In the midst of this chaos one thing was for sure: Rob wouldn’t be queuing up for a bus. He’d have organized everything down to the last detail, and was probably already gliding towards Baghdad in an air-conditioned 4x4.
It looked like the Canadian had got herself sorted too. Gap Man was busy loading her bag into the boot of a white Suburban as she jumped into the back and the BG started the engine.
Jerry was still being questioned. I caught his eye and indicated that I was going outside. He nodded, then turned back to yabber some more to his new friend. Ever since we’d got into Jordan he’d been saying how strange it was speaking Arabic all the time. Apparently this was the first occasion he’d ever used it, apart from talking to his grandmother and his mum or going round to one of the corner shops in Lackawanna.
I put my sunglasses back on and walked outside. The midday sun drilled into me as I looked round for transport. I hadn’t gone more than a dozen paces when a loud cockney voice bellowed behind me, ‘Oi, shit-for-brains, how’s it going?’
I recognized him at once, even with Aviators on. I hadn’t seen him since leaving the squadron, but there was no mistaking Gary Mackie. No discreet stuff for Gaz: it had never been his style to obey the written rules, let alone unwritten ones.
He was still shorter than me, and was still hitting the weights. His arms and chest were huge.
I came out with the regular greeting you give people when you bump into them like this. ‘Fucking hell, I heard you were dead!’
He didn’t answer. He just advanced on me with his arms wide open and banged himself into me for a big bear-hug. Then he stood back, still holding me by the shoulders. His eyes were level with my nose. ‘Fucking hell, mate, you look a bag of shit!’
Fair one: I probably did. Gaz had to be in his early fifties now, but looked much younger. His black sweatshirt was soaking wet, front and back. It had started out with long sleeves but they’d been ripped off, leaving the threads hanging over the top of his big tanned Popeye arms. He’d been in the Light Infantry before the Regiment, and still had a faded tattoo of his old cap badge on his right biceps. Only now it looked more like an anchor.
‘Thanks, Gaz, good to see you too. How long you been here?’
He was jumping up and down, speaking with his hands. ‘Six months. It’s fucking brilliant, know what I mean?’ He pulled his jeans up by their thick leather belt. A 9mm sat in a pancake holder at his side. ‘Who you working for, Nicky boy?’
‘Newspaper guy, American. He’s still in Immigration.’
He grabbed my arm. ‘Come here – come and see my crew.’ All smiles, he dragged me towards the four guys lounging in the shade nearby, all dressed in his regulation jeans and T-shirt combo. I’d never seen Gaz firing on less than six cylinders: everything was always great with him. He’d been married more times than Liz Taylor and still loved every one of them. They probably felt the same about him.
He punched me in the arm. ‘It’s good to see you, mate. I didn’t know you was on the circuit. I haven’t heard about you since fuck knows when.’
Once I’d left the Regiment and started to work for the Firm, I dropped out of almost everything I’d known. That was just how it had to be.
The ‘circuit’ was the job market for the ex-military. Security companies snap up personnel for helping out in a war, VIP protection, guarding pipelines, training foreign armies, that sort of thing. There’s a whole bunch of firms, British and American, some more reliable than others. The work is mostly freelance, payment always by the day. You’re responsible for your own tax and insurance, which means that most blokes don’t take care of either. It’s called the circuit because you bounce from one company to another. If you hear of a better job, you drop the one you’re doing and move on.
Gaz introduced me to a South African, a Russian and two Americans. I didn’t bother taking their names – I wouldn’t be seeing them again. We shook hands anyway. ‘Me and Nick used to be in the same troop,’ Gary announced, with evident pleasure.
The guys nodded a hello, then fell back into their own conversation. It was no big deaclass="underline" I wasn’t expecting a group hug. It’s not as if we’re part of some brotherhood – it’s a business like any other. That’s just how it is. This lot looked different from the guys working for the CPA. They were in it for the money, not the boom mikes.
It wasn’t just transport out of here I wanted to know about. ‘What’s the score on getting a weapon – you got any spare?’
‘Got ’em coming out our fucking ears. Where you staying?’
‘The Palestine.’
I spotted the four Iraqi women further along, struggling with their luggage, shouting and hollering at each other.
‘Great place. Fucking odd-looking – wait till you see it. Good protection, though. Tell you what, you’re better off just getting them from one of the fixers. They’ve got shedloads, but they’re tearing the arse out of the prices. Be a lot quicker than waiting for me to bring a couple round, know what I mean?’
I turned back to Gaz. ‘I’ll do that. So what you doing here, mate?’
‘Fucking brilliant. Money for old rope, mate. Training the police. They’re using AKs, but we’re showing them how to use the fucking things properly. I get my training in twice a day and then I head out on patrol with the boys.’
I wanted to keep up this pretence of being on the circuit. ‘How much a day you on?’
‘Three fifty, plus expenses. Better than last time we were fucking about here, eh?’
In those days it had been MoD pay of about seventy pounds a day. Three hundred and fifty for freelancing sounded about right. Where middle-management guys in London talk about the rise in their house prices at dinner parties on a Saturday night, guys on the circuit talk about their daily rate. Nine times out of ten they’re bullshitting. Anyone who says, ‘Six or seven hundred,’ is lying through their teeth. As far as Gaz was concerned, three hundred and fifty pounds a day was the dog’s bollocks. He was just happy to be there, and had probably even paid his own fare.
‘I’m staying as long as they want me, Nick. There’s a bit of drama now and again, but fuck it. It’s Baghdad, innit?’
It was wonderful to see him; it added to the good feeling I was already getting. I didn’t know about the Canadian woman, but for me it was definitely like coming home.
I didn’t want to be with Gaz when Jerry turned up, but I had one last question. ‘Do you know how we get out of here? We’re trying to get into town.’
He was apologetic. ‘I’d give you a lift if I could, mate, but we’re waiting for PC Plod. Some superintendent from the Met. The poor fucker’s been seconded here for a couple of years. I can’t wait to watch him trying to teach ethical policing, know what I mean? The boys we’re training were lobbing RPGs [rocket-propelled grenades] at American tanks five minutes ago.’
The South African spotted their passenger and went to pick him up.
Gaz gave me another big hug. ‘Listen, boy, really good to see you. There’s a coach that takes you into town. Follow them women, they’ll know.’ He nodded at the Iraqi quartet, then spotted someone behind me. ‘You with this dickhead?’
Jerry couldn’t wait to answer in the affirmative. ‘Yeah. Hiya, I’m Jerry.’