Despite my frantic activity and daydreaming, less than twenty seconds had passed since we he’d hit the water. With the machine-gun hammering away in his shoulder, the pirate had remained fixed on keeping his shuddering sights on the moving RIB without noticing he was firing at an empty boat. He only realized as he came to the end of his belt, when he stood up straight to get a better look down into the shredded RIB.
Most helpful of him. Thank you.
I gently but firmly squeezed the trigger, concentrating on maintaining sight picture as I shot him in the head, and the pirate dropped bonelessly out of sight. His colleague leapt up in almost comical astonishment, looking around wildly, so I gave him the good news too. My shot clipped the rail and hit him low centre of mass and he clutched himself and shrieked in a gratifying manner as he fell backwards out of sight.
We stayed like that for a few moments while I kept my sights on the empty rail next to the abandoned MG42, just in case there was anyone left full of horrible pirate life on board. I could still hear the man that I’d wounded squawking plaintively, gibbering and generally carrying on, but there was no sound from anyone else.
I watched in disgust as our RIB chugged slowly over the swells, vanishing towards the horizon, then turned back to the enemy vessel.
‘Antoine, Max,’ I called. ‘Get over there and see if you can climb on board. I’ll cover you from here.’
That’s when I remembered the sharks.
CHAPTER 2
I HADN’T HEARD from Cobus for a long time and his terse two-word text ‘call ASAP’ seemed ominous. He’d stayed on in Baghdad and was doing some kind of liaison job for Colonel Steve ‘Mad Dog’ McQueen. There are two sorts of US Army colonels. Mad Dog was the good sort; the moniker came from his college days playing football, and he had the scars that showed he’d almost gone pro.
I wandered away from the barbecue, punching in numbers, and stretched out on the sand. The colour was fading from the sky from yet another incredible sunset. Soon the night would be black.
Cobus didn’t waste words with pleasantries. ‘Ash, you have time to talk now?’
‘Yeah, shoot.’
‘It’s Sammy. He’s in deep kak, man.’
A tremor ran up my spine. Cobus was a ruddy-faced South African with blue eyes like an apostle and no time for bullshit. We’d worked together for Spartan Security for the best part of eighteen months in Baghdad, training a team of 1,500 Iraqi guards to protect the nation’s water supply. When Cobus said someone was in the shit, they were in it up to their necks.
‘Not another kidnap?’ I said.
‘Worse, Ash. He’s on a Shia death list. They are actively hunting for him and his family.’
‘Fuck . . .’
The line was silent for a moment. Then Cobus got into the details. The American troop surge was keeping the jihadis’ heads down, but infighting between the religious factions had turned Baghdad into a bloodbath – rape, murder, thievery, revenge killings, female suicide bombers – you name it, they had some, and it had been going on for years, the violence and body count disguised by the ongoing insurgency against the CF.
The White House and Downing Street had accelerated the process of ‘Iraqification’ and handed over government administration and security to their Iraqi counterparts as fast as possible and irrespective of how unprepared or corrupt they might be.
George W. Bush would soon be on his way back to the ranch. There had never been enough troops on the ground to occupy the country effectively, and any US officer who had the spine to ask for reinforcements had ended his career by disagreeing with the ‘yes’ men in the Pentagon who only wanted to hear good news. The surge in my opinion was an indication that someone had finally gagged Rumsfeld and that the higher command had got some oxygen up to their collective brain after four years of farce and failure, not to mention thousands of unnecessary casualties.
Sammy, formerly Wing Commander Assam Mashooen of the Iraqi Air Force, was a veteran pilot who had trained in Southampton and flown hundreds of missions for Saddam Hussein in the Iran–Iraq War. He had been the chief interpreter for Task Force Fountain, the guard-force training programme my former employer Spartan had won from the first $87 billion reconstruction package awarded by the US Congress – of which, incidentally, $30 billion had been for security alone. Sammy was also a good friend.
