by Andy McNab
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.
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.’
Why didn’t the fucker just shut up and get in the back of the wagon? If they were going to kill us, they would hardly have done this in broad daylight, in front of half the world’s media.
The sergeant leaned in and produced a length of cloth. I got a kick from one of the boots level with my right shoulder.
I closed my eyes to protect them as the blindfold went on. The cloth wasn’t fit-for-task. Daylight still got in: I could feel it through my lids.
The doors slammed, the engine roared and the Hummer started to move. The sergeant got on the net to tell whoever wanted to know that he was on his way with two ‘pax’, while the gunner shouted at whoever was within reach to get the fuck out of his way. The MP next to me adjusted himself in his seat, forcing his belt-kit deeper into my ribs. ‘What you been doing, pal?’ I couldn’t tell where the accent was from.
‘Dunno. I was hoping you could tell me.’
The sergeant’s voice boomed from up front. ‘Shut the fuck up, both of you.’
I lifted my head a little and opened my eyes as much as I could behind the blindfold. I could see just a sliver of reality. The inside of the Hummer, like any military vehicle during operations, was in shit state. To the right, the other side of the roof gunner, was a blue plastic cooler box, probably full of ice, mineral water and Coke. Candy wrappers and empty bottles littered the floor. The driver gripped the wheel with his left hand and a Beretta with his right. There was a Walkman on the dash. When the guys got bored I guessed they’d treat themselves to a blast of Eminem.
The matt green paintwork had been chipped, rubbed and worn down to bare steel and aluminium. Danny Connor was right: American troops hadn’t been prepared for the sort of war they were fighting now. Someone had secured sets of body armour to the doors. Before that, there’d have been just a thin sheet of steel between them and the enemy.
These guys had been prepared and trained for a fast, mobile and aggressive war, not the guerrilla action they were being treated to round here. As Danny Connor had said, it was like Belfast, only worse. I almost felt sorry for them, driving these big vehicles down narrow streets, open to attack every inch of the way. They had no protection at all against RPGs and only sandbags in the footwells as some kind of barrier to the IEDs. There was so much rubbish in the streets they were impossible to spot.
As we drove I tried to make it look as if my head was bouncing around like everybody else’s, so I could get a decent view of where we were going. I thought it might make me feel better if I could get a rough idea of where I was.
I wasn’t scared, just pissed off.
I caught the glint of sun on water, and recognized the silhouette of the bridge over the Tigris. I’d looked at it often enough from my hotel room. Shit, it was hot in here.
46
We piled past queues of traffic. The collapsed shopping mall came into view, then, a minute or so later, the large colonial building with shuttered windows and a big fuck-off Union Jack on top. British soldiers in desert camouflage were on stag: a line of Warrior AFVs were parked up amid walls of sandbags and rolls of razor wire.
My shirt was soaked with sweat and stuck to the PVC seat cover. I could feel the body heat of the MP beside me. My hands were swelling beneath the plasticuffs, and I tried to lean forward to relieve the pain. Each time I did, the MP pulled me back.
We passed an American checkpoint. Helmets and sunglasses. M16s. Sandbags. Wire. The river was on our right, a wall topped by short railings on our left. Beyond it was a mass of palm trees. Against the brilliant blue sky they looked more Beverly Hills than Baghdad.
The driver stood on the brakes and took a sharp, ninety-degree left. I lifted my head: we were passing a run of low, rectangular concrete buildings with flat roofs. Some had been destroyed; the walls of others had been covered with tarpaulins. There were US military vehicles everywhere. Green army towels and BDUs hung from makeshift washing lines. Sat dishes pointed skywards. I could hear generators.
We rounded another corner and passed a row of Iraqi tanks with their turrets hanging off, and a bunch of other scorch-marked vehicles that had been given the good news.
Iraqis were being herded off a line of trucks that had been backed up against a series of blockhouses with small, barred windows. My heart sank.
The wagon stopped with a jolt and rusty iron gates creaked shut. The Hummer’s doors were thrown open and the sergeant and MP next to me jumped out.
I heard a ‘sssh’. I knew what was about to happen. Shutting my eyes and clenching my teeth, I got my head down and tensed myself.
Hands reached in and grabbed me, dragged me out of the vehicle and immediately let go. I dropped to the ground.
They didn’t speak. All I could hear was laboured breathing and grunts as I was pulled upright.
Jerry was somewhere behind me. ‘I’m an American citizen. Check my passport.’
I heard a dull thump as the punch landed, then the sound of him retching. A mouthful of vomit splashed on to the sand.
They dragged me away, my feet only just touching the ground. The grip on my arms didn’t relax as we entered a building. It was suddenly cooler. I opened my eyes again and peered below the blindfold. The soles of worn desert boots squeaked either side of me as I got marched across not-so-recently polished black and white tiles.
The grip on my arms was now almost as painful as the plasticuffs on my wrists. I tried to keep the balls of my feet in contact with the ground, to take some of the pressure. I heard Jerry moan and try to catch his breath.
Another door opened and we went through. There was still an echo, but no more squeaking soles. We were on green carpet now. We stopped abruptly and I was swung around. My legs hit a chair and I stumbled backwards. The MPs grabbed me and forced me down.
Time to close my eyes, tense up and grit my teeth.
My hands were agony. I tried leaning forward, but somebody behind me grabbed my hair and pulled me back.
Jerry groaned. ‘Why are you doing this? I’m an American. I’ve done nothing wrong.’
The blindfold was ripped off. I’d been transported into a Hollywood fantasy version of eighteenth-century France. The walls were gilded. In front of me was an enormous, ornate gilt desk with a red leather top. Scattered around the room were plush velvet sofas. One had a big slash in it.
Eight guys in soaking wet T-shirts stood at the ready, poised to climb aboard us if we did something stupid.
Jerry looked at me, wide-eyed. ‘Nick, what—?’
I turned away. I hoped he’d switch on soon and shut the fuck up.
I took in some more of the room. The new owners
had done it up a bit, but it had obviously taken a bit of a pasting during the war. The odd bit of plaster still hung off the ceiling, tiles were still missing from the wall, and fluorescent lights dangled from exposed wiring, but that’s what happens when Mr Paveway comes to visit.
To my right, a small window had been patched up with perspex. I couldn’t help but grin when I looked through it. I could see a tower of some sort out there, with the usual picture of Saddam waving – except that his face had been replaced by a big yellow Smiley. I caught the eye of one of the guys standing guard and he smiled too.
‘Why am I here?’ Jerry was getting more and more agitated. ‘I’m an American.’
Nobody replied because everyone knew it. He’d said it enough times. Besides, they were here to enforce, not answer questions, and they wouldn’t hesitate to make him vomit again if he got boring.
47
‘Jeral, I know you are.’
The Texan drawl came from behind us, near the door. ‘And if you keep quiet, this won’t take long.’
I didn’t turn round.
‘I’m an American journalist. I have a right to know why we’re here.’ Jerry was doing too much talking and not enough listening.
Two men in uniform came and leaned their arses against the desk in front of us. Both were in their mid-thirties, and had identical, Brylcreemed short-back-and-sides with the kind of parting you can usually only get with a fretsaw. Their BDUs were so perfectly pressed they could have stepped straight out of a Chinese laundry. I looked down at their boots. They were broken in, but they weren’t scuffed and fucked like the MPs’.
These guys were remfs. You can tell one from twenty paces, in any army, in any country in the world. No scabby boots, no sweaty T-shirts. The only things that get worn out are their pencils and the arses of their trousers. Remfs are from command. Rear echelon motherfuckers. They wouldn’t have looked out of place in Costco with baskets in their hands.