swivel chairs in a darkened room-Orwell’s imaginary world, twenty-five years later than expected.
Ms. Carlson taps a keyboard. Her pink nail polish stands out brightly against the keys.
“What time?”
“Between eight p.m. and ten p.m.”
She swivels a joystick control. Fast forwards through archival footage. There are four views of Greek Street. One of them shows the Coach amp; Horses. The screen has a red square box in the top right corner.
“That signifies the street is an area of suspicion,” explains Ms. Carlson. “We focus on hotels, nightclubs and alleyways.”
“Must be riveting.”
“If you have nothing to hide, you have nothing to fear.”
“Did Stalin write that?”
The time code is running along the bottom of the screen. It slows as the footage decelerates. Ruiz sees the boyfriend walking towards the camera carrying two motorcycle helmets. He must have stashed them somewhere.
Fast-forwarding again, the time code says 21.24. Ruiz sees himself emerging from the pub and shoving the boyfriend into a parked car. The barman appears. The boyfriend walks away from the camera. At 22.08 Ruiz leaves the pub and hails a cab. The actress is wearing her red coat. The door closes and the cab pulls into the traffic. Moments later a motorbike passes the camera. The number plate has been obscured.
“Did you get what you wanted?” asks Ms. Carlson, clearly proud of the technology.
“Tell me something,” asks Ruiz. “If your cameras see a crime being committed, what do you do?”
“We alert the police.”
“And you keep filming?”
“Of course.”
Ruiz grunts dismissively.
“We’re fighting crime,” she says defensively.
“No, you’re recording crime. Your cameras can’t intervene to stop a rape or a murder or a robbery, which makes you just another bystander, sitting on the sidelines, watching it happen.”
The Coach amp; Horses is busy with a lunchtime crowd. Ruiz recognizes the Aussie barman. His name is Craig and he has freckles on his eyelids.
“You remember me?”
He nods and keeps stacking drinks.
“The girl who was in here last night, the one who wore a fist from her boyfriend; ever seen her before?”
“Nope.”
“What about her charming fella?”
“You should have hit him harder.”
“She was reading a copy of The Stage. You must get a lot of actors in here.”
Craig grins. “You want to see my show-reel?”
“Maybe never.”
Ruiz orders a steak-and-Guinness pie and a pint of ale. While he’s waiting he ducks outside to a newsstand and buys a copy of The Stage. Turning to the listings, he runs a finger down the page. Most are by appointment only. She was looking for an open casting. His finger stops. Taps the page.
Speed Dating, a romantic comedy.
Alasdair has been dumped by his girlfriend and is convinced to go to a speed dating night. Rehearsals begin September 18.
We are looking for:
– Alasdair 25-35. Northerner. Slim, a little clumsy around women.
– Jenny 20-30. Confident and sassy with a bruised heart.
– Felicity 20-30. Jenny’s best friend.
– Chris 25-35. Jenny’s fiance.
Casting at Trafalgar Studios in Whitehall, 3 p.m. to 5 p.m.
(Please bring headshots and a brief resume.)
Ruiz looks at his watch. It’s almost two now. Lunch first and then a look-see.
7
The helicopters are flying close tonight. Luca can hear the whump whump of the propellers concussing the air as they pass overhead. American troops are patrolling, searching for weapons and insurgents and “wanted” faces on playing cards.
They’re early. Most of the raids don’t happen until after midnight. The Apaches hover above convoys of armored Humvees that will seal off entire streets. The phys-ops vehicles are fitted with loudspeakers broadcasting messages in Arabic or Farsi or Kurdish, telling people to put their weapons next to the front door and walk outside. Few have time to comply.
Five soldiers will enter the house while five wait outside. They go upstairs first, grabbing the man of the house, dragging him out of bed in front of his wife and children, forcing him up against a wall. Other family members are corralled into the same room and made to kneel with their hands on their heads.
The interpreter will ask the head of the household if he has any weapons or anti-US propaganda. He will then ask if he is involved in any insurgent activity. The householder will say no, because that is normally the truth. If something is found, they will shackle and hood the men and teenage boys, tossing them in the back of a Bradley. If nothing is found, they will say, “Sorry to have disturbed you, sir. Have a nice evening,” before moving on to the next house.
Luca spent three months embedded with the Third Brigade, First Armoured Division, and watched these “cordon and search” operations first hand. He saw Iraqi men humiliated in front of their terrified families and their homes trashed. He saw accidents because soldiers, wound up with fear, were convinced that people inside these houses were waiting to kill them. One wrong move, one mistaken gesture, and innocent people died.
Passing through the hotel security screening, he enters the foyer of the al-Hamra. Some of the windows still haven’t been replaced since the bombing and are covered with plywood. People have taken to scrawling their signatures on the wood panels and leaving short messages.
The bar is crowded with security contractors, engineers, journalists and western NGOs. Luca knows most of the reporters, cameramen and photographers. Some of them are in the veteran class because a year in Baghdad can seem like a lifetime.
They’re talking about a car bombing this afternoon in al-Hurriyah Square. Fifteen civilians died and thirty were injured in the marketplace. One of the Associated Press photographers has photographed the severed head of a small girl. Now he’s drinking tonic water and showing the picture to anyone who wants to see it.
The security contractors are out by the pool because the al-Hamra doesn’t like guns in the main bar. For the most part their weapons are hidden, tucked into shoulder holsters or socks. Their heavy artillery is at home in their apartments and hotel rooms.
“Hey, Luca, you made it!”
Shaun Porter waves from a deckchair. He’s lying next to a pretty Iraqi girl who is sipping a fruit juice. Prostitution in Iraq is one of those hidden vices, outlawed under Saddam, but never stamped out. Now there are families that bring their daughters to the hotels for the enjoyment of the westerners.
Shaun pulls a beer from a bucket of ice and flips it open with the edge of a cigarette lighter. He hands it to Luca, who wishes him a happy birthday.
“You know most of the guys.”
“I’ve seen them around.”
Beer bottles are raised in welcome. A redneck from Texas is wearing a T-shirt that says, “Who’s your
