by Andy McNab
Ten done. I checked for a pulse. Jamming two fingers into the side of her neck, I checked her carotid. Nothing. She was still only getting oxygen from me, and her heart wasn’t pumping any of that oxygenated blood around her body.
Shit.
I hoped nothing was fractured in her chest area, because if it was, what I was going to do next might finish her off.
41
I pulled away the bigger shards of glass from between her breasts, gave her two more breaths, then put the heel of my left hand on to her sternum, and my right on top of that. I leaned over her, straightened my arms and started pumping steadily, counting off the seconds in my head.
Thousand and one, thousand and two, thousand and three, thousand and four . . .
I spat out another mouthful of blood and started to call it out loud: ‘Thousand and six, thousand and seven . . .’
I yelled across at Jerry, ‘Tell him her heart’s stopped and she can’t breathe for herself. I’m trying to do it for her.’
The husband struggled and yelled something back.
‘Tell him to get downstairs and find some help. Ambulances, medics, whatever . . . But fuck him off, I need you here.’
Jerry gave him a torrent of Arabic, pulled the blanket off the bed and wrapped it round him, then virtually pushed him out of the door.
‘Squeeze her face together again – we need that seal.’
He dropped to his knees.
I got my mouth round hers, pinched her nose, and breathed hard. Fuck knows how long it had been since her brain had last had oxygen.
Her lungs fully inflated this time. Once. Twice. Then it was back to fifteen pumps over her heart.
‘Thousand and one, thousand and two, thousand and three, thousand and four . . .’
It was a whole lot quieter now the husband had gone. I could even hear a bird singing on the balcony.
‘Thousand and six, thousand and seven, thousand and eight . . .’
I pumped away, squashing the heart to move that oxygenated blood round her body on its own. A fair amount of red stuff was oozing out of her, but it wasn’t as bad as it looked. If you drop a bottle of Ribena on your kitchen floor it looks like breakfast turned into the Texas chainsaw massacre, but it’s only one bottle.
‘Start breathing, for fuck’s sake! Thousand and thirteen, thousand and fourteen, thousand and fifteen . . .’
Jerry and I bent down and I started to fill her again, one, two, big breaths. Each time, her chest fully rose and fell.
Another fifteen pumps. I checked for signs of life. Nothing. Not a flicker.
Head back, two more breaths.
‘Thousand and one, thousand and two, thousand and three . . .’
Jerry and I exchanged glances. Was there any point?
‘Thousand and four, thousand and five . . .’ I shouted it louder, as if that might help.
Helicopters careered overhead, then came back in to hover.
‘Thousand and fourteen, thousand and fifteen . . .’
There was a small tremor in her good cheek.
‘She’s pumping, she’s fucking pumping!’
I jammed two fingers into her neck as Jerry’s face broke into a grin. ‘Good things, Nick. Good things.’
Her carotid was quick and weak, but her heart was beating. All I had to do now was carry on the breathing for her – she would tell me when to stop.
I did two more breaths and checked. Her eyelids flickered.
Another two, and she coughed. A trickle of blood spilled from her mouth. Jerry was so excited his hands slipped. ‘Keep the seal closed, keep it closed.’
I’d just started to give her another ten short breaths when her hand came up and tried to push me away. She moaned softly, like a baby. She was in a lot of pain, which was a good thing. If she could feel pain, her brain was working.
I opened an eyelid and the pupil reacted. Not a lot, but enough.
‘Talk to her, Jerry. Make her answer. Try and keep her going. Wake her up.’
42
She was still only semi-conscious but uttered another low moan as I turned her on to her side, so her tongue would fall forward and not block the airway.
I rolled away and sat on the floor just a couple of feet away, completely exhausted. Jerry leaned over her, talking into her ear in Arabic, brushing back her blood-matted hair. She moaned a bit louder.
I looked down at my naked body. I was covered in her blood; my hands were slippery with it. I’d also picked up a fair amount of glass from her – I could see slivers of it glittering in my palms. I looked over to the left. The TV had been knocked off the sideboard and was lying sideways on the floor. The picture was almost perfect now, but the sound had gone.
