirit. ‘You and the Japanese in the hotel?’
‘Aye, I’m here and there. You know how it is.’
I didn’t. I hadn’t a clue what he was on about.
37
The Canadian woman floated into the pool area with Mr Gap in tow. He looked as if he’d stepped straight out of the shop window, only tonight his polo shirt was green. She was in a black cheesecloth dress that she knew made the best of the buttons she had left unfastened between her breasts.
Lats couldn’t keep his eyes off them as she joined the bunch by the barbecue. He put down his empty bottle and kicked into the next as he fished in the bin for another. ‘I’m gonna fuck her. She with that dickhead in green?’
‘Don’t know, mate.’
‘I’m going to give her the old special-forces chat-up. Know what I mean?’
This time I did know what he was on about. ‘Well, good luck, mate. I’ve got to go talk to my man about tomorrow.’
It was a mistake shaking the hand that had just come out of the ice bin. As I walked away I felt like I’d just had a close encounter with the living dead.
Jerry hadn’t wasted any time. He’d hooked up with a guy who looked a bit like a New Age traveller. Randy was a TV cameraman, though I wondered if he’d remember that come the morning. Waccy baccy was probably as easy to get hold of here as beer and Randy had been making the most of it. ‘I’ve been here seven fucking months, Jerry,’ he drawled. ‘Ain’t no Bosnian Messiah here, no way, my man.’ So much for not talking to the media. ‘I came in with the Marines—’ He stopped and looked up as three helicopters screamed overhead, one after the other. We couldn’t see them: they were unlit. Randy staggered backwards and pointed up, shouting, like a driver with road rage, ‘Quiet! For
fuck’s sake, be quiet – it’s my fucking birthday.’
Once he regained his balance he had a fit of giggles, then leaned an arm on Jerry’s shoulder. ‘I got a way with choppers. See, they get off my case pretty damn sharp, man. It’s those fucking tanks I have issues with, man.’
Over Jerry’s spare shoulder, I saw Rob coming into the pool area from the lobby. He looked as though he was heading for a different kind of party. There were sweat stains on his T-shirt from where he’d just removed his body armour, he had a pistol on his belt and an AK in his hand. I didn’t think he’d be staying long.
‘Good to meet you, Randy.’ I had a crack at trying to shake his hand, but he was too busy waving at another burst of tracer. ‘Jerry, I’ve got to go – Rob’s here. See you later.’
Randy tried to focus his eyes on mine, but gave up. ‘Yeah, me too. I’ve gotta get out of here. Right out of fucking Iraq. Seven months, man.’
Rob was searching the crowd. He smiled as I approached. ‘Sorry, mate. I’m not hanging about. Ten minutes and that’s it.’
‘You with your man?’
He shook his head as his eyes scanned the party. ‘At the al-Hamra. Thought I’d come and say hello. How’s your search for the Bosnian getting on? You have a name for him?’
‘Nuhanovic. He’s their answer to Mahatma Gandhi. You heard anything?’
‘Nah. It’s just a picture you want?’
‘Jerry, the guy I’m with, says he’s going to be famous one day.’
‘For what?’
‘World peace, mate. Putting us out of a job.’
He held out his hand and pointed at nowhere in particular. ‘Just don’t tell that to any of the Serbs on the circuit, will you?’
‘You want a Coke?’
‘No Coke, thanks – water will do.’ Sweat streamed down his face.
I grabbed a bottle from one of the ice bins. He twisted the cap and threw his head back. It would have made a great commercial if I’d really been in the advertising business.
A couple of AKs sparked up the other side of the fence and a tracked vehicle rattled along the road. Rob listened to the chaos and shook his head. ‘Close my eyes and I could be back home.’
‘Fuck me, Rob, I know Coventry can be bad at times but—’
‘No, mate, Uzbekistan. They’re my people now. It’s the same sort of situation out there.’ He jerked his head roughly in the direction of the outside world. ‘Indiscriminate body-count stuff. There’s got to be a better way, don’t you think?’
I shrugged. Why Uzbekistan? From the little I knew, it was in a shit state. It had got independence from Russia in ’91, but was still state-run. The government decided everything, from what food you could buy to what TV you could watch. I’d been slumped on the settee not long ago watching a documentary about human rights. Uzbekistan had the sort of record that made Pol Pot look like Mother Teresa. One of their favourite tricks was boiling people till their skin peeled, then scrubbing them down with disinfectant. ‘Know what, Rob? I try really hard not to think about it too much.’
He held his bottle in his right hand, weapon in the left. ‘We’re fucking up here, exactly like the French did in Algiers. History repeats itself, but nobody learns.’
I scratched my head. ‘Well, I’ve only been here a day, mate. I haven’t taken much notice.’
He pointed at the media crew the other side of the pool with Jerry. ‘The French used to report stuff exactly the way those wankers over there are reporting this. Telling the world things are improving. Are they fuck. Demonstrators killed in Fallujah – so what? Not worth reporting. An American goes apeshit with a full mag and drops some kids in Mosul – who cares? Iraqis slaughter each other by night, but come first light, everyone’s blind.’ He lifted the bottle to his mouth.
I suddenly felt as tired as he was. ‘You’re right, mate, but that’s how it’s always been. We know it’s all bullshit. We’re never going to be told the truth.’
Rob finished the bottle and placed it alongside a collection of empties on a low wall. Randy was arguing over the Apple with a guy in a hat with Mickey Mouse ears. He didn’t want Bob and the Wailers any more and, after all, it was his birthday. I didn’t think Mickey had a problem with switching the music: he’d just had enough of Randy slobbering over his keyboard.
