Deep Black ns-7

by Andy McNab

  I clicked another link that sang the praises of new cola brands, owned by Muslims, and offering a real alternative for people concerned about the practices of some major Western multinationals who directly or indirectly supported Muslim oppression. Once again, street talk was that Nuhanovic had slipped into Pakistan last year, to explain that Coca-Cola represented American capitalism and that by boycotting it consumers were sending a powerful signal: that the exploitation of Muslims could not continue unchecked. But the Pakistan government wasn’t too impressed. Their population was about half that of the United States – a huge market. Two per cent of the country’s revenue came from tax on Coca-Cola sales.

  A spokeswoman for the London-based Islamic Human Rights Association said the war on terrorism had made all American brands a focus for resentment, and buying alternative brands made the Muslim community feel better. ‘It makes us feel like we can do something,’ she said. ‘Coca-Cola has become a big symbol of America. It’s a tangible symbol at a time when there is increasing unhappiness about US foreign policy.’

  In response, Coca-Cola said that an unofficial boycott of US products in retaliation for Washington’s support of Israel had really fucked with its bottom line in the region. Zam Zam Cola, the Iranian drink introduced after that country’s Islamic revolution, had huge sales growth a few years ago when a prominent Muslim cleric ruled that Coke and Pepsi were ‘unIslamic ’.

  Zam Zam was now exporting to Saudi Arabia and other Persian Gulf countries, shipping more than ten million bottles in the last four months of 2002.

  Qibla Cola – named after the direction the faithful face when praying – had plans to expand into the Middle East, Africa, southern Asia and the Far East. I couldn’t help smiling at the prospect of adverts asking us to take the Zam Zam taste test.

  23

  Thursday, 9 October

  The forty-seater Royal Jordanian turboprop had hit turbulence several times during the hour-and-a-half flight. I had my head against the window, watching the blur of the prop. It was no surprise that most of the world’s major religions were born in the desert. There was fuck-all else to do.

  Each time the aircraft bucked, it drew gasps from passengers who were new to the game. They probably thought we were being downed by a SAM 7. The not-so-funny thing was that they might soon be right.

  I glanced over at Jerry in the aisle seat. He was busy sorting out his camera bits and pieces, so I turned back and stared out of the window again. Below me, in the emptiness of the Western Desert, I saw the strip of tarmac that connected Jordan to Baghdad. It looked as remote as a motorway across Mars.

  Jerry had met me off the plane at Heathrow. After a three-hour wait, we were on our way to Jordan. The Sunday Telegraph wanted not just the picture but six thousand words on how Nuhanovic had been found, and what he had to say for himself.

  We’d had to hang around in the Jordanian capital since Monday evening. There was only one flight into Baghdad each morning and every man and his dog wanted to be on it.

  The only way of getting in earlier was chancing it on the hell-for-leather roads. There were three routes in: from Kuwait to the south, Jordan to the west, or Turkey to the north. At the moment, myth had it that Turkey was best, but it was still a nightmare. They’d been nicknamed the Ali Baba roads for a reason. Every gangster in the region knew that journalists carried big wads of US dollars. They held them up, then hosed them down. And if the hijackers didn’t get you, the nervous young American soldiers would. They didn’t like people overtaking their convoys.

  Even if we had been robbed, it would still have been cheaper than flying. It was costing us over a thousand dollars each, but even pre-booking didn’t guarantee a seat. We’d paid for our Tuesday flight, but still had to turn up every day and try to blag our way on board. There was a list of passengers for each departure, but that really didn’t matter. You just had to line up and take your chances with the women on the desk. Each morning, I would point to our names on the manifest, and each time she would say something like, ‘Yes, you are on the flight, but you can’t go today.’ Jerry did the translating, but it always just sounded like ‘Fuck off’ to me.

  It had still been dark when we left our minging hotel every morning to start the day’s bribery. We’d even tried to bluff our way on to the daily UN flight. It didn’t seem very full. They’d pulled out of Baghdad after a bomb had killed their representative, Sergio Vieira de Mello, and a shedful of others.