Back in Iraq the new quasi-democratic republic was Shia-dominated. Shia hardliners were scrambling for positions in the army and security forces, while Shia militias were settling old scores, kidnapping and killing anyone who got in their way. Death squads were roaming the streets and, although Coalition Forces were taking fewer hits, the death toll among Iraqi civilians was as high as it had been at any time since the iconic toppling of the Saddam statue in April 2003.
Sammy’s crime? He was a Sunni, part of the old ruling class under Saddam – the tyrant had personally presented him with a gold-plated pistol for his bravery fighting the Iranians. He was loud, generous, extravagant and he had saved my life. More than once.
Even worse, the ‘Iraqification’ process had now handed over to the Iraqi ministries full records of all the reconstruction work carried out to date. This included all HR files and personnel records. As a typical example of how one bureaucratic oversight can have terrible consequences, Shia politicians, and therefore their related militias, now had the full details down to ID card number and the home address of every Iraqi ‘collaborator’ who had worked for the hated Americans. Overnight entire families were tortured, slaughtered and the bodies piled up in heaps.
For the first three years of the war, the average number of civilians killed in the violence had hovered between 11,000 and 14,000 each year. For 2006, the year after I left, and the first year after ‘Iraqification’, it had more than doubled to nearly 28,000. The press always reports on the horrific bombings claiming a daily toll, but they fail to mention that the number of civilians killed by gunfire and executions outnumbers by more than three times those killed by IED explosions. And of all those deaths throughout Iraq, over half took place in Baghdad, where Sammy and his family were now on the run. Thinking about it made me feel ill.
I had spent many evenings gossiping with Sammy’s wife, Fara, in French, something we did to annoy Sammy because he didn’t speak the language. I remembered Fara saying she was lucky to be married to a true hero, not that we ever let Sammy know that. ‘It will make his head swell.’
He already had an oversized head on his short, stocky body. He had full lips always ready to smile, a barrel chest and the predictable moustache with waxed tips sharp as the nose cone on a MiG jet. Sammy was fair-skinned, and his fine golden hair was always carefully lacquered over his bald spot. Sammy had used his savings from Spartan to buy a new house. When his brother was kidnapped, he sold it instantly to pay the ransom. When they demanded the cash, I know exactly what he would have replied.
I am ready.
Whatever the question, whatever the problem, Wing Commander Assam Mashooen was ready to deal with it.
Fuck.
I had tuned out for a moment. I stared out to sea. It was as smooth as glass, but I could sense the black fins like knife blades under the surface. It was at night when they came out to feed. Bastards.
I tuned back in again.
‘Colonel Ibrahim?’ I said.
Cobus hissed and said, ‘He’s now IP, one of the commanders.’
The IP was the Iraqi Police; in truth, the Shia police. I was too cynical about the amount of nepotism there even to bother about being surprised.
I let another ‘Fuck’ slip through my closed teeth. One of the things you have to do is trust your own instincts. I’d never trusted Colonel Ibrahim. I don’t think any of us did. But he was there. He was efficient. He commanded the respect of the men, and he was a Shia. We were an equal-opportunities employer, Sunni, Shia, Kurd, Christian; in our own small way we were trying to show that, irrespective of old loyalties and grievances, they now had the chance to work tog
ether to build a better country for the 26 million Iraqis. It was naive on our part, and disappointing after eighteen months’ training a multi-ethnic guard force that it had all fallen to pieces so quickly.
Back in the old days when we were operating from a converted bus station in Aradisa Idah, if we needed fresh belts for the RPD light machine-guns or a plasma-screen television, Colonel Ibrahim went to Sadr City and got them for us; chocolate bars, leather coats, Austrian Glocks for our Afrikaners, pirate DVDs – like Father Christmas, the colonel returned with his sack full of goodies. Did he take a commission? Of course he did. That’s how it works.
From the moment he met Sammy with his sprayed hair and easy smile you could literally see the chemistry explode. It was like the reverse of love at first sight. The two men were opposites, Sunni and Shia, informal and rigid, a nominal Muslim and a man who professed unwavering faith. Sammy was round, soft-bodied, playful, like a dolphin. Ibrahim was tall, dark, lean and hairy, with small, dark darting eyes and quick movements. A shark.
