I needed to check out our escape route, since jumping six floors wasn’t an option. A green sign in the corridor directed me in Arabic and English to the fire escape.
A push-bar door led to a bare concrete stairwell. There were no lights, just slits in the walls, so fuck knows what happened here at night. The stairwell was littered with cigarette butts and old newspaper photographs of Saddam smiling and pointing at something in the distance. I’d always assumed it was a fucking great suitcase full of money. I wedged one of the papers between the door and the frame so it wouldn’t lock on me if I needed to come back up.
Moving down the fire escape, I checked the doors on each floor. They were all locked from the inside. Even worse, on the flooded ground floor, the double exit doors that led out into the open were chained, padlocked and blocked by a mountain of rubbish. The only way out from the sixth was the lift.
I went back up and knocked on Jerry’s door. He was busy sorting out the recharging equipment for the camera and phone. The Thuraya, about the size of a household mobile, was resting on the balcony ledge. He’d pulled the thick plastic antenna out from the side in an attempt to get a satellite fix.
No cell networks were operating in Iraq now the Ba’ath Party’s had been obliterated. There was a system of sorts, but for the exclusive use of CPA officials. With a Thuraya it didn’t matter if you were in the middle of the Russian steppes or on top of Mount Everest: as long as it could shake hands with a satellite, you could talk to anyone, anywhere, with a mobile or a landline. Where anyone got the money to run them, I didn’t have a clue. You could buy a week in Greece for a few minutes on one of these things.
I went out on to the balcony while Jerry untangled several lengths of wire, one of which connected the phone to the camera so he could transmit images down the line. Jerry’s plan was to download them to the Telegraph as soon as he got them, then wipe the memory card clean so there was no chance of anyone else getting their hands on them.
The guy in shorts was still bouncing backwards and forwards in the pool. I picked up the Thuraya to see if it had a signal, but the five-bar indicator was blank. I carried it along the balcony a few steps, but still got nothing.
I went back into the room. Jerry was stretched out on the bed, hands behind his head, admiring his prowess with the electrics.
‘No signal – the sat must be the other side.’ I threw the Thuraya on to the bed next to him. ‘The only way out of here is by the lift or jumping. The fire escape is blocked.’
‘Don’t worry, man, this place is as safe as Fort Knox. First things first.’ He had cheered up a lot since the wait in Amman. Maybe he felt we were just that bit closer to Nuhanovic. He sat up on the edge of the bed. ‘You get the beers. I’m going to need some local clothes if I’m going to do the brown thing right.’
We had already agreed that he was going to do the brown-man stuff and I would do the white.
‘I’ll call DC, then hit the mosque over the road in time for Asur and see what I can pick up. That’s if I can get past that tank without them putting a bullet in my Islamic ass.’
I nodded. It was pointless just sitting around waiting for the source to come up with the goods: we had to get out there. Somebody had to know something. Jerry didn’t want to quiz the journalists because they’d sniff a story and either clam up or lie. But there was nothing to stop me getting among the guys working on the circuit.
I checked Baby-G, my own black one this time. I’d left Kelly’s behind: I needed to keep a clear head. Who was I kidding? Looking at my own just made me think about hers – and then about her. It had been wider than her wrist, and took her for ever to fasten.
It was just after three p.m. – seven a.m. Washington time. We’d missed a couple of nights’ sleep. No wonder I was feeling knackered.
30
We took the small, nine-person lift down to the lobby. Jerry, as ever, was clutching his camera; I had my bumbag with my passport in it, along with just over three thousand dollars in cash. The lift stank of cigarettes and stopped at every floor with a disconcerting bounce. We were joined on the fourth by two Filipino guys with MP5s, dressed in black body armour like a SWAT team; on the third, by two military guys trying to look like civilians, which is pretty much impossible when you’re sporting a whitewall haircut; finally, on the second, by two NGO guys with fat Filofaxes and even fatter beer bellies.
Everyone, civilian or military, seemed to have some form of ID round their neck, a nylon tape with a hook and a plastic, see-through cardholder. Were we supposed to have one? What the fuck did I know?
As the doors closed, one Filipino offered the other a cigarette and they both lit up. By the time we reached the lobby I smelt like I’d spent the night in a pub.
There were now maybe a few more Iraqis than foreign businessmen sitting and smoking on the sofas, all with identical thick black moustaches, trousers, shirts, plastic dress shoes and white socks. Whatever else had changed here, the Saddam look was still in.
A pair of Hummers was parked up outside. A group of sweaty soldiers were dumping their body armour and taking off their soaking wet BDU jackets; hot food and bottles of mineral water were being passed round from the back of a canvas-skinned truck.
I could see two or three civilians pacing up and down just beyond the Hummers, chatting away on their sat phones. They must have been staying on our side of the hotel.
The two shops in the lobby were doing a roaring trade in toothpaste, Saddam watches and banknotes, which were still in circulation. Saddam looked the same on the dinars as he did in any picture: big smile, big moustache, and outstretched arm pointing at something we never got to see. You could also buy Arabic coffee-pots, maps, clothes; one guy was putting up a little Bedouin tent to use as a carpet stall. Even DHL were setting up a stand as we walked past – so people could jet their purchases back home in time for Christmas.
As Jerry headed out into the blinding sunlight, I spotted a group of fixers.
I was greeted by three big smiling faces. ‘Hello, Mister, what can I get you?’ It doesn’t matter where you go in the world, everyone in this line of business speaks English.
I shook each by the hand and gave them a smily ‘Salaam aleikum. I need twelve beers.’
The youngest was the first to answer. He looked very smart in his brand new jeans and trainers. ‘Ten minutes. You wait inside?’
The other two left us, still smiling away. They had more than enough custom. I grabbed my boy by the arm as he turned towards the door. ‘There’s a couple more things.’
His smile got even bigger. ‘You want girl? I get you young girl, European. Very new.’
‘No, just two pistols, with magazines and lots of ammunition.’ I didn’t even bother phrasing it as a question.
‘Sure. For you I have Saddam’s own pistols, good price. You want rifle, I get you Saddam’s own—’
‘No, mate, just two pistols. Saddam’s or not, I don’t care. Make sure they’re semi-automatics.’
‘Sure. For you, tomorrow morning. I bring here, OK. OK?’
I nodded and pointed towards the coffee area. ‘I’ll wait in there for the beers.’
He ran off before I’d had the chance to ask him about vehicles. Through the glass entrance I saw that Jerry had joined the other members of the Thuraya club and was waving his free arm about like a windmill. I hoped his source was coming up with the goods.