by Roy David
Greg waved to a couple sitting at the back and made to join them. ‘Alex, this is Dr Aban al-Tikriti and his good wife, Farrah. Both have been very good to me.’
‘Hello Alex. It is nice to meet any friend of Mr Greg. He has been very good to us, also.’
Alex saw a man in his mid-forties, kind eyes that seemed to hold a tinge of sadness, dark hair beginning to go grey at the sides. A sober blue business suit over a lemon open-necked shirt made for such a modern appearance that Alex felt she could be on Broadway – supper after the show. His wife, her dark hair in elaborate ringlets, wore a black shawl, tastefully embroidered in red and gold, over a white silk trouser suit.
‘That’s a beautiful wrap, Farrah,’ Alex said touching it.
‘Yes. An anniversary present from my husband – from Syria. Say one thing about Saddam, we can… we could wear what we like. For how much longer, I don’t know.’
Her husband took a bread stick from a holder on the table, snapped it in two, and began chewing, waving the other half in the air. ‘There is a feeling, particularly among women, that the religious zealots might now come to the fore… people are afraid.’
Alex needed another drink. Clenching her hands under the table, she braced herself and ordered fizzy water instead. Taking several sips in quick succession, the bubbles burst at the back of her throat, helping ease the cloying grime of the day.
Her heart went out to the couple when she learned Aban was out of a job, having held a senior position in the Ministry of Commerce. They had two sons and were now living off their savings.
‘But surely they’ll ask you back,’ Alex said. ‘The new administration here must desperately need men of your experience to carry on where you left off. I mean, the country’s in a terrible mess.’
‘Maybe. Who knows? Perhaps the Americans think they can run Iraq better than we did.’
They found Aban in talkative mood. Alex was happy at first, allowing herself to be the sponge of his anxiety. It deflected her own problems for a while. But, as he unloaded his fears for the future of the country, she could feel the tension rising within her.
A waiter came to the table. Greg pointed to the menu. ‘Masgouf.’
‘A very nice river fish, Alex,’ Aban said. ‘I have forgotten what it is called in English.’
‘River carp,’ Greg replied. ‘Okay for all?’ Everyone nodded in agreement.
‘Tell me,’ Alex said, ‘what was Saddam really like?’
Aban lowered his voice, looking about him. Old habits died hard. ‘You could say good and bad, but mostly bad. I believe he operated on two levels, fear and greed. A complex man, paranoid certainly, breathtakingly ruthless. But, under his reign Iraq made good progress. Infant mortality was down, literacy up – the highest school enrolment of any developing nation – healthcare improved enormously.’
He broke off to take a sip of water. ‘But it was a dictatorship all the same, one that must be measured against the worst human rights record in the world. That was until the sanctions took effect after the Gulf War and the country headed into serious decline. Can you imagine your child with cancer and no drugs other than paracetamol to treat the pain? A few weeks ago I could not speak like this. I dared not even think it, never.’
‘A few weeks ago, Aban, you were Aban Mohammed Ali,’ Greg said.
‘Yes, it is true. Saddam forbade any of us in high positions from using our tribal names. Instead we had to use our own first name, then of our father, and that of our grandfather. So many of us Sunnis in government, you see – but no one could identify us as such by our name.’
The waiter brought the fish, filleted it at the table.
‘And how long are you in Baghdad, Alex?’ Farrah said.
Alex hesitated. ‘Perhaps rather stupidly, I’ve just accepted a stint for a few weeks embedded with an infantry unit – in a Bradley Fighting Vehicle.’ Her face suddenly turned serious. ‘I was due to go back home tomorrow… I’m not sure I’ve made the right decision. From what you say, things are going to get a lot worse.’
The table fell silent for a moment. Alex felt everyone’s eyes on her. She gulped and bit her bottom lip, unaware her fingers had begun twisting the napkin in her hand. Farrah sensed the unease and patted her hand.
Their meal finished, they went outside. The air was thick, stultifying, the smell of American cigarettes hung heavily. ‘It would be lovely if you had time to take tea with us before you leave, Alex,’ Farrah said, kissing her lightly.
