31
I was half-way through my first mouthful when I realized I had competition. The oldest biker in town was making a beeline for the buffet. He was late fifties, early sixties, only about five foot five, but powerfully built, with big freckled arms and hands the size of baseball gloves. He ordered eggs, rolls and cheese with his Nescafe and, judging by the size of his gut, it wasn’t for the first time: it strained under a black Harley Davidson T-shirt that shouted: ‘Born To Ride, Born To Raise Hell’. The image was completed by a long grey beard, jeans, and a big black belt with a Harley buckle. His head was totally bald, and he’d been out here for ever, by the look of it. He was nearly as brown as Jerry.
He was certainly pretty pleased with himself. He waved at the French, who were now in a smoking competition with the Iraqis, as he settled himself on a stool a few down from me, and treated me to the sort of nod that said, ‘Later, we’ll talk.’ I treated him to one that said I was in no hurry, but I had a feeling it wouldn’t be long before we were best mates and he was offering me the use of his house, car and wife next time I was in the States.
I’d just filled my second roll with butter and shoved it in my mouth when the baseball glove appeared in front of me. ‘Howdy, I’m Jacob. How’s it hanging?’
I swallowed fast but my reply still emerged in a shower of crumbs. ‘Fine, how about you?’
‘Good, real good. Big day tomorrow. My son’s in town.’
His T-shirt should have said ‘World’s Proudest Dad’. None of his worldly goods heading my way, then.
‘Here in Baghdad?’
‘Sure. He’s in the 101st, up north. Ain’t seen the boy for months. I’m kinda excited.’
His food turned up and he started to make himself an egg and cheese roll. I finished my Nescafe and ordered another. Why do Arabs only serve the stuff in thimbles? ‘So, you’ve come to Baghdad to see him?’
His gut quivered with laughter as he sliced the eggs. ‘Hell, no. I work in power – been getting the juice back on for five months now. I’ve got another son here, too – Apache pilot. Pretty cool, eh?’ He beamed. ‘Yep, he’s west of here. I’m gonna go see him some time soon. He can’t get into the city.’
A group of American squaddies came in, looking as if they should have had schoolbags over their shoulders, not automatic weapons. Shit, I used to look like that. They unloaded their belt-kit and body armour and dumped it beside the sofas.
Jacob smiled at them and they smiled back. He got back to his roll and coffee. ‘Yep, been following my boys about since Grenada.’ He chuckled so hard his beard threatened to slide off his chin. ‘My boys destroy the power, their daddy gets the contract to fix it. Kinda neat, ain’t it?’
I was seeing the United States military industrial complex at its lowest binary level. ‘Sounds like the perfect family business.’
He roared with laughter. ‘Where you from?’
‘The UK. I’m looking after a journalist.’
‘You one of them snake-eaters? Hey, I got two myself.’
‘By the look of you, you’re one of the few people around here who doesn’t need them.’
He liked that. But it was true. ‘You know the companies, they gotta look after their people. It’s Crazyville out there. But I was in the service myself. Nineteen years in the 82nd. Damn proud of it.’
I thought this might be a good time to get on and do the white thing. ‘Reminds me of Bosnia . . .’
He wiped some crumbs from his beard and shook his head. ‘One gig I never got to. There wasn’t that much work for us.’ He nodded towards the French. ‘Them cheese-eating surrender monkeys got most of it.’
I smiled as he shoved another lump of cheese into his mouth. ‘Well, it looks like the Bosnians are about to level the score. I heard they’re here in force. You bump into any along the way?’
He shook his head. ‘Not in the reconstruction game.’ He gave me the sort of wink that used up most of the muscles in his face. ‘Some other kinda game, maybe? You got a special interest there?’
I didn’t answer. The Casio sparked up a bit, and Johnny’s dad began to knock out the theme tune to
‘Say, how long you staying here?’
‘Dunno,’ I said. ‘A week or so?’
‘Cool, maybe we’ll crash into each other. You can meet my boy.’
Two bullet-headed MP5 slingers headed in our direction. All they needed was the boom mikes and they could have gone into partnership with the CPA Action Men at the airport.
Jacob lifted a hand as they reached our table. ‘Hey, boys, nearly ready.’ He finished shoving egg slices into his last roll and squashed it into his left hand, then stood up and held out the other for me to shake. ‘Good to meet you. Say, I didn’t catch your name . . .’
‘Nick,’ I said. ‘Good to meet you too. I hope you get to see your sons.’
He nodded away. ‘Yep, I hope so too, Nick. Maybe catch up tomorrow.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘I’ll look out one of those little Bosnian ladies for you . . .’
He joined the two BGs and slapped each of them on the shoulder. ‘Come on, boys – let’s go make some juice.’
He disappeared to the final chords of
32
Ten minutes for the beers, my arse. I went and joined the Saddam-lookalike competition on the settees; I just didn’t bother trying to smoke myself to death at the same time.
Faces flowed constantly in and out of the hotel, and I recognized one. It was Rob, on his way out. He was on his own, with no ID laminate round his neck but an old semi-automatic on his hip. The Parkerization had worn away, exposing the dull steel beneath. In his hand was an unloaded AK, Para version. It had a shorter barrel than the normal assault rifle and a collapsible butt. Great for close-quarters work or in a car. That, too, had seen a few years’ wear and tear.
He caught my eye and smiled. Things were different now: we were on our own. I hauled myself off the settee. ‘Hello, mate, I thought you were dead!’
His big nose crinkled into a grin. ‘What’s going on, you on the circuit? I thought you’d dropped out years ago.’
‘Sort of. I’m working for an American. A journalist. He’s here for maybe a week to get a picture – a Bosnian guy, here in Baghdad, if you can believe that.’
He could. ‘There’s plenty of weirder stuff going on here – listen . . .’
Three German ex-Paras were singing their regimental song by the newly erected Bedouin tent as two Russians loading AK mags chatted to each other about the noise. Going by their crewcuts, tattoos and scars, they’d spent longer in Chechnya than in Moscow.
‘What about you? What firm you working for?’
‘None of those wankers.’ Rob had always wanted to go his own way. ‘I work for an Uzbek – he’s in the oil business.’
‘Staying here?’
‘No, the al-Hamra. Famous for its swimming-pool, chilled beers and dancing girls. Allegedly. It’s not as well protected as this, but he’s a private sort of guy, and it’s not like he’s not used to a bit of drama, if you know what I