That first impression only grew worse as Ibrahim discovered that the plump little Sunni had many natural leadership qualities. The men liked Sammy irrespective of their ethnicity or religion. The hired guns at Spartan liked Sammy. Colonel McQueen liked Sammy. Sammy liked his whisky and, good officer that he was, when others lost their heads, his stayed firmly on his big shoulders.
One time, when the guards were attacked by insurgents during training, they scarpered immediately. Sammy fought off the attack single-handed, then walked around, still under fire, collecting the AKs the boys had dropped in the fields along the way.
‘How do you know all this, Cobus?’ I asked, interrupting his flow.
‘Colonel McQueen has intel,’ he replied. ‘The IP are actively looking for Sammy and he has been asking us for help.’
‘So, drive him into the Green Zone,’ I said, which seemed pretty obvious to me.
‘Ash, it’s his whole family, eleven people. The Americans won’t take any Iraqis in.’
‘Shit.’
I had of course been reading about it in the media. The issue of Iraqi interpreters and other workers being abandoned by the Coalition countries to the mercies of the insurgents was unfortunately not that well publicized yet. This despite repeated protests from enraged American and British ground commanders who had confirmed that these individuals had shown unswerving loyalty and had risked their lives accompanying troops on patrols and combat missions on a daily basis, sometimes for years. Instead of offering these people protection or asylum, they had been used and were now being discarded.
‘If Mad Dog could, he would. You know that,’ said Cobus.
‘Yeah, I do.’ I said. ‘So what next?’
‘Ash, Mad Dog has a convoy going to Mosul – Sammy has family there, and a house. It should be safe and, if it’s not, they can cross the border easy enough to Turkey,’ he said. ‘Sammy can take two cars and tag along with the convoy.’
‘That’s a relief,’ I said.
‘There’s one hitch,’ Cobus added, and I thought there would be. There always is.
‘Which is?’
‘Sammy and his family can’t drive out of the city on their own. They’ll be gunned down. And they can’t travel with the convoy without a CF or PSD Westerner nominally in charge,’ he replied. ‘McQueen can arrange up-to-date PSD passes, weapons permits. Everything you need . . .’
‘I need? Aren’t you guys going to take them?’
‘There aren’t enough of us. There’s only me and Colonel McQueen left in the office now, with a couple of clerks. Mad Dog asked me to ask you, he asked for you personally.’
‘Very flattering,’ I said, thinking it’s because he knows I am a soft touch, although I couldn’t help wondering why he didn’t call me himself.
‘We will need at least six of us to man two escort wagons. So that means the two of us here, plus you and three others,’ he continued. ‘You should be in and out in a week, maximum.’
‘Who are the other three?’
‘That’s not set up,’ he said, and added, ‘Can you call some guys? You know, the usual suspects.’
‘Yeah, sure, I guess so,’ I said. ‘When’s the party start?’
‘You know what they say – yesterday. McQueen’s organizing the convoy just to take Sammy up north,’ he added. ‘Soon as you’re ready.’
I paused to think. There was no question that I wouldn’t go back. Cobus must have known that. McQueen must have known that. If the boot had been on the other foot, what would Sammy have said?
I am ready.
We’d lost one RIB. The other was still out of commission. A week wouldn’t make a lot of difference one way or another.
‘What kind of money is Mad Dog talking?’ I now asked.
The pause on the line extended.
‘There’s no budget, Ash . . .’
‘You’re kidding me!’ Of course, there was no money. I hadn’t been thinking it through.
‘No, I tell you true, man. Papers, weapons, vehicles. Colonel McQueen can lay anything on in terms of kit, but there’s no budget.’
‘I don’t have that many friends, I guess – can’t afford to lose any more.’
We paused again.
‘How long?’ he now asked.
‘I’ll be there in two days.’
‘That’s great, Ash. I’ll let Mad Dog know. Call me when you have your flight details.’
I touched the red button and the screen faded.