‘Thank you, Farrah. I… I do hope things improve for everyone.’
In the taxi back to the hotel, Alex found her parting words inadequate for what she really felt. She was sure that for every family like the al-Tikritis, thankfully untouched by personal tragedy so far, there were tens of thousands of other Iraqi families already forced to bear the unimaginable tortured misery of the death and destruction within their midst.
The immediate future wasn’t something Alex wanted to contemplate. She now realised going on patrol was not going to be easy for her whatever lay in store.
And she cursed herself for letting Kowolski twist her arm.
* * *
Gene Kowolski sucked on the swollen nipple of the girl’s right breast as she moaned, writhing beneath him, pleading with him to enter her.
‘Do it, Kowolski. Do it to her,’ Francine urged frantically as she lay naked next to him, her hand holding him tightly at his base so that he was now fully erect again.
Kowolski had accepted Francine’s invitation to see her room at the villa rather sooner than he imagined, prompted by a couple of bottles of a Meursault Premier Cru from one of his favourite growers, Louis Jadot, which he knew was American-owned. War-torn Iraq it might be, but getting hold of a decent bottle of white burgundy seemed to be no problem. It was expensive, sure. Hell, that was sometimes the price of patriotism.
When Francine’s room-mate poured them all a generous brandy, then, after a large gulp, declared that being in such a dangerous country made her feel ‘hot and horny’, he knew he had struck home. ‘Yeah, me too – war can make you feel like that,’ he said only seconds before both girls leapt on him, practically stripping him and themselves in double-quick time while he lay there smiling.
He satisfied Francine and himself first while the other girl stroked his buttocks with one hand, gently kneading his scrotum with the other. When she felt him starting to come, she straddled him, rubbing herself up and down on his backside and yelping like an animal.
Francine now guided him into her room-mate, laughing lustfully as she whimpered with pleasure. ‘Oh, yes, yes, fuck me, please,’ the girl cried working her body hard and fast against him, reaching her orgasm within minutes to a tirade of expletives, sobs and moanful sighs. Kowolski reached his second climax of the night shortly afterwards.
As he did, he thought of Alex.
* * *
For a change, Matt McDermott slept soundly that night. He awoke to the comforting lumpiness of the Bible under his pillow. Although he felt closer to our Lord with the Good Book beneath his head, the recent habit was no more than a subconscious form of penance.
Now the morning was one of domestic chores; washing socks, shirts and underclothes, kit that took only a few minutes to dry when hanging from strategic points of the billet. Washing strung from open windows was a soldier’s constant lot.
He took coffee with some of his men, checking the Bradley was clean, fit and fuelled ready to go. He reminded them they were to be on their best behaviour later when a photographer called Alex Stead was joining them as an embed. No one appeared happy about a stranger in the camp.
‘What do he do, sir?’ P.J. the grenadier had asked.
‘He takes pictures, dumb-ass,’ Sergeant Rath replied shaking his head in disbelief while some of the others sniggered.
‘No, I mean who do he take pictures FOR?’
‘Yeah, are we gonna be famous, Lieutenant?’ The Bradley’s driver, Bobby-Jo, turned to look at McDermott expectantly.
>
The lieutenant plucked up courage and allowed himself a rare smile. ‘Be on your best and I’ll personally see that colour pictures of your asses are shown in Starbucks window, Times Square.’
Their laughs rang in his ears as he walked away. It was unlike the lieutenant to crack a joke. They all thought he was something of a strange one, a bit of a homey character. And there was talk that, if not the army, he might have gone into the ministry which is why they tried very hard not to cuss when he was around. But, on the whole, he was an okay sort of guy. They knew he would do his best for them.
In his barracks, McDermott wrote a letter home:
‘Dear Mom and Dad, Having a good time out here. Safe inside the Green Zone. Nothing much happening. Not seen any black bears yet… God be with you.’
He didn’t want to mention anything of the event that was causing him increasing anxiety. They would learn something of it in due course, he was sure. He had never lied to them in his life. And he didn’t know if he could refrain from telling them the whole truth if they sought it.
