Deep Black

62

I slumped back into the seat, keeping as low as I could without making the driver suspicious, and started to pick the glass out of my hands. This was getting to be a bit of a habit.

The driver still hummed away to George belting out ‘Faith’. ‘Where you from, Mister?’

‘Australia.’

‘Oh. I go to London soon. My sister lives there. I go to drive taxis of her husband. Three more weeks!’ He nodded to himself, very happy. ‘You go to London, Mister?’

‘Not if I can avoid it.’

We hadn’t been in the cab more than twenty minutes when I saw the half-illuminated sign of the al-Hamra. Either Rob had really got into those anti-surveillance drills on the way out, or it had just been busy. ‘I thought you said it was a long way?’

He smiled into the rear-view mirror. ‘You lucky, Mister. Some drivers take you to the bad places for money. The bad people in Saddam City pay me fifty dollar like that. But I am good taxi driver. I am good London taxi driver.’

We were still on the main drag, just short of the turn-off for the hotel. ‘You might as well drop me here. I’ll walk.’

He pulled over. Huge artics rumbled by on their way into the city centre. I gave him twenty dollars, and an extra thirty to cover what he could have got in Sadr.

I turned left down the approach road to the al-Hamra. There was power on the hotel side of the street, but none on the other, where the shop was lit by candles. A bunch of barefooted kids in shorts and a collection of Premier League T-shirts kicked about in the gloom.

I bent under the scaffold pole and carried on to the main entrance. Two more Aussies were on stag in the driveway. As I nodded at the Iraqi on the door, I looked up at Rob’s room. The light was on and Jerry was on that fucking phone again. He disappeared from view as I went inside. If the CPA were tracking it, we’d be in the shit.

The old man was chatting to a few locals at the counter, every one of them with a cigarette on the go. I got a cursory look up and down, but they’d seen enough blood and sweat in their lives not to be too concerned at a little more splashed about on some white guy. Through the glass door by the lifts, the underwater lights filled the air with a blue glow. The poolside tables were crowded. The world’s media were back from a hard day at the office.

A good friend was dead, and what might have been the best job I’d ever be offered had been shot to fuck. But at least I was in one piece and Jerry was alive; I supposed I had done what Renee wanted me to – so far. We still had a way to go.

I got to the door and put my hand on the knob. It was locked.

‘Who is it?’ Jerry sounded worried.

‘Nick. Open up, quick, quick!’

He fumbled with the lock and the door half opened. ‘Fuck, what’s happened to you, man?’

I walked in and closed it behind me. A fuzzy BBC World was conducting a silent interview with Blair.

Jerry’s camera was on the coffee-table with the cable attached.

‘Who you talking to? You sending pictures?’

‘Just testing the kit. What the fuck’s happened?’

‘The car got hit. The other two are dead. Get your stuff together, quick. We’re getting out of here before curfew. Test or not, you had the fucking thing on – they’ll find us.’