  Jerry had been going apeshit because he wanted time to sort himself out on the ground before Nuhanovic arrived, but now he was coming in on the same day. I leaned over to him, and nodded surreptitiously towards a bunch of heavily bearded characters at the back of the cabin. ‘You sure he isn’t on this flight?’ That got a smile out of him. He’d been contacting his DC source every day, but there was still no int.

  Most of our other fellow travellers seemed to be overweight businessmen, sweating buckets in their compulsory Middle East business suits – khaki fishing waistcoats, pockets stuffed with digital cameras so they could snap away and tell war stories afterwards. I’d heard a few German and French voices among them, but mostly they were American. Whatever the nationality, they all carried their laptops and other business stuff in macho, brand new daysacks.

  A few rows in front of us was a guy called Rob Newman. At least, I thought it was him. I hadn’t seen him since the early nineties, when we were both in B squadron of the SAS. I’d got out and worked for the Firm. It was only later that I’d heard he’d commanded the patrol that dug in the LTD caches for me in Bosnia. Rob wasn’t a new boy to the Middle East either, or Baghdad for that matter. We’d both been into the city during the first Gulf War, fucking about trying to cut communication lines. He’d spent what felt like a lifetime sitting on a sand dune, just like me. If it wasn’t training some Arab special-forces group, it was trying to kill them. ‘Maintaining the UK’s interests overseas’, it used to be called, but it had probably had a shiny and very cuddly PR makeover under New Labour. I shouldn’t have been surprised to see him. After all, every man and his dog with a mortgage to pay off would have headed straight to Iraq.

  I’d seen Rob at Amman airport every day, doing the same as us, getting fucked off the flight. But while Jerry was foaming at the mouth, Rob never lost it. He was deep and consistent: he always thought about things before gobbing off. His was always the voice of reason, and it was directly linked to a brain the size of the Rock of Gibraltar.

  The other constant with him was his dress sense. His uniform was blue button-down shirt, straining a little round the gut these days, chinos, Caterpillar boots, and a fuck-off Seiko diver’s watch the size of a Big Mac.

  I didn’t know if he’d seen me; we certainly hadn’t had eye to eye. It was one of the unwritten rules. Even if you recognized each other, you wouldn’t go up and say hello. One or both of you might be on a job; you might be putting him in the shit if his name wasn’t Rob Newman today.

  It would have been good to say hello, though.

  24

  The back of Rob’s head was still covered by a mop of wavy brown hair that stuck out in all directions. I was happy to see a bit of grey at the sides, and that he’d put on a bit of lard – not that I could talk after a few months on the toasted cheese and Branston diet. He was taller than me, maybe six one or two, but I didn’t mind because he also had the world’s biggest nose. By the time he was sixty it was going to be bulbous and red, with pores the size of craters. He came from the Midlands somewhere and had a voice like a midnight radio DJ.

  He was with a guy in his mid-thirties, with thick black hair and very pale skin whose slight build reminded me of the younger Nuhanovic. He hadn’t been hanging around in the Middle East for long, that was for sure. In the aisle seat of the row behind them was the sky marshal, a tall Jordanian with severely lacquered hair and a big bulge under his cream cotton jacket. Next row back were two Iraqi women who hadn’t stopped gobbing off at each other, and their two mates across the aisle,
at a hundred miles an hour since checking in. Then there was us: both bored, knackered and gagging for something to drink.

  Apart from the bouts of turbulence, it had been a pretty uneventful trip. No flight attendants running up and down with coffee and biscuits. Nothing below us but mile after mile of the Mars expedition training area. Our inflight entertainment came from the row behind. A Canadian woman was going to Baghdad to write a book on women’s rights. Her mother was Iraqi, but she’d never been there herself. She was sitting next to an American who’d been working on her almost since take-off, and deserved an A for effort because at last he was getting some feedback. He looked like he’d stepped straight out of a Gap store window, in khaki cargoes, polo shirt and a diving watch even bigger than Rob’s. If he didn’t get a shag I was going to suggest he could always go forward a few rows and compare functions.

