AN HOUR OUT OF BAGHDAD, with dawn coming up fast, they descended to thirty thousand feet. There was considerable traffic and Parry came back from the cockpit to fill them in.
“We’re doing night approach, which means the sods on the ground don’t have as good a view-the ragged-arse brigade are good, unfortunately, particularly with handheld missiles. A lot of helicopters get wasted over the city.”
“So what’s the solution?” Billy asked.
“It’s a trick the Yanks resurrected from the Vietnam War. We approach from fifteen thousand, then dive. Pull up only at the last possible moment.”
“That sounds pretty hairy to me,” Billy said.
“But it works. The RAF used it in Kosovo, too, and with larger planes. Now, as to what’s facing you down there, I know you gentlemen have done this once before, so I’ll only say it’s even worse. There’s an old saying: Hell is a city. Well, gentlemen, I doubt whether anywhere in the world could be worse than Baghdad. Take care at all times, and remember-in this town, you can’t even trust your grandmother.”
“The last time we did this,” Dillon said, “we were cared for by a Flight Lieutenant Robson. He was police.”
“Still at it. Squadron leader now. He’s already been on the radio. Everything’s waiting.”
“And we had a safe car, with an RAF police sergeant named Parker. A really good guy. He stood by us in a firefight,” Dillon said. “Do we get him again?”
“Unfortunately not. He was killed by a roadside bomb last month. I’d better join Lacey now.”
“Jesus,” Billy said. “What a bloody place.” As he looked down to the city below, there was an explosion, a mushroom cloud of smoke rising from the damage.
“Never mind, Billy, you’ve seen worse.” Dillon took out his flask, unscrewed the cap and swallowed a generous mouthful of Bush-mills.
“No, Dillon, I don’t think I have.” Billy leaned back and closed his eyes for the descent.
IN BAGHDAD, they were received in the mess by Robson himself, as a waiter in a white tunic arranged tea things. Robson said, “So bloody hot in this hellhole. Tea’s just the thing, as they discovered in the days of the Raj. Well, things have certainly been happening to you,” he told Lacey and Parry. “Awarded a second Air Force Cross each. What are you doing? Trying to fight the war on your own?”
“Something like that,” Lacey told him.
As the tea was poured, Robson turned to Dillon and Billy. “I won’t ask what you two have been up to. I don’t know and I don’t want to. Just like last time, the Gulfstream will stand by here ready for an immediate exit at any time. I have a red Security One tag for each of you. It covers everything. You must be hot stuff. Even the station commander doesn’t have one of these.”
Dillon said, “I’m sorry to hear of Sergeant Parker’s death.”
“Most unfortunate. Happens all the time, I’m afraid. You won’t need anything like that this time. A Mr. Jack Savage is picking you up, I understand. We know him well.”
“Is someone taking my name in vain?”
They all turned and saw him standing in the mess doorway, medium height, roughly cut blond hair, a broken nose, a reefer coat over his arm.
“Come in, you old bastard,” Robson said. “And that’s an order, Sergeant Major.”
SOMEONE ONCE SAID that in Baghdad, all the streets seemed to be some sort of market, although many of them seemed to be lucky to have any buildings left at all. And the peasants were still there, their donkeys carrying not just produce from the countryside, but everything from lap-tops to televisions, the detritus of war.
They moved through narrow streets down toward the river, finally turning into a courtyard outside an old colonial house, with a fountain that still worked. A sign over the door traced out “The River Room” with bulbs. They got out and Savage snapped his fingers for two boys to grab the luggage and take it inside.
“The sign?” Billy asked. “Does it still light up?”
“I’m missing half a dozen bulbs; they’re special but it reminds me of London, the Savoy, the old River Room.”
“Why do you stay?” Dillon asked. “These days it must be the ultimate way of living on the knife edge.”
“That’s what I like about it. You can make money here like nowhere else on earth. Let’s go in.”
They followed. It was shadowy, a floor of Arabic tiles, tables and chairs of cane. Even the bar was cane, with a mirror and what looked like every kind of bottle in the world stacked against it. The bartender, who stood polishing glasses, was big and fat, wearing a white shirt and pants, a scarlet belt of some kind around his middle.
“What’s your pleasure?” Savage asked.
“For Billy, nothing. He doesn’t indulge. I’ll have Bushmills Irish whiskey.”
“Two, Farouk. Takes me back to Northern Ireland in the Troubles. So you’re the great Sean Dillon.”
“And you’re the bad Jack Savage.” Dillon turned to Billy. “He had a lovely racket going. Chasing down gun runners on the one hand, then selling the proceeds to the Provisional IRA on the other.”
“But not while I was in the Royal Marines, not while wearing the badge. That wouldn’t have been honorable.”
“He’s big on honor.” Rawan Savage moved into the room. “I’ll have a large vodka-very large. God, it’s hot in here.” She walked out onto a wooden balcony and they followed.
A couple of minutes later, Farouk was distributing the drinks. “Cheers. To new friends.” Rawan raised her glass and in a way seemed to swallow it whole, but that was only an illusion. She held it out to Farouk. Without saying a word, he turned and went back inside.
The river wasn’t particularly busy. Below them, tied to the jetty, was the motor launch
“Shut up, Rawan,” Savage told her.
“Yes, sir,” She gave him a mock salute.
“Look, I won’t tell you again,” Savage said. “Drink up or shut up. Take your choice.”
“Is that so?” She turned to Dillon. “Well, I know why you’re here and I don’t admire it.”
“Is that so?” Dillon said.
“Snatching a thirteen-year-old girl from her grandfather.”
“Let’s keep to the facts,” Billy put in. “The said thirteen-year-old girl was snatched from her parents in London in the first place.”
But she didn’t want to listen and charged into the bar, where Farouk stood behind the counter, a strange threatening stillness to him. Customers, four of them, were there, one with an AK on the table close to his hand, another with one slung from his shoulder. The other two had a hand each in a pocket.
A woman slipped through the door, her clothes held tightly around her. She looked terrified and glanced anxiously about her. Rawan said, “Ah, someone bearing ill news. Gentlemen, this is Bibi, one of Sara Rashid’s ladies of the bedchamber. What’s wrong, Bibi? Have they gone without you?”
The woman cried bitterly, flung herself to her knees and a flood of Arabic ensued. Rawan said, “Excellent. Someone seems to have spoiled the party and warned Abdul Rashid. Several hours ago, he dispatched Sara with Hussein Rashid, her intended, in a small convoy to Kuwait by road. Once there, friends will forward them by private plane to Hazar, where the rest of the Rashids thrive. It is all true, Bibi heard it being discussed. You are dead men walking. Hussein will see to it.”
There was a silence. Savage said, “But who told him?”
“Who do you think? I’m sick of you, Jack, have been for a long time. You can rot in hell.”
In the near distance, there was a huge explosion, and everybody instinctively ducked. The sound of the aftershock drifted like a wave. The telephone on the bar sounded.
Farouk picked it up and listened, then held it out to Savage. “Omar, the boy you had watching the Rashid villa. He saw the convoy for Kuwait leave two hours ago.”
