‘No Coke, thanks – water will do.’ Sweat streamed down his face.
I grabbed a bottle from one of the ice bins. He twisted the cap and threw his head back. It would have made a great commercial if I’d really been in the advertising business.
A couple of AKs sparked up the other side of the fence and a tracked vehicle rattled along the road. Rob listened to the chaos and shook his head. ‘Close my eyes and I could be back home.’
‘Fuck me, Rob, I know Coventry can be bad at times but—’
‘No, mate, Uzbekistan. They’re my people now. It’s the same sort of situation out there.’ He jerked his head roughly in the direction of the outside world. ‘Indiscriminate body-count stuff. There’s got to be a better way, don’t you think?’
I shrugged. Why Uzbekistan? From the little I knew, it was in a shit state. It had got independence from Russia in ’91, but was still state-run. The government decided everything, from what food you could buy to what TV you could watch. I’d been slumped on the settee not long ago watching a documentary about human rights. Uzbekistan had the sort of record that made Pol Pot look like Mother Teresa. One of their favourite tricks was boiling people till their skin peeled, then scrubbing them down with disinfectant. ‘Know what, Rob? I try really hard not to think about it too much.’
He held his bottle in his right hand, weapon in the left. ‘We’re fucking up here, exactly like the French did in Algiers. History repeats itself, but nobody learns.’
I scratched my head. ‘Well, I’ve only been here a day, mate. I haven’t taken much notice.’
He pointed at the media crew the other side of the pool with Jerry. ‘The French used to report stuff exactly the way those wankers over there are reporting this. Telling the world things are improving. Are they fuck. Demonstrators killed in Fallujah – so what? Not worth reporting. An American goes apeshit with a full mag and drops some kids in Mosul – who cares? Iraqis slaughter each other by night, but come first light, everyone’s blind.’ He lifted the bottle to his mouth.
I suddenly felt as tired as he was. ‘You’re right, mate, but that’s how it’s always been. We know it’s all bullshit. We’re never going to be told the truth.’
Rob finished the bottle and placed it alongside a collection of empties on a low wall. Randy was arguing over the Apple with a guy in a hat with Mickey Mouse ears. He didn’t want Bob and the Wailers any more and, after all, it was his birthday. I didn’t think Mickey had a problem with switching the music: he’d just had enough of Randy slobbering over his keyboard.
Rob was still grappling with the big picture. ‘It’s not as if I’m all bitter and twisted. I understand what’s going on, and the reason why. I just can’t help feeling there’s got to be a better way. Back home my man listens to Al Alam radio. It broadcasts out of Tehran, but it’s the only station with up-to-date news of what’s really going on in Iraq. Isn’t that bizarre? The closest we get to the truth, and it’s coming from the latest axis of evil.
‘The Western news agencies are just reporting whatever the CPA tells them to: “There’s a little local difficulty here, nothing that can’t be sorted.” But the boys on the ground know different. Two Americans get blown up here. Six Brits get shot there. You know the US isn’t even covering the funerals now? The White House doesn’t want sobbing families and coffins draped in the Stars and Stripes on TV.’
He glanced again at the partygoers around him. ‘Know what, Nick? They’ve got to pull back, start telling it like it is, otherwise everyone at home will think things are great. They won’t demand action, we’ll lose this war, then we’re fucked. Because it won’t end here, mate. It’ll spread.’
38
Randy was really starting to piss Mickey off, especially since he was now pouring beer over the keyboard because he wasn’t getting his own way.
‘If other countries get it into their heads the Americans can be humbled by strategic resistance, why should they give up their own struggle?’
‘You talking about Uzbekistan?’
‘It’s a fucking nightmare there, mate. Our esteemed president, Karimov, has made himself Dubya’s new best friend.’
I knew courtesy of the Discovery Channel that Uzbekistan had one of the best tables in the Washington Good Lads Club: it had let itself be used as a base for US forces during Operation Fuck Off Taleban, and they’d stayed on as part of the war on terror. Of course, the guardians of freedom and liberty hadn’t jumped up and down too much about their host’s misdemeanours: he’d handed them a strategic position at the heart of Central Asia, the reward for which was a full-dress White House reception and a couple of hundred million dollars in aid.
It was just another load of bollocks. Fuck it, who cared? Well, Rob did, by the sound of it. ‘We’ve got Shi’ites bombing and shooting their way around the fucking country, trying to replace Karimov with an Islamic caliphate. Karimov doesn’t want that. The White House doesn’t want it. Nor do most Uzbekis. But it’s that fucker Karimov who’s causing the drama. He’s crushing religious freedom – creating the very fundamentalism that he and Bush think they’re fighting.’
Rob was having one of his famous intense moments. I generally tried to avoid them: they used up far too many brain cells. ‘He’s closed down nearly all the mosques. Clever move in a country that’s eighty per cent Muslim. There’s just a handful still open in each city for state-sanctioned Friday prayers, but worship anywhere else, any time, and you’re banged up. It’s a fucking nightmare, and if we lose this war here it’s only going to get worse back home – in fact, anywhere that people are pissed off. Got another water?’
I fumbled about in one of the bins. Most of the ice had already melted.
‘The Algerians perked up when they saw France getting annihilated in Vietnam. They thought, right, if they can fuck them, so can we. Here? Just take out the French and insert the Americans and Brits.’
He took the water and shoved it into the map pocket on his cargoes. ‘One for the road, mate. I’ve got to get back before curfew.’
I hadn’t known there was one. ‘What time does it kick in?’
‘That’s the thing, no one’s really sure. Some say ten till four thirty. Others say ten thirty till four. Who knows? Anyway, I’ve got to get back. ‘
Rob fished into his back pocket for the thirty-round curved mag for his AK. A gale of female laughter erupted on the other side of the pool. Pete Holland had his shirt off and was flexing his lats for the Canadian woman. It was his party piece.
Mr Gap was laughing too, but I bet he was really pissed off that a drunk was getting all the attention after he’d been doing all the spadework.
Rob just ignored him. ‘I reckon this great coalition had better start learning from the Algerian experience, because those fucking oiks out there in the desert, they have. And if we don’t sort this situation out we’re going to be here for years and the problem will spread. The Stans are ready to rock for a start – Turkmenistan, Uzbekistan, whatever – they’re all up for it.’
I hoped the lecture was over. Rob could be like a dog with a bone. ‘You been eating those history books again, haven’t you?’
He squared up to me. ‘No, mate. I’m just getting a huge education from my man. There’s a few who are talking about a different way, using a different weapon, rather than these things.’ He pushed the front of the mag into its housing on the weapon and it clicked home. ‘What about you, Nick? You interested in finding a different way?’
An agonized gasp from the Canadian saved me having to answer. It was just as well. I didn’t have a clue what he was on about.
Every man and his dog spun round to see what was happening. Lats was trading punches with the flat-tops. He wasn’t coming off best. Goatee was trying to stamp on his head as he got pulled away by do-gooders.
‘That fucker hasn’t changed, has he?’ Rob never had liked him.
‘They’re slavers.’
‘Here already? He’s doing something useful for once, then, ain’t he?’
