Deep Black ns-7

by Andy McNab

  ‘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 ab
out.

  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.

  Jerry came over as the brawlers were pulled apart. ‘Any luck?’

  ‘Fuck all.’

  ‘I see that Pete guy’s doing his bit for international relations. They’re Serbs, apparently. Know what it was about?’

  ‘Maybe he tried his special-forces chat-up line on them and they didn’t like it.’

  He was waiting for the punch line. ‘And?’

  ‘“Please give us a fuck. I’m special forces. I’ll be in and out before you know it.”’

  At that moment Lats broke free from the dogooders and charged at the Serbs again. ‘Actually,’ I said, ‘I think he’s pissed off with them because he’s got daughters of his own.’

  ‘Slavers?’ Jerry knew the score. ‘They’re not wasting any time, are they?’

  ‘Nope, let’s hope he goes apeshit and kills them, eh?’

  He headed for reception to shop for toothpaste and stuff and I went to watch a blizzard on CNN.

  39

  Friday, 10 October

  I turned over in the single bed, still more asleep than awake. The balcony door was open and I could hear the odd vehicle on the move. It was still dark, but a bird down in the garden hadn’t cottoned on. I checked Baby-G– 06:31.

  I dozed a few more minutes, then began to hear a new yet familiar sound, the rhythmic slap-slap-slap of running feet. They went a short distance, stopped for several seconds, then started again. I threw off the hairy nylon blanket and went and turned on CNN; the picture was still shit, but at least the sound was good. According to the world weather round-up it was a scorcher in Sydney.

  I went into the bathroom and twisted the tap. There was a gurgle and some water spluttered out, a bit brown at first, then clearer, but a long way from hot. I put a glass under the cold tap, drank, then filled it again. I’d never been one for only drinking bottled water when you got to these places: the sooner your gut got used to the real stuff the better.

  After turning the room light off, I scratched my arse and head, as you do of a morning, and padded out on to the balcony with my second glass. It was chilly outside, but the sun was just peeping over the horizon. Soon there was enough light to make out Connor in the empty swimming-pool getting some in.

  Adiesel generator sparked up nearby, startling a small flock of birds out of their tree. I followed their line of flight out over the Tigris and a couple of boats that chugged their way upstream. At first I thought the dull bang off to my right was the generator backfiring. Then I saw a flash of light and a small plume of grey-blue smoke rising from a pair of burnt-out tower blocks three or four hundred metres away.

  I ran back into my room just as the RPG thudded into one of the floors below. A split second later there was an explosion, and the whole building shuddered.

  I fell to the floor and covered my head, braced for a second hit. I thought it had come, but it was just the bathroom mirror falling off the wall and shattering. Plaster dust trickled from the joists above me.

  Another round hit the building, and this time it was a lot closer. There was a loud thud and the floor beneath me trembled. My ears rang.

  Still naked, I jumped up and ran into the corridor. The middle of the building seemed the best place to be: for all I knew, they were attacking from both sides. I couldn’t go down the fire escape and the lift was a no-no. Everyone would be trying to jam into it, and a power-cut was almost inevitable.

  There was another explosion and the lights flickered. A bunch of other guests rushed past me, shouting at no one in particular, just panicking big-time.

  Another RPG punched into our side of the hotel. A woman screamed above the din. Two men stumbled and fell and the people behind them just kept scrambling over each other, trying to get away, if only they could work out where to.

  I banged on Jerry’s door. ‘Jerry, for fuck’s sake!’

  A heavy machine-gun sparked up on the opposite side of the hotel. Then the tank thundered a round into something out there.

  The door swung open. Jerry was naked, dazed. I could smell waccy baccy.

  More people swarmed out into the corridor, leaving their doors open behind them. The lifts weren’t going anywhere; some hammered the buttons and scrabbled at the doors, others made a run for the fire escape.

  ‘It’s safer out here,’ I yelled. ‘Come on, fuck the clothes!’

  There was a sustained rattle of machine-gun fire, then another RPG round thumped into the building.

  ‘Fuck me.’ Jerry fell into the corridor. ‘We came here to get a story, not be fucking part of one.’ He ran back into his room.

