Deep Black

24

The back of Rob’s head was still covered by a mop of wavy brown hair that stuck out in all directions. I was happy to see a bit of grey at the sides, and that he’d put on a bit of lard – not that I could talk after a few months on the toasted cheese and Branston diet. He was taller than me, maybe six one or two, but I didn’t mind because he also had the world’s biggest nose. By the time he was sixty it was going to be bulbous and red, with pores the size of craters. He came from the Midlands somewhere and had a voice like a midnight radio DJ.

He was with a guy in his mid-thirties, with thick black hair and very pale skin whose slight build reminded me of the younger Nuhanovic. He hadn’t been hanging around in the Middle East for long, that was for sure. In the aisle seat of the row behind them was the sky marshal, a tall Jordanian with severely lacquered hair and a big bulge under his cream cotton jacket. Next row back were two Iraqi women who hadn’t stopped gobbing off at each other, and their two mates across the aisle, at a hundred miles an hour since checking in. Then there was us: both bored, knackered and gagging for something to drink.

Apart from the bouts of turbulence, it had been a pretty uneventful trip. No flight attendants running up and down with coffee and biscuits. Nothing below us but mile after mile of the Mars expedition training area. Our inflight entertainment came from the row behind. A Canadian woman was going to Baghdad to write a book on women’s rights. Her mother was Iraqi, but she’d never been there herself. She was sitting next to an American who’d been working on her almost since take-off, and deserved an A for effort because at last he was getting some feedback. He looked like he’d stepped straight out of a Gap store window, in khaki cargoes, polo shirt and a diving watch even bigger than Rob’s. If he didn’t get a shag I was going to suggest he could always go forward a few rows and compare functions.

She was going to change the world, and he was sitting there agreeing with everything she said. He made sure he kept his voice down, which was a shame for the rest of the cabin: when it came to bullshit, this boy was first class. It was very strange, almost fate, them meeting. He was also interested in women’s rights. He worked for the CPA [Coalition Provisional Authority] now as a civilian, but he’d been in special forces. Not that he was really allowed to talk about it.

Jerry leaned across to me. ‘Yeah, right. He can’t tell her because it’s a secret!’

The Canadian woman seemed to be warming to Mr Gap. ‘You know, being in Jordan was so, so – like karmic. I can’t wait to get to Baghdad. I just know it’s going to feel like my spiritual home.’

Jerry winked at me. ‘I’ve had my mom ramming this shit down my neck since I was a kid, but it ain’t no spiritual home for me.’

I smiled, but my mind was on other things. We were in Baghdad airspace, and the desert was giving way to the first signs of habitation. It was a grown-up city, its history stretching back thousands of years. It wasn’t a factory-built, flat-pack affair like Riyadh: let’s have a capital, all right, stick one in the sand here. Below us were buildings centuries old, interspersed with tower blocks and elevated freeways that could have been on the approach to Heathrow. Snaking through the middle of it was the Tigris, glinting in the sun. About six million people lived there. I hoped one of them, this week, would be Nuhanovic.

Jerry had finished stowing his camera and assorted shit back in his bumbag. First and foremost he was a fucking good action photographer. If he needed it, he’d need it quickly.

The pilot announced in Arabic and then English that we would shortly be landing at Baghdad International in the sort of tone you’d expect if you were about to run in to Málaga or Palma. But that was where the similarity ended. We didn’t glide gently into the final approach. We circled directly above it, just once, then went into an alarmingly fast spiral. Anyone on the ground who wanted to take a pop at us with a SAM 7 was going to find it hard to get a lock on today.

As we tumbled out of the sky, the pilot continued to give us all the pre-landing waffle as if nothing unusual was happening, but the businessmen had temporarily mislaid their machismo and the cameras had stopped clicking. Jerry leaned back into his seat. Behind him, Mr Gap was soothing the Canadian. ‘It’s OK, standard procedure. I come in and out of here every couple weeks.’ She didn’t sound fazed at all: if anything she seemed excited, but that wasn’t going to stop him.

I noticed two burnt-out 747s alongside the terminal building, noses and wings scattered across the tarmac. It was really a huge military camp, with a maze of fence lines and enormous concrete barriers. Rows of armoured vehicles, helicopters, and green Portakabins stretched to the horizon. Desert-camouflaged BDUs and olive-green T-shirts hung on washing-lines between the buildings.

As soon as the pilot hit the brakes, we were joined by a two-Humvee escort, their mounted .50 cals trained, by the look of it, against possible attack from the aircraft. The businessmen enjoyed that. The cameras were out again.

‘Fuck me . . .’ Jerry couldn’t stop laughing. ‘They’ll be out of memory by the time we get to Immigration.’

The Iraqi women were still going at it nineteen to the dozen, but my attention was on Mr Gap, willing him to get a result. He deserved to, if only through persistence. He was trying his hardest to meet up again once she was in Baghdad. ‘Where are you staying? Maybe I could help you with your research – after all, I work for the CPA. I could introduce you to the top guys.’

That was obviously what she’d been waiting for. ‘Yeah? You know what? That would be great. I’m staying at the Palestine.’

‘Cool.’ He was one happy hunter. ‘We can arrange to meet some time.’

‘That would be so nice.’ I could just imagine the big smile on her face. She had him by the bollocks.

We taxied past the terminal and finally stopped by a hangar. A few American soldiers dismounted from the Hummers and started to walk towards the aircraft as the propellers slowed and the door opened.

We stayed in our seats for as long as possible before shuffling towards the exit behind the Iraqi women. The moment we got there we were hit by a wall of hot air.