Slumping on his bed, he put his hands behind his head and closed his eyes. He felt weary. Since the incident, he sensed the energy being drained from his body, little by little. He had hoped everything would quieten down. But now, a photographer was on the prowl and the unit was under orders to fully co-operate.
His life seemed to be twisting out of control, shooting along in an inescapable vicious circle, a dilemma that was torturing him every waking hour.
6
The sound of nearby gunfire woke Alex with a start. She checked the time. It was almost 6.15. She groaned.
Her plan was to have had a lie-in, seeing she was not meeting McDermott’s CO until mid-morning. She tried to re-enter that warm, floating, solace of drowsiness, but flashes of her Kandahar nightmare surfaced causing her to start.
The shooting had stirred her brain anyway. It was now wide awake and urged her body to catch up. As she flung on her clothes, half of her wanted to ignore whatever had happened. The other half needed to know – a journalist’s instinct.
Checking the batteries in the Canon, she ran to the lift, sliding a spare pack into the knee pocket of her combat trousers and hiding the camera beneath her blouson.
She approached the reception desk, about to hand over her room key when she changed her mind, putting it in her pocket. She saw Kowolski’s room key still in its box. He was either up earlier than her – or had not been back to the hotel yet.
‘I heard shooting,’ she said to the clerk.
‘Yes, Miss – at the end of the street,’ he gestured.
Turning right out of the hotel and jogging along the sidewalk, she reached the road junction where a large crowd had gathered. A gut-wrenching sensation suddenly stopped her. Did she really want to witness this? Only half awake, she’d been operating on auto pilot so far, old instincts. But indecision always missed the picture, she reasoned. Steeling herself, she took a deep breath and joined the throng.
A group of soldiers stood nonchalantly around a bullet-ridden car. The bloodied body of the young driver lay motionless in his seat, the engine still running. An army paramedic truck screeched to a halt. A soldier wearing sunglasses, chewing gum and keeping the onlookers at bay, diverted his attention to the medics. The crowd shuffled forward. Alex took out her camera and, over the shoulder of the man in front of her, began shooting.
Music blared from the car stereo; a Beatles number: ‘All You Need Is Love’.
The medics pulled the driver from the car, laid him out on the pavement and began attempting resuscitation. After a few minutes they gave up. Suddenly, a woman in a black abayah pushed her way through, shouting, hysterical. A soldier stepped in her way but she pushed him aside. Letting out an uncontrollable wail, she knelt by the young man’s body, cradling his head in her lap, screaming at the soldiers who backed away. Alex rattled off several more shots.
She looked about her. ‘Anybody tell me what she’s saying?’
A man in a striped dishdashah stepped forward. ‘She is saying that they have killed her only son.’
An Iraqi translator with the soldiers began shouting at the woman. She screamed back at him, spitting venom in her words, tears flooding her face.
‘The Americans say they saw him acting suspiciously, that he was driving around the block many times like he was watching them. She says he was giving a lift to a friend to the university where both are students – but the friend was late. She says she told her son never to stop and wait near an army patrol and that is why he was driving round – waiting for his friend to appear.’
‘Shit,’ Alex said, shocked, backing away. She’d seen enough. She headed towards the hotel, her stomach churning. Glancing round just once, she caught sight of the body being loaded into the ambulance. The tormented mother sank to her knees, crying woefully to the sky.
Alex trembled, sending a shiver through to her knees, her eyes filling up. She hadn’t signed up for this. Walking slower, now, her breathing heavy, nausea finally forced her to stop. She put a hand out against a wall – and threw up all over it.
A film crew scurried past towards the scene, closely followed by an army press liaison man. No one gave her a second glance. They would be too late to capture the scene – she possessed the only picture that mattered.
She called Greg’s mobile – he was at breakfast. She asked him to meet in her room and to bring her a strong sweet coffee.
An envelope had been pushed under her door; a list of ground rules for embedded journalists to be signed and handed to the major. She noted it was fifty paragraphs long. Tossing it aside, she went to the bathroom and splashed water on her face.