I tilted my head to watch as they broadcast pictures of the outside of the hotel. One RPG had hit a balcony, and all the fancy Star Wars concrete had been blown away. The camera zoomed in on another scorch-marked hole, less than a foot in diameter, where the RPG’s explosive charge had punched through into the building. These things were designed to pierce armour so they could fuck everybody inside the target. Anyone the other side of the hole would have been hit by a storm of flying glass and masonry.
They cut back to the reporter in body armour and early-morning, post-party, sticky-up hair. The tank had been hit. The scene behind him was a blur of soldiers, smoke, ambulances and medics.
There were voices in the corridor: American, male, macho. ‘Anybody injured? Anybody there?’
Jerry ran to the door. ‘In here! In here!’
A uniformed medical team hurried in, trauma packs on their backs. Jerry started to say something about her husband being downstairs to look for them, but they weren’t listening. They were already on the floor, running their checks.
One looked at me. ‘You OK, man?’
‘Yeah, fine.’ I held up my hands. ‘It’s hers.’
I got up and moved over to the bed to get out of their way. CNN’s cameras were now focused on the tank. It had taken a mobility hit: one track had been blasted off and lay flat behind the vehicle on the tarmac. The militants had had a good morning’s work.
The bride’s moans turned to sobs as the pain caught up with her. I went over to the balcony. The sun was nearly over the rooftops. I wiped my face free of her blood and started to pick the glass out of my hands.
Tracked vehicles surged up and down the streets. Fuck knows what they were hoping to achieve. The horse had well and truly bolted.
The sound of sirens filled the air and more ambulances screeched up outside. Down in the garden, groups of reporters and cameramen were doing interviews as if they were the only ones on the scene.
I looked across at the RPG’s firing point. It was about three hundred and fifty metres away; they were good for up to five hundred at a stationary target. The tower-block windows were missing and it had been burned out long ago. Maybe it had been a Ba’ath Party HQ. Now it had a big fresh fuck-off tank shell hole, and was peppered with .50 cal strike marks around the sixth or seventh floor. RPGs are great weapons, but they have a massive signature: a big flash, then a plume of grey-blue smoke. Once you’ve pulled the trigger, you’ve got to be quick on your feet.
It was all over and done with. They’d had a cabby at us, we’d had a cabby at them. I just felt sorry for the bride. She was going to have to go through the rest of her life with a face like a patchwork quilt. Then again, at least she was alive, and that made me feel quite good, I supposed.
There was a bit of a commotion down on the ground. The balcony that had taken the hit directly overlooked the pool. The huge slab of concrete had gone straight down, and a small group of people were now gathering round the remains of the madman who’d been getting some in beneath it.
I didn’t feel that good any more.
43
The medics were still working to stabilize the bride. I gathered up my clothes and daysack as her blood started to dry on me, and climbed over the bed to follow Jerry to his room. The corridor was flooded. Water
seeped from under a nearby door.
Jerry tried a bath tap and it produced a small trickle.
‘After you, mate.’
He jumped in and soaped himself. I went straight to the balcony.
Danny Connor was being lifted on to a tabletop by six or seven Iraqis who were all shouting at each other, trying to keep the thing level so he didn’t slip off and back into the pool. His body flopped about like a large rag doll. There wasn’t much blood on him; his sweat-covered training kit was covered with concrete dust.
I really didn’t know what to think. He got paid to be here, he knew the risks. At least he’d died doing what he liked best, I supposed. But it felt like a waste.
I thought about Danny’s kid. Last time I’d seen him he was a pug-nosed, freckly minger of nine or ten. He always seemed to have a tooth missing after a mishap on his bike or skateboard. Now it was his dad that was missing, and the gap was going to be permanent. That wasn’t going to fuck up his university studies much, was it? Maybe Rob was right: there had to be another way.
