Deep Black

51

It took a while, but Jerry eventually managed to flag down a rusting Passat taxi on the main. The driver was in his fifties and spoke perfect English. He said he used to be a chemist until the sanctions bit and the economy started to collapse.

The al-Hamra was only a ten-minute ride away, and would be easy to spot from the main. Stark white and six or seven storeys high, it had a billboard on the roof that was big enough to read from several blocks away.

We turned off the dual carriageway and down a side road, past neat, concrete middle-class homes set in small green gardens. Security was more lax here than round the Palestine. A steel barrier blocked our route, manned by a solitary Iraqi with an AK in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Kids did wheelies on their bikes or ran in and out of the surrounding houses. A shop opposite sold fruit, bottles of water, buckets and mops.

The guard sauntered across and held the barrier open as we drove through. The pot-holed drive ran in a semicircle to the front of the hotel, which was surrounded by a high concrete wall. White soldiers with Australian flags on their uniforms patrolled in its shade, their Steyr assault weapons looking like something out of a sci-fi movie. I didn’t have a clue what they were doing here, and they probably didn’t either. They watched from behind their Oakleys as we got out of the cab.

A few fixers hung around outside the main entrance, hassling what I guessed was a news crew unloading alloy boxes and rolls of cables from three 4x4s. Inside the wagons I could see mixing consoles, laptops and satellite-phone sets. Two of the crew had been injured. One had fresh bandages around his arm. Another, the German gun stud, had one round his head. A wounded reporter? He was going to score big-time when he got back home.

Jerry gave the driver a five-dollar bill and we walked through the glass doors into reception. The lobby area was a lot smaller than the Palestine’s, the ceilings lower. Wood veneer was still king, however, and a glass cabinet displayed the same kind of goods for sale, everything from packs of cards of the fifty-two most wanted, to Saddam watches and toothbrushes.

Jerry kept out of the way while I went up to the desk, which was manned by an Iraqi who smelt heavily of cologne and seemed more interested in his ledger than asking me if I needed help. A young woman was sorting out room keys behind him. I wondered if they were related. This had the feeling of a family hotel; they certainly had the same nose and eyes combo.

The news crew came in with their gear and headed straight for the lift, talking low and slow German. Just beyond, a pair of glass doors opened out on to a concrete terrace and I caught a glimpse of the end of a swimming-pool. Sunlight danced on the water. Danny Connor would have liked it here.

The young woman finished with the keys and looked up, her face creased by a big smile. She had long black shiny hair, parted in the centre, dark red lipstick and black eye-liner. ‘Good day. Can I help you?’ Her English was perfect; in fact, better than mine.

‘I hope you can. I’m looking for Mr Robert Newman. He’s staying here.’

She smiled and looked down at the book. They did have a PC but what was the point of using it when the power kept shutting down?

‘He may be with a smaller man with thick black hair,’ I added. ‘He’s a tall white guy with dark wavy hair and a big nose. Checked in yesterday?’

She flicked a page, trying not to smile too much at my powers of description. She looked beautiful in her crisp white blouse and black trousers, and it made me think of the bride. I wondered if she was still alive.

‘Please, one moment.’ She picked up a phone and tapped three digits. The Germans were back for a second load.

She put the phone down. ‘Mr Newman is not in his room.’

‘Never mind. We’ll wait by the pool, if that’s all right. Could you send someone to tell me when he comes in, or can you tell him someone’s here for him?’

‘Of course, of course.’

I headed for the doors near the lift. Jerry followed, and as we stepped outside we were slapped in the face again by a wall of heat.

The garden was another little oasis in the midst of Baghdad’s chaos. Immediately ahead of us was an eating area with tables and chairs. The pool was down some steps to our left, its water turned blue by the tiling. Plastic sun-loungers, chairs and tables were dotted round the edge, under large blue canvas parasols that had been bleached by the sun.

Australian squaddies were on stag here too. One was in the shade of the perimeter wall. The old-style barbed wire had been unrolled along the top. The other guy was higher up, at the edge of the eating area.

We went down the steps and headed for the far end of the pool. It was still fairly early, and it looked as if there was some decent shade to be had at the tables. A few people were having a swim, the rest were lying under parasols. Most of them were white, but a few Iraqis sat sipping iced tea and ogling the women.

Gunfire rattled in the distance, maybe half a K away. The Australian in the shade got on his radio to report it. We walked past two women stretched out on their loungers, both reading chick-lit paperbacks as they hoovered up their morning dose of skin cancer. I could smell their sun cream.

The Australian was standing against the wall, paying a bit more attention to the sun-worshippers than he was to us. As we passed I gave him a big grin. ‘War’s hell, innit?’

I got a big smile back as we took a vacant table, and the moment his mouth opened it was obvious he wore dentures, only not during ops. Maybe he didn’t want them damaged, or he’d sold them to an Iraqi.

We would stay in the shade here until the sun got higher, but there was another reason I wanted my back to the wall. I didn’t want to miss Rob’s turning to.