Parry appeared. “Landing in fifteen minutes. It’ll be a very fast descent, so strap up well.” He smiled. “It’s the missiles, the ones some peasant fires from his shoulder. We’d just as soon avoid them if we could.”
“That really makes my day,” Billy said. “Thanks very much,” and did as he was told.
But the landing went perfectly. Baghdad looked like most large airports except for the guards, the gun pits, the hardware heavily on display everywhere and lots of military aircraft. They taxied to the main RAF area, parked under instructions and Lacey switched off.
Parry left the cockpit and opened the door. “Good flight, huge tailwind. We’re over an hour early.” An RAF Land Rover drove up to meet them and a sergeant got out in camouflage battle dress and saluted Lacey.
“If you gentlemen will get in, I’ll see to the luggage and take you to the mess. Parker’s my name.”
“What about transport down to town?” Dillon asked.
“Taken care of, sir, what we call a safe taxi. You’ll be fine. It’s been quiet lately.”
They were drinking very English tea in the RAF mess, eating biscuits with Lacey and Parry, when a flight lieutenant turned up.
“I’m Robson – police.” He shook hands with Lacey. “Haven’t seen you since Kosovo. Heard about your Air Force Cross. Good show.” He turned to Parry. “We’ve never met, but good show, too. I’ve seen your priority rating – higher even than the Prime Minister turning up. I’ve been in the RAF long enough to know it doesn’t pay to ask questions. You chaps are obviously moving in very exalted circumstances. Mr. Dillon?”
“That’s me.”
Robson handed him an envelope. “A red Security One tag. It covers everything.”
“Everything?”
“Oh yes, immediate response if you’re in trouble, and I presume you gentlemen could be?” He handed a similar envelope to Billy. “Mr. Salter.”
“I feel a whole lot better,” Billy said.
Robson turned back to Dillon. “There’s a safe taxi parked outside with Sergeant Parker at the wheel in civvies. He’ll be on line. Mobile number in your envelopes. Twenty-four-hour watch.” He turned to Lacey and Parry. “I’ve had special instructions. Informed General Ferguson at the MOD that you’d landed and was told you two were to stay and wait here, the Citation refueled for instant takeoff when required.”
“So they can’t go to downtown Baghdad and have a drink with us?” Dillon asked.
“Too dangerous, old boy,” Robson said.
“Of course,” Billy told him. “This just gets better all the time.”
“Your bags are in the taxi, gentlemen, no inspection at the gate.” He smiled. “But why would there be? You’re just a journalist and a photographer.” He got up. “All I can say is enjoy.”
The run to Baghdad itself was calm enough, with plenty of traffic, a lot of it local – cars, trucks and vans, plus lots of donkeys loaded with produce, peasants walking beside them. It was late afternoon, but they were headed for tomorrow’s markets in Baghdad. Rounding it all off were military vehicles of every kind everywhere.
Dillon said to Parker, “So tell us the worst, Sergeant.”
“Well, I’m an old hand. Served in both Gulf Wars, Bosnia and Kosovo in between. If you think things are better because the Yanks grabbed Saddam, you’d be wrong. Plenty of Iraqis were pleased about that, but lots weren’t and they still hate each other. Sunni Muslims, Shiites, stir in a few Kurds, mix it with so-called ‘Muslim freedom fighters’ from all over the world, and that’s not even counting Al Qa’eda.”
“You shouldn’t have joined,” Billy said.
“Well, I did.” Parker laughed. “And you know what? I love every bloody awful minute of it.” He hesitated. “I’m not supposed to ask, but, well, I spent fifteen years in the RAF police. I’ve been around the houses.”
“Which means?” Dillon said.
“Well, you sound Northern Ireland. I should know, because I did four tours there. But Belfast Telegraph? I doubt it. As for Mr. Salter, with the greatest respect, he’s been around the block as well.”
“I’m surprised you haven’t made warrant officer,” Dillon said.
“I once had a falling-out with a warrant officer and punched him.” Robson opened the glove compartment in the car and produced a Browning. “Should I keep this handy?”
“Very sensible.”
“Thank God. Things have been getting boring lately.”
Baghdad was Baghdad. The streets all seemed to be some kind of a market, the traders’ voices high as they shouted to passersby, music blaring out from scores of shops, and traffic everywhere, so much of it that they were reduced to a crawl.
“Is the Al Bustan far?” Dillon asked.
“Which one? There are several. It’s a very common name. Still, don’t worry, I know the right one.”
The evening dusk was setting in as they finally moved off a road not far from Al Rashid Street in the old quarter and turned up a narrow lane and halted at a gate that stood open but had a bar across it. An Iraqi peered out of a small hut and took his time coming.
“Get it up, for Christ’s sake,” Parker told him.
The man said something pretty basic in Arabic, and Dillon reached out through the open window, grabbed him by the throat and told him exactly what to do in reasonably fluent street Arabic himself. The startled man staggered back, got the bar up and Parker drove on.
The hotel was very old-fashioned, the grounds quite large, with a swimming pool and a number of cottage apartments dotted around surrounded by palm trees. They coasted up to the main entrance, braked to a halt, and a couple of porters came down the steps to meet them and take the luggage. Parker didn’t get out.
He said to Dillon. “ Belfast Telegraph? I never heard Arabic like that on the Shankill.”
“We spoke it on the Falls Road all the time.”
“I’m sure you did.” Parker smiled. “I look forward to hearing from you,” and drove away.
The reception area was very old-fashioned as well, with three great fans hanging from the ceiling and swirling around. In the taxi, Billy had extracted two cameras from his bag and had slung them around his neck. He took a couple of pictures of the foyer and moved to an archway opening into a huge bar and café area. He took more pictures and turned to Dillon.
“Brilliant. Just like Casablanca. All we need is Rick.”
“You’ve made your point, Billy.”
The man behind reception interrupted. “Gentlemen, my name is Hamid. I am the manager. May I help you?”
“Dillon and Salter,” Dillon told him.
“Ah, Mr. Dillon. We weren’t expecting you yet.”
“Hell of a tailwind,” Billy put in.
Dillon lit a cigarette. “Is there a problem?”
“Not at all. Cottage Five.”
“I was hoping to meet Miss Novikova.” Dillon said it in Arabic, and Hamid was startled. “She’s arrived, I know that.”
“Yes, she arrived a few hours ago. Cottage Seven.” He snapped his fingers to the two porters, who picked up the bags and led the way out, Billy and Dillon following, down a narrow path leading through the palm trees. They saw tables beside the pool, sheltered by umbrellas, people sitting around having drinks. As the porters forged ahead, Dillon pulled Billy close to him.
“The end table with the green-and-white umbrella. The woman in a light blue dress sitting with what looks like an Iraqi. Black hair, bushy mustache.”
“Yes?”
“That’s Greta Novikova.”
“And the guy?”
“Sharif. I’ve seen his photo. Keep moving.”
They passed on, following the porters to the cottage. One of the porters unlocked the door and they led the way in. It was all very acceptable. A sitting room, two bedrooms and a shower room. There was even a small kitchen and a terrace.