The first stars had come out. I watched the clouds of bats swooping amongst the tops of the palm trees. Back to Baghdad for free, Jesus wept. At least I knew why Mad Dog hadn’t called me himself. He was too bloody embarrassed.
CHAPTER 3
THERE WAS AN upside to my swift departure.
I called Krista immediately after speaking to Cobus. ‘Hi, honey, pleasant surprise for you, I’ll be home tomorrow.’
I was using my I’m sorry I’m late back from the office voice, which was supposed to put Krista at her ease but always made her suspicious.
‘What’s happened, James?’ she said.
‘Just for the day.’
‘You’re all right?’
I wasn’t sure what to tell her. What Krista didn’t know she didn’t have to worry about. Me going into danger for money she was happy about. Me going into danger for free – well, I was fairly confident that would not be well received. The silence stretched.
‘Absolutely,’ I told her. ‘Tanned and gorgeous. Have a quick gig to do. I’ll be away a week, darling, then back to see you in London.’
‘What time do you get in?’ she asked.
‘Ill send you a text when I’ve got a ticket.’
‘I’ll be there,’ she added.
‘Kiss. Kiss.’
Mwaaah.
I called my boss on the office phone. Seeing that the team was going to be out of action while they replaced the RIB, my taking a week out worked out very nicely for Proelio – they weren’t going to have to pay me. The boss didn’t ask where I was going or what I had to do.
I sat back staring at the planning board and maps on the wall as I thought about what I’d agreed to do. No one on the Circuit was going to give up their time to PSD a convoy from Baghdad to Mosul for free. It would have to be someone who knew Sammy. That left only six men; three Brits, Seamus Hayes, who’d been our team commander at Spartan, Les Trevellick and Dai Jones; and the three South Africans, Wayne, Étienne and of course Hendriks, the best shot I’d met with anything that fires bullets.
We’d shared a house together in the heart of the Iraqi community, the so-called Red Zone. We’d shared beers together, we’d been shot at together, and we’d eaten so much roast lamb together that, since our unceremonious departure in 2005, I had not touched the stuff again.
I don’t believe in looking back. The past has gone; like the inevitable, you can’t change it or do anything about it. But it had been a good time, on reflection, and I had every reason to believe
that if any of the guys weren’t on a job, they would come on board. I sent them all an email outlining the situation and telling them that I would be back in London to give them a call the following day.
I served myself another burger from the grill and grabbed a beer from the fridge before telling the guys I’d be leaving for a week.
‘You’re in charge of something important while I’m away,’ I said to Maxime, ‘frisbee practice. You still don’t have that backhand spin.’
‘Comment?’
How do you say spin in French?
‘It doesn’t matter.’
He offered to drive me to the airport and I said goodbye to Antoine. With the contract on hold, there was an upside for Antoine. He was going to be able to spend more time with his wife in those crucial weeks before she gave birth. I liked Antoine, he would be a good father. I didn’t bother saying goodbye to Philippe. He was still sulking about the lost RIB. I hoped that he would be over it by the time I got back.
I went back to the office with my beer and spent an hour on the phone organizing a ticket through the agent we used in Abidjan.
I hit the hammock early and next morning took a dawn run along the beach, stretching my legs out a bit before the ten-hour flight. The sea was smooth, not a fin in sight, and the whisper of wind warned that a storm was coming. Now I came to think about it, it didn’t surprise me that Sammy was on a death list and Colonel Ibrahim was commanding the IP. It was the perfect metaphor for the chaos in Iraq. Good men were fleeing or being assassinated and the bad guys were taking over.
Back at our beach house I chowed down some scrambled eggs with grilled fish and some of the ubiquitous West African fufu, prepared as foutou banane, drained my coffee cup and wondered if I would have time to pick up anything from town as a present for the Krista and the girls; probably not, but I’d have a look in duty-free.
At the airport I went speedily through immigration. I didn’t have any luggage, just a day pack and a novel in French I’d been working on for about a hundred years.
Escape from Baghdad Page 3