Rob was still grappling with the big picture. ‘It’s not as if I’m all bitter and twisted. I understand what’s going on, and the reason why. I just can’t help feeling there’s got to be a better way. Back home my man listens to Al Alam radio. It broadcasts out of Tehran, but it’s the only station with up-to-date news of what’s really going on in Iraq. Isn’t that bizarre? The closest we get to the truth, and it’s coming from the latest axis of evil.
‘The Western news agencies are just reporting whatever the CPA tells them to: “There’s a little local difficulty here, nothing that can’t be sorted.” But the boys on the ground know different. Two Americans get blown up here. Six Brits get shot there. You know the US isn’t even covering the funerals now? The White House doesn’t want sobbing families and coffins draped in the Stars and Stripes on TV.’
He glanced again at the partygoers around him. ‘Know what, Nick? They’ve got to pull back, start telling it like it is, otherwise everyone at home will think things are great. They won’t demand action, we’ll lose this war, then we’re fucked. Because it won’t end here, mate. It’ll spread.’
38
Randy was really starting to piss Mickey off, especially since he was now pouring beer over the keyboard because he wasn’t getting his own way.
‘If other countries get it into their heads the Americans can be humbled by strategic resistance, why should they give up their own struggle?’
‘You talking about Uzbekistan?’
‘It’s a fucking nightmare there, mate. Our esteemed president, Karimov, has made himself Dubya’s new best friend.’
I knew courtesy of the Discovery Channel that Uzbekistan had one of the best tables in the Washington Good Lads Club: it had let itself be used as a base for US forces during Operation Fuck Off Taleban, and they’d stayed on as part of the war on terror. Of course, the guardians of freedom and liberty hadn’t jumped up and down too much about their host’s misdemeanours: he’d handed them a strategic position at the heart of Central Asia, the reward for which was a full-dress White House reception and a couple of hundred million dollars in aid.
It was just another load of bollocks. Fuck it, who cared? Well, Rob did, by the sound of it. ‘We’ve got Shi’ites bombing and shooting their way around the fucking country, trying to replace Karimov with an Islamic caliphate. Karimov doesn’t want that. The White House doesn’t want it. Nor do most Uzbekis. But it’s that fucker Karimov who’s causing the drama. He’s crushing religious freedom – creating the very fundamentalism that he and Bush think they’re fighting.’
Rob was having one of his famous intense moments. I generally tried to avoid them: they used up far too many brain cells. ‘He’s closed down nearly all the mosques. Clever move in a country that’s eighty per cent Muslim. There’s just a handful still open in each city for state-sanctioned Friday prayers, but worship anywhere else, any time, and you’re banged up. It’s a fucking nightmare, and if we lose this war here it’s only going to get worse back home – in fact, anywhere that people are pissed off. Got another water?’
I fumbled about in one of the bins. Most of the ice had already melted.
‘The Algerians perked up when they saw France getting annihilated in Vietnam. They thought, right, if they can fuck them, so can we. Here? Just take out the French and insert the Americans and Brits.’
He took the water and shoved it into the map pocket on his cargoes. ‘One for the road, mate. I’ve got to get back before curfew.’
I hadn’t known there was one. ‘What time does it kick in?’
‘That’s the thing, no one’s really sure. Some say ten till four thirty. Others say ten thirty till four. Who knows? Anyway, I’ve
got to get back. ‘
Rob fished into his back pocket for the thirty-round curved mag for his AK. A gale of female laughter erupted on the other side of the pool. Pete Holland had his shirt off and was flexing his lats for the Canadian woman. It was his party piece.
Mr Gap was laughing too, but I bet he was really pissed off that a drunk was getting all the attention after he’d been doing all the spadework.
Rob just ignored him. ‘I reckon this great coalition had better start learning from the Algerian experience, because those fucking oiks out there in the desert, they have. And if we don’t sort this situation out we’re going to be here for years and the problem will spread. The Stans are ready to rock for a start – Turkmenistan, Uzbekistan, whatever – they’re all up for it.’
I hoped the lecture was over. Rob could be like a dog with a bone. ‘You been eating those history books again, haven’t you?’
He squared up to me. ‘No, mate. I’m just getting a huge education from my man. There’s a few who are talking about a different way, using a different weapon, rather than these things.’ He pushed the front of the mag into its housing on the weapon and it clicked home. ‘What about you, Nick? You interested in finding a different way?’
An agonized gasp from the Canadian saved me having to answer. It was just as well. I didn’t have a clue what he was on about.
Every man and his dog spun round to see what was happening. Lats was trading punches with the flat-tops. He wasn’t coming off best. Goatee was trying to stamp on his head as he got pulled away by do-gooders.
‘That fucker hasn’t changed, has he?’ Rob never had liked him.
‘They’re slavers.’
‘Here already? He’s doing something useful for once, then, ain’t he?’
Rob and I shook hands. There was more gunfire from a few blocks away. Rob racked back the cocking handle and made ready the AK, his right thumb pushing the safety catch on the right-hand side of the weapon all the way up. ‘Tell me I’m not right. There’s got to be a better way. There’s no rich kids out there tonight fighting this war. It’s all soft cunts like me and you were fifteen or sixteen years ago. See yer soon. I’ll call by, see if you find Mahatma.’ He turned and disappeared into the lobby.