Greg tapped on her door just as she was downloading the pictures to her laptop. He waltzed into the room imitating a room-service waiter. ‘Good morning, Madam. Coffee, as requested, khubz – flatbread to you – and jam. Sorry, there is no butter in the whole of Baghdad.’
She could only manage a thin smile.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.
Taking a sip of the drink, she pointed to the screen.
‘Wow, what the…’
‘The shooting.’
‘I slept through it, I’m afraid – you sort of get used to it. I did hear the guys on the barrier outside say they’d bagged themselves another baddie.’
‘Bullshit,’ she said, shaking with anger, going into detail.
Greg let out a low whistle. ‘We’ve got to get a piece out to go with the pics – the bastards are shooting anything that moves out there.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Send them to me and I’ll bang a piece over to the agency in Oz – they have worldwide syndication. Keep your name out of the frame, no byline – don’t want to compromise your work here.’
‘And what about you?’
‘I’ll take my chance – no byline, either.’
‘But what if someone blabs and word gets back here? That’d be the end of your embeds.’
‘Fuck them. We’ve got to tell it how it is for Christ’s sake, laugh or cry.’
Alex considered the options for a few seconds. ‘I’m with you, let’s do it!’ she said emphatically.
He unscrewed a bottle of water, offered it. She took a long gulp.
Resting an arm round her shoulder, he pulled her closer, sighing. ‘Call me naïve, but I just can’t believe someone didn’t plan for all this. It’s total bedlam out there, good people like this kid…’ His voice broke away.
‘That poor mother,’ she whispered.
For a few moments, there was silence between them.
‘Hardly anything’s working,’ Greg continued. ‘People are queuing four or five hours for a gallon of petrol, risking death stuck in a traffic jam. Aban was saying he thinks it’s going to get an awful lot worse, too, once the various tribal factions start pulling for power.’
‘I was sick just now,’ Alex said. ‘I wonder if I’m not cut out for all this any more.’ She slumped on the edge of the bed, defeat in her shoulders.
Greg eyed her for a while. ‘How long have we known each other – five years?’
‘Guess so.’
‘I’ll tell you what I think you need – a loving man and a couple of kids.’
Her response surprised both of them. She broke down and began crying uncontrollably.
‘Hey, don’t start or you’ll get me going, too,’ he said, handing her a tissue and sitting beside her.
Dabbing her nose, she let out a shuddering sigh. ‘Are you offering or something?’
He hugged her. ‘I would, kid. But it’s against the law to marry a sister.’
Drying her eyes, she gave him a resigned smile. ‘Sorry about that – things are a bit rocky right now.’
Greg kissed her on the forehead and sprang to his feet. ‘I’ve got to go. You back here later?’
‘Need an early night. I was thinking of catching the President’s speech. I could always give you a call at five tomorrow morning if you want to join me.’
‘No thanks – you can tell me about it. And take your laptop with you. The military have been searching the rooms of late, some guys have had stuff confiscated.’
After he left, Alex started putting together things she’d need for the rest of the day. In a few hours, she was due to hit the Baghdad streets with Lieutenant McDermott and his men. In previous times, the prospect would have charged her very being, a frisson at the unexpected, all thoughts of personal danger suspended.
Now, her nerves taking over, the thought of it sent her rushing to the bathroom. Over the handbowl, she retched again until her throat and stomach hurt.
* * *
The journey from the hotel to the entrance to the Green Zone at Checkpoint 12 on Yafa Street, just across the river, was only a few kilometers. But it was taking Alex and her security driver longer than they envisaged. A slow-moving convoy of Humvees, tanks and army personnel carriers also happened to be heading west.
At first, her driver, emotionless behind dark glasses, had tagged on to the end of the convoy, seemingly oblivious to the large painted sign stuck on the rear of the last vehicle, a Bradley, which warned: ‘Stay back 100 yards – or we fire’. It was only when the rear door of the armoured car opened and a soldier pointed a rifle at them that the driver hurriedly braked and backed off.