  She was going to change the world, and he was sitting there agreeing with everything she said. He made sure he kept his voice down, which was a shame for the rest of the cabin: when it came to bullshit, this boy was first class. It was very strange, almost fate, them meeting. He was also interested in women’s rights. He worked for the CPA [Coalition Provisional Authority] now as a civilian, but he’d been in special forces. Not that he was really allowed to talk about it.

  Jerry leaned across to me. ‘Yeah, right. He can’t tell her because it’s a secret!’

  The Canadian woman seemed to be warming to Mr Gap. ‘You know, being in Jordan was so, so – like karmic. I can’t wait to get to Baghdad. I just know it’s going to feel like my spiritual home.’

  Jerry winked at me. ‘I’ve had my mom ramming this shit down my neck since I was a kid, but it ain’t no spiritual home for me.’

  I smiled, but my mind was on other things. We were in Baghdad airspace, and the desert was giving way to the first signs of habitation. It was a grown-up city, its history stretching back thousands of years. It wasn’t a factory-built, flat-pack affair like Riyadh: let’s have a capital, all right, stick one in the sand here. Below us were buildings centuries old, interspersed with tower blocks and elevated freeways that could have been on the approach to Heathrow. Snaking through the middle of it was the Tigris, glinting in the sun. About six million people lived there. I hoped one of them, this week, would be Nuhanovic.

  Jerry had finished stowing his camera and assorted shit back in his bumbag. First and foremost he was a fucking good action photographer. If he needed it, he’d need it quickly.

  The pilot announced in Arabic and then English that we would shortly be landing at Baghdad International in the sort of tone you’d expect if you were about to run in to Málaga or Palma. But that was where the similarity ended. We didn’t glide gently into the final approach. We circled directly above it, just once, then went into an alarmingly fast spiral. Anyone on the ground who wanted to take a pop at us with a SAM 7 was going to find it hard to get a lock on today.

  As we tumbled out of the sky, the pilot continued to give us all the pre-landing waffle as if nothing unusual was happening, but the businessmen had temporarily mislaid their machismo and the cameras had stopped clicking. Jerry leaned back into his seat. Behind him, Mr Gap was soothing the Canadian. ‘It’s OK, standard procedure. I come in and out of here every couple weeks.’ She didn’t sound fazed at all: if anything she seemed excited, but that wasn’t going to stop him.

  I noticed two burnt-out 747s alongside the terminal building, noses and wings scattered across the tarmac. It was really a huge military camp, with a maze of fence lines and enormous concrete barriers. Rows of armoured vehicles, helicopters, and green Portakabins stretched to the horizon. Desert-camouflaged BDUs and olive-green T-shirts hung on washing-lines between the buildings.

  As soon as the pilot hit the brakes, we were joined by a two-Humvee escort, their mounted .50 cals trained, by the look of it, against possible attack from the aircraft. The businessmen enjoyed that. The cameras were out again.

  ‘Fuck me . . .’ Jerry couldn’t stop laughing. ‘They’ll be out of memory by the time we get to Immigration.’

  The Iraqi women were still going at it nineteen to the dozen, but my attention was on Mr Gap, willing him to get a result. He deserved to, if only through persistence. He was trying his hardest to meet up again once she was in Baghdad. ‘Where are you staying? Maybe I could help you with your research – after all, I work for the CPA. I could introduce you to the top guys.’

  That was obviously what she’d been waiting for. ‘Yeah? You know what? That would be great. I’m staying at the Palestine.’

  ‘Cool.’ He was one happy hunter. ‘We can arrange to meet some time.’

  ‘That would be so nice.’ I could just imagine the big smile on her face. She had him by the bollocks.

  We taxied past the terminal and finally stopped by a hangar. A few American soldiers dismounted from the Hummers and started to walk towards the aircraft as the propellers slowed and the door opened.

  We stayed in our seats for as long as possible before shuffling towards the exit behind the Iraqi women. The moment we got there we were hit by a wall of hot air.