I came back inside and sat on one of the beds. Jerry’s version of CNN was even snowier than mine had been before the attack, and the sound was just as bad. Larry King seemed to be on with a couple of talking heads, but I didn’t have a clue who they were or what it was all about. Then a girl breezed on and started to sing.
Jerry came out with a towel round his waist just as the attack, the bride, Danny, Rob and his history lesson started to rumble around in the washing-machine inside my head.
‘What now?’ He was quite subdued, as you often are when the odd RPG has been kicked off in your direction.
I got up and ripped the sheet off the bed. ‘First let’s try and get another room. Then I’ll see if I can track down any more guys on the circuit. What about you?’
‘I’ll give Renee a call – she’ll see this shit on the morning news. After that I’ll check in with my guy in DC, and do a trawl through the local papers.’
Rather him than me. I went into the bathroom while Jerry got dressed.
He’d left the water in for me; it looked like weak Ribena. I turned the tap but it seemed we’d had our ration. I took what was left of the little sliver of soap and tried to work up a lather. My hands stung. ‘Listen,’ I called, while picking a couple of glass fragments out of my palms, ‘I got a fixer to get me a couple of weapons. You want one?’
‘Count me out. I wouldn’t know what to do with it anyway.’ He started to chuckle. ‘I’ve never worked in advertising.’ He disappeared back into the bedroom, buttoning his shirt, a red Baghdad special.
After a while he said, ‘Nick, we did well, didn’t we?’
I tried to work the soap into my hair but there wasn’t enough to dislodge the blood from the roots. ‘Yeah.’
Danny Connor was dead and the bride wouldn’t want to spend too much time in front of a mirror now, but things could have been a fuck of a lot worse. And doing this sort of shit somehow made a fuck of a lot more sense to me than mincing round the States on a road trip.
The soap still wouldn’t lather, so I gave up. A good day’s sweat would sort it.
I got out of the bath and dried myself with the sheet.
Jerry was out on the balcony with a camera, snapping away at the block of flats the tank had taken a chunk out of.
Once I’d got my clothes on, Jerry took his Thuraya off the charger, then gathered up his camera and bumbag. The corridor was shoe deep in water now. My door was open. The carpet was dark with blood and the beds had been stripped bare. The sheets must have been used to wrap the not-so-happy bride. I closed the door and locked it, even though there was nothing there to nick.
When the lift finally came we found ourselves crammed in with a whole lot of people who’d suddenly decided that maybe the Palestine wasn’t the safest place to stay after all. Everybody had their bags. I wondered where they thought would be safer.
44
Chaos reigned at the reception desk. About fifty people wanted to get their money back and check out. Jerry went off to make his calls while I got into the scrum and eventually worked my way to the front. Even then it was like trying to attract a busy barman’s attention. One of the guys finally pointed to me. He was a happy old Iraqi with the full Saddam, and what had probably been a white shirt until an hour or so ago.
I leaned over the desk, trying to shout into his ear: ‘What about a discount? The rooms are damaged.’
He smiled. ‘Ah, yes.’ This was looking promising. ‘Room is sixty dollars a night.’
‘No, no – the corridor’s flooded, my friend’s room has holes in it, everything in my room is smashed up. We want to stay, we’re not like all these other people.’
‘I know, it is terrible, very terrible. I would not wish to stay here.’
‘So we get a discount?’
He smiled in agreement. ‘Yes, room is sixty dollars a night.’
I was banging my head against a brick wall. ‘What about a different floor? Can we get two rooms on the first floor?’
He smiled and ran his finger down a ledger. People were hollering and shouting, many of them Iraqi; I recognized some of the leather jackets from the wedding last night.
The Canadian woman and Mr Gap, still in the green polo, emerged from the lift together, heading for the exit. He was carrying her bags. He’d finally won through. I was proud of him. Maybe she’d thought the earth was moving just for her this morning.
Another desk manager joined my new mate and checked the ledger. They had a chat, probably about bloody foreigners who wanted discounts. Didn’t they know there was a war on?
