I tried to work the soap into my hair but there wasn’t enough to dislodge the blood from the roots. ‘Yeah.’
Danny Connor was dead and the bride wouldn’t want to spend too much time in front of a mirror now, but things could have been a fuck of a lot worse. And doing this sort of shit somehow made a fuck of a lot more sense to me than mincing round the States on a road trip.
The soap still wouldn’t lather, so I gave up. A good day’s sweat would sort it.
I got out of the bath and dried myself with the sheet.
Jerry was out on the balcony with a camera, snapping away at the block of flats the tank had taken a chunk out of.
Once I’d got my clothes on, Jerry took his Thuraya off the charger, then gathered up his camera and bumbag. The corridor was shoe deep in water now. My door was open. The carpet was dark with blood and the beds had been stripped bare. The sheets must have been used to wrap the not-so-happy bride. I closed the door and locked it, even though there was nothing there to nick.
When the lift finally came we found ourselves crammed in with a whole lot of people who’d suddenly decided that maybe the Palestine wasn’t the safest place to stay after all. Everybody had their bags. I wondered where they thought would be safer.
44
Chaos reigned at the reception desk. About fifty people wanted to get their money back and check out. Jerry went off to make his calls while I got into the scrum and eventually worked my way to the front. Even then it was like trying to attract a busy barman’s attention. One of the guys finally pointed to me. He was a happy old Iraqi with the full Saddam, and what had probably been a white shirt until an hour or so ago.
I leaned over the desk, trying to shout into his ear: ‘What about a discount? The rooms are damaged.’
He smiled. ‘Ah, yes.’ This was looking promising. ‘Room is sixty dollars a night.’
‘No, no – the corridor’s flooded, my friend’s room has holes in it, everything in my room is smashed up. We want to stay, we’re not like all these other people.’
‘I know, it is terrible, very terrible. I would not wish to stay here.’
‘So we get a discount?’
He smiled in agreement. ‘Yes, room is sixty dollars a night.’
I was banging my head against a brick wall. ‘What about a different floor? Can we get two rooms on the first floor?’
He smiled and ran his finger down a ledger. People were hollering and shouting, many of them Iraqi; I recognized some of the leather jackets from the wedding last night.
The Canadian woman and Mr Gap, still in the green polo, emerged from the lift together, heading for the exit. He was carrying her bags. He’d finally won through. I was proud of him. Maybe she’d thought the earth was moving just for her this morning.
Another desk manager joined my new mate and checked the ledger. They had a chat, probably about bloody foreigners who wanted discounts. Didn’t they know there was a war on?
‘Nick!’ Jerry was at the back of the scrum, working his way through. ‘How’s it going?’
The desk guy gave me a five-star smile. ‘We have one room on the first floor. The man is dead. You share?’
I looked at Jerry. ‘Is that all right?’ He didn’t care. ‘Excellent,’ I said. ‘That’s only sixty dollars, so we get some rebate because we’ve already paid for two rooms.’
The guy’s smile got even wider. ‘Oh, no. Sixty dollars each.’
I gave up. He laughed, we laughed, and he handed me the key to 106. ‘We’ll drop off the keys to the other two rooms in a minute. Give the blood time to dry.’
We tried to make our way back to the lifts. The place was flooded with news crews in helmets and body armour.
Back on the sixth floor, Jerry went to pack and I did a final check that I hadn’t left anything behind. I wondered if we were about to move into Danny’s old room. I’d forgotten my toothbrush, and as I retrieved it I heard the door open. ‘That didn’t take you long, mate. You got my daysack?’
I turned to see three US military policemen. Two had their M16s pointing at my head. The one in the middle, a Puerto Rican sergeant with a pencil moustache and dark wraparounds, had plasticuffs in his hands ready to lash me down. ‘Get your hands up!’
The guys with the M16s were young and looked nervous. One had his safety catch off. I wasn’t going to argue.
The sergeant pointed to the bumbag round my waist. ‘You got any weapons in here?’
‘No.’
‘You sure you’re not lying to me now? You got no weapons in that fanny pack? Just tell me now, just tell me now.’
‘Only a passport and cash. No weapons.’
‘OK, fella, down on the bed, hands behind your back. Real slow.’ His tone told me he’d done this job many times, and he was happy in his work.
I did as he said, ending up face down on the bed. The plasticuffs went on, a little too tight, my bumbag was ripped off, and several sets of hands set about frisking me to see if I’d been lying. I could smell sweat and grime; the uniforms were well worn, and a few rips had been repaired in the material. I was treated to a blast of minted breath as I was pulled backwards on to my feet. ‘Slow now, fella – don’t make us hurt you. Just do it real slow. Let’s get this done sensible.’
They turned me round and dragged me out into the corridor. A bunch of white guys and Iraqis were waiting by the lift; they averted their eyes, not wanting to get involved.
I couldn’t see Jerry anywhere. Had they lifted him? Had he escaped? Or were they just coming for me?
45
They bundled me out through the lobby. Straight out through the main doors, into dazzling sunlight, then into the back of a Hummer. The driver gunned the engine. A group of fixers were staring in after me, smoking themselves to death. My boy was there with a sack in his hand: Saddam’s pistols had arrived.
It’s more cramped than it looks in these things. There are only two seats front and back, and a raised square section of steel, covering the drive shaft, running down the centre. One of the MPs jumped in next to me; his belt-kit pressed me hard against the raised section. I leaned over to my right, trying to relieve the pressure.
The dash-mounted radio crackled. Another MP jumped in from the other side. He kicked me out of his way with a scuffed and scabbed-up desert boot. He was aiming for the turret, to man the roof-mounted machine-gun, and needed my bit of cover to stand on.
I had webbing and a body to my left, boots and legs to my right. I wasn’t going anywhere. The sergeant was still outside the vehicle. Were we waiting for Jerry? I hoped we weren’t. If he could avoid getting lifted, maybe he could help me out. Then again, it would be comforting to know I wasn’t the only one in the shit. How much in the shit I didn’t have a clue, but I was sure going to find out soon enough. The best bet was to keep quiet with these boys: it was pointless resisting or protesting. They were here to lift me, and that was it, no matter what I said or did. Keep quiet, keep passive, keep uninjured.