  25

  I squinted hard as I rummaged for my cheapo market sunglasses. The stench of aviation fuel was overpowering and the noise was deafening. It felt like the entire US military was on the move. Helicopters took off and landed less than a hundred metres away. Heavy trucks hauled containers and water bowsers. American voices yelled orders at each other.

  As the businessmen got out their cameras, a voice barked and a young T-shirted soldier sprinted up, M16 in hand and Beretta strapped to his leg. ‘No pictures on base. Cameras away.’ He was enjoying this, and he didn’t care who knew it.

  I stood with Jerry in the shade of a wing, watching the macho men slip their Olympuses obediently back into their waistcoats.

  A military truck arrived. The American driver and a couple of Iraqis started to pull our bags from the luggage hold and throw them into the back.

  Another soldier headed across the tarmac towards an enormous freight hangar, shouting, ‘Follow me, folks,’ and, like a bunch of sheep, we did.

  Rob and whoever he was with were out in front, followed closely by the still jabbering Iraqi women. Jerry and I stayed in the shade as long as we could, then fell in behind. A couple more US squaddies brought up the rear.

  Inside the grey steel building, a black guy in T-shirt and sunglasses appeared, the obligatory Beretta strapped to his leg. ‘Listen up, people.’ He waved a clipboard. ‘When that transport arrives, I want you to grab all your bags and bring them to the table. They’ll be checked before you move on to Immigration. Did you all get that?’

  He got a few mumbles of assent, perhaps in recognition of the fact that he was the first soldier we’d seen who wasn’t still looking forward to his sixteenth birthday.

  The truck arrived and our bags were dumped on the concrete floor. People started retrieving them and filing over to the table. I hung back until Rob and his guy had collected theirs, then picked up my daysack. Jerry had scoffed at how small it was, but why carry a whole suitcase of stuff if you can buy everything when you get there? One change of clothes and a toothbrush, that’s all you need. Everything else is excess baggage.

  Rob turned and must have seen me, but we still didn’t have eye to eye. In fact nobody was talking much, apart from the four Iraqi women. Everyone looked apprehensive as the soldiers dug about in their bags, made them spark up their laptops and tried to look like they knew what they were doing.

  I reckoned they were poking around just for the fun of it. If you were going to bring anything illegal into this country, you’d go the Ali Baba route. There were hundreds of miles of unpatrolled desert that everyone, from drug traffickers to armed militants, was pouring across.

  After the checks were complete we had to move round to the other side of the table and collect our bags before being led through the hangar. Logistics people sat at tables, tapping busily on their laptops. This being the US military, t
he bulk of the hangar was stuffed with racks and racks of shiny new equipment. The kit would be rushed to whoever needed it. In the British Army, there’d have been six quartermasters guarding one ration pack, and even that couldn’t be claimed without a requisition order signed by the chief of the General Staff.

  We reached a corridor and things got smarter. US soldiers sat drinking cans of Coke on old, recently liberated, gilded settees. It looked like this area had been the front office for whatever the hangar had once been used for. Right now it was home to the all-new Iraqi immigration service. Several officials in friendly blue shirts sat at desks, each equipped with a PC and digital camera. Behind them sat a group of Americans, some in uniform, giving everyone the once-over as they went through.

  Beyond the tables was a blur of people in uniforms and civvies. It was obviously the ad hoc arrivals and departures zone, but it looked more like the reception area at the UN building. A bunch of Koreans in American BDUs stood around with a group of Italians. Every nationality had their flag stitched on to a sleeve. The smartest-looking troops were the Germans, in crisply laundered black cargoes, T-shirts and matching body armour. Their flag was almost invisible, but with their brown boots, Mediterranean tans and blond hair, they won the best-dressed-for-war competition hands down.

  I filed through, showing my Nick Stone passport. I bullshitted Jerry that Collins was my Irish mother’s maiden name. I’d applied for an Irish passport, but I lost it in a move and hadn’t needed it for years. Not that he believed me, of course, but what did it matter? There’d probably be worse things to worry about once we got into the city. An Iraqi took my picture, stamped my passport and waved me through.