‘Nick!’ Jerry was at the back of the scrum, working his way through. ‘How’s it going?’
The desk guy gave me a five-star smile. ‘We have one room on the first floor. The man is dead. You share?’
I looked at Jerry. ‘Is that all right?’ He didn’t care. ‘Excellent,’ I said. ‘That’s only sixty dollars, so we get some rebate because we’ve already paid for two rooms.’
The guy’s smile got even wider. ‘Oh, no. Sixty dollars each.’
I gave up. He laughed, we laughed, and he handed me the key to 106. ‘We’ll drop off the keys to the other two rooms in a minute. Give the blood time to dry.’
We tried to make our way back to the lifts. The place was flooded with news crews in helmets and body armour.
Back on the sixth floor, Jerry went to pack and I did a final check that I hadn’t left anything behind. I wondered if we were about to move into Danny’s old room. I’d forgotten my toothbrush, and as I retrieved it I heard the door open. ‘That didn’t take you long, mate. You got my daysack?’
I turned to see three US military policemen. Two had their M16s pointing at my head. The one in the middle, a Puerto Rican sergeant with a pencil moustache and dark wraparounds, had plasticuffs in his hands ready to lash me down. ‘Get your hands up!’
The guys with the M16s were young and looked nervous. One had his safety catch off. I wasn’t going to argue.
The sergeant pointed to the bumbag round my waist. ‘You got any weapons in here?’
‘No.’
‘You sure you’re not lying to me now? You got no weapons in that fanny pack? Just tell me now, just tell me now.’
‘Only a passport and cash. No weapons.’
‘OK, fella, down on the bed, hands behind your back. Real slow.’ His tone told me he’d done this job many times, and he was happy in his work.
I did as he said, ending up face down on the bed. The plasticuffs went on, a little too tight, my bumbag was ripped off, and several sets of hands set about frisking me to see if I’d been lying. I could smell sweat and grime; the uniforms were well worn, and a few rips had been repaired in the material. I was treated to a blast of minted breath as I was pulled backwards on to my feet. ‘Slow now, fella – don’t make us hurt you. Just do it real slow. Let’s get this done sensible.’
They turned me round and dragged me out into the corridor. A bunch of
white guys and Iraqis were waiting by the lift; they averted their eyes, not wanting to get involved.
I couldn’t see Jerry anywhere. Had they lifted him? Had he escaped? Or were they just coming for me?
45
They bundled me out through the lobby. Straight out through the main doors, into dazzling sunlight, then into the back of a Hummer. The driver gunned the engine. A group of fixers were staring in after me, smoking themselves to death. My boy was there with a sack in his hand: Saddam’s pistols had arrived.
It’s more cramped than it looks in these things. There are only two seats front and back, and a raised square section of steel, covering the drive shaft, running down the centre. One of the MPs jumped in next to me; his belt-kit pressed me hard against the raised section. I leaned over to my right, trying to relieve the pressure.
The dash-mounted radio crackled. Another MP jumped in from the other side. He kicked me out of his way with a scuffed and scabbed-up desert boot. He was aiming for the turret, to man the roof-mounted machine-gun, and needed my bit of cover to stand on.
I had webbing and a body to my left, boots and legs to my right. I wasn’t going anywhere. The sergeant was still outside the vehicle. Were we waiting for Jerry? I hoped we weren’t. If he could avoid getting lifted, maybe he could help me out. Then again, it would be comforting to know I wasn’t the only one in the shit. How much in the shit I didn’t have a clue, but I was sure going to find out soon enough. The best bet was to keep quiet with these boys: it was pointless resisting or protesting. They were here to lift me, and that was it, no matter what I said or did. Keep quiet, keep passive, keep uninjured.
The hotel doors opened and Jerry was heaved out past the fixers. He hadn’t come quietly. Blood streamed from a cut on his forehead. ‘Where are you taking me?’ He looked at the crowd. ‘Remember me if I disappear. Remember what happened here. I’m an American.’
