One of the soldiers who’d been eating outside came into the lobby and homed in on one of the fixers. He spoke low and close up. There was a smile as the fixer showed him the size of the breasts he was about to get hold of. These two hotels were probably Shag Central for the grunts, for whom business would be conducted quickly in the toilets.
I left them to it; money changed hands as if it was a drugs deal.
Whoever had designed the café-bar area had opted for plastic banquettes and gone for the seventies, dark, sophisticated and moody look. They’d got the seventies, dark part of it spot on.
The carpet was threadbare and the air was heavy with cigarette smoke and country-and-western music. An old guy dressed in a red shirt and shiny plastic shoes, his hair immaculately combed back, was sitting flanked by a couple of speakers, an amplifier and a Casio Beatmaster. Apart from the Saddam moustache, he was a dead ringer for Johnny Cash’s dad.
A few Iraqis sat half listening, drinking glasses of tea, as a couple of big white guys with flat-top crewcuts, one with a goatee, tried to do business with them. They exchanged a few words with each other in what sounded like Serbo-Croat, then switched back to something approaching English for the next stage of their mumbled negotiation. Their accents were so heavy, all they needed was a black-leather jacket each and they could still have been in the Balkans. I’d need to find out where exactly they came from before bouncing in and asking about a Bosnian. The war might have officially ended, but for a lot of these guys the Dayton Accord was only a piece of paper.
Asmall bowl of boiled eggs, a plate of cheese and some bread rolls looked rather tired on the bar top, carefully guarded by two guys in crumpled white shirts with elasticated bow-ties who were trying hard to look as if they were doing something useful.
One finally made it to my table. I wasn’t going to drink Arab coffee so I ordered a Nescafé with milk, and a couple of the rolls.
He went away to put the kettle on.
A news crew came past, talking English but sounding French, with a couple of the local boys in tow. They sat down to hammer out what they were going to do tomorrow and how long they’d need the driver and interpreter. It wasn’t long before everyone was nodding and one of the Frenchmen peeled some dollar bills from a wad and handed them over. The going rate seemed to be ninety dollars a day for an interpreter and sixty for a driver, paid in advance – and if the French wanted to go anywhere outside Baghdad it would be extra.
My coffee, rolls and a foil-wrapped pat of butter turned up as the two Balkan boys got up to leave. Their Iraqi companions had a little waffle among themselves, puffed happily away on their cigarettes, and went back to listening to Johnny Cash’s dad.
31
I was half-way through my first mouthful when I realized I had competition. The oldest biker in town was making a beeline for the buffet. He was late fifties, early sixties, only about five foot five, but powerfully built, with big freckled arms and hands the size of baseball gloves. He ordered eggs, rolls and cheese with his Nescafé and, judging by the size of his gut, it wasn’t for the first time: it strained under a black Harley Davidson T-shirt that shouted: ‘Born To Ride, Born To Raise Hell’. The image was completed by a long grey beard, jeans, and a big black belt with a Harley buckle. His head was totally bald, and he’d been out here for ever, by the look of it. He was nearly as brown as Jerry.
He was certainly pretty pleased with himself. He waved at the French, who were now in a smoking competition with the Iraqis, as he settled himself on a stool a few down from me, and treated me to the sort of nod that said, ‘Later, we’ll talk.’ I treated him to one that said I was in no hurry, but I had a feeling it wouldn’t be long before we were best mates and he was offering me the use of his house, car and wife next time I was in the States.
I’d just filled my second roll with butter and shoved it in my mouth when the baseball glove appeared in front of me. ‘Howdy, I’m Jacob. How’s it hanging?’
I swallowed fast but my reply still emerged in a shower of crumbs. ‘Fine, how about you?’
‘Good, real good. Big day tomorrow. My son’s in town.’
His T-shirt should have said ‘World’s Proudest Dad’. None of his worldly goods heading my way, then.
‘Here in Baghdad?’
‘Sure. He’s in the 101st, up north. Ain’t seen the boy for months. I’m kinda excited.’
His food turned up and he started to make himself an egg and cheese roll. I finished my Nescafé and ordered another. Why do Arabs only serve the stuff in thimbles? ‘So, you’ve come to Baghdad to see him?’
His gut quivered with laughter as he sliced the eggs. ‘Hell, no. I work in power – been getting the juice back on for five months now. I’ve got another son here, too – Apache pilot. Pretty cool, eh?’ He beamed. ‘Yep, he’s west of here. I’m gonna go see him some time soon. He can’t get into the city.’
A group of American squaddies came in, looking as if they should have had schoolbags over their shoulders, not automatic weapons. Shit, I used to look like that. They unloaded their belt-kit and body armour and dumped it beside the sofas.
Jacob smiled at them and they smiled back. He got back to his roll and coffee. ‘Yep, been following my boys about since Grenada.’ He chuckled so hard his beard threatened to slide off his chin. ‘My boys destroy the power, their daddy gets the contract to fix it. Kinda neat, ain’t it?’
I was seeing the United States military industrial complex at its lowest binary level. ‘Sounds like the perfect family business.’
He roared with laughter. ‘Where you from?’
‘The UK. I’m looking after a journalist.’
‘You one of them snake-eaters? Hey, I got two myself.’
‘By the look of you, you’re one of the few people around here who doesn’t need them.’
He liked that. But it was true. ‘You know the companies, they gotta look after their people. It’s Crazyville out there. But I was in the service myself. Nineteen years in the 82nd. Damn proud of it.’
I thought this might be a good time to get on and do the white thing. ‘Reminds me of Bosnia . . .’
He wiped some crumbs from his beard and shook his head. ‘One gig I never got to. There wasn’t that much work for us.’ He nodded towards the French. ‘Them cheese-eating surrender monkeys got most of it.’
I smiled as he shoved another lump of cheese into his mouth. ‘Well, it looks like the Bosnians are about to level the score. I heard they’re here in force. You bump into any along the way?’
He shook his head. ‘Not in the reconstruction game.’ He gave me the sort of wink that used up most of the muscles in his face. ‘Some other kinda game, maybe? You got a special interest there?’
I didn’t answer. The Casio sparked up a bit, and Johnny’s dad began to knock out the theme tune to Bonanza. War or no war, a man had to feed his family. He plucked away, eyes closed as if he had the music tattooed under his lids.
‘Say, how long you staying here?’
‘Dunno,’ I said. ‘A week or so?’
‘Cool, maybe we’ll crash into each other. You can meet my boy.’
Two bullet-headed MP5 slingers headed in our direction. All they needed was the boom mikes and they could have gone into partnership with the CPA Action Men at the airport.
Jacob lifted a hand as they reached our table. ‘Hey, boys, nearly ready.’ He finished shoving egg slices into his last roll and squashed it into his left hand, then stood up and held out the other for me to shake. ‘Good to meet you. Say, I didn’t catch your name . . .’
‘Nick,’ I said. ‘Good to meet you too. I hope you get to see your sons.’