  ‘What are you doing? Get away from the outside wall!’

  He reappeared with his camera in his hand, and started shooting the confusion in the corridor.

  There was a sudden silence. The seconds ticked by. People were holding their breath. Still nothing. Audible sighs of relief, then excited chatter.

  Jerry nodded at the open doors opposite. ‘Let’s check that side of the building.’

  ‘And get shot by the fucking troops? They’ll be sparked up. Just stay here. Let them contain the area. You’ll get plenty of pictures soon enough.’

  It had gone in one ear and out the other. Jerry shot across the corridor. Next thing I knew, he was hanging over the balcony, pointing his camera in the direction of the tank.

  There was a sob to my left. A young Iraqi, naked, dazed and covered with blood, was coming down the corridor, staggering under the weight of the young woman in his arms. I could see shards of glass sticking out all over her. Her arm swayed in time with his steps. They got closer. I recognized them. They’d only been married about twelve hours.

  40

  He looked down at his bride and couldn’t stop sobbing. There was a huge rip in her face. Her cheek had been split almost as far as her ear, making her mouth twice its original size. I couldn’t tell if she was dead or alive.

  I pushed him into my room.

  He resisted. He didn’t know what I was saying. I grabbed hold of the woman.

  Jerry was still hanging over the balcony. ‘Get in here – I need you!’

  The husband screamed and tried to prise her off me as I backed into my room.

  I put her down on the carpet, shouting at him, ’The lights, get the fucking lights on!’

  Of course he didn’t understand. I jumped up and pushed him out of the way. He fell on his arse on the bed as Jerry came in. I pushed him towards the husband. ‘Shut this fucker up!’

  The main lights didn’t come on. I hit the bedside lamp. It didn’t do much, but it was better than nothing.

  I knelt down beside her, my face nearly touching the bloody mess that was hers. I couldn’t feel any breath on my skin. Her chest wasn’t moving. I lifted one of her eyelids. No pupil reaction. Nothing anywhere to show she was alive.

  I turned her on to her side, opened her lips and dug my fingers into her mouth. I scooped out a couple of broken teeth, then a big plug of mucus and blood that was blocking her airway. Fuck wasting time finding out if she had a pulse. I needed to breathe for her, fill her lungs with air. Even if her heart was still pumping, it was doing not
hing without oxygen.

  I rolled her on to her back again, tilting her head back to open the airway. The poor bastard jumped up and grabbed my wrist, pulling it away from his wife. ‘Jerry! Get him back on the bed. Tell him she’ll die if he doesn’t stop fucking about!’

  She was warm, but that didn’t mean much. She was probably already dead, but I had to try. The only real dead body is a cold one.

  I freed my arm, then eased her head back to open the airway once more. I pinched her nose shut with my right hand and held together the rip in her cheek with my left. Her husband hollered: he was so distressed he still didn’t understand what was going on. Jerry tried making soothing noises.

  I filled my lungs and put my mouth over what was left of hers, tasting the metallic tang of her blood. I breathed into her – I could feel some of it leaking through the rip in her cheek, but her chest rose a fraction. I tried again, but it was no good. My left hand was slipping on her blood-drenched skin. I couldn’t keep a good enough seal. Her blood spat out of my mouth as I yelled at Jerry. ‘Get over here! Keep this fucking rip together.’

  He came and knelt beside her and gripped the rip with both hands. I took a breath, got a seal, exhaled.

  Her chest rose. She was taking in oxygen. I breathed into her again.

  The husband started tearing at me. Fuck knows what he thought I was doing.

  I jumped up, grabbed him by the ears, and headbutted him hard. I didn’t have a choice. My head spun and my eyes watered as he fell back, arms flailing, on to the bed. Blood poured from his nose. I shoved Jerry in his direction before dropping back down on the floor. ‘Jump on the fucker. Keep him down.’

  Tilting her head back, I pinched her nose and gripped a handful of ripped cheek as best I could, forcing the air in harder now. Ten big breaths to get her inflated, spitting out her blood between each one. I could still feel air leaking through her cheek, but it was working. My head was swimming. Jerry and the husband screamed at each other above me, somewhere in the distance. My brain was crying out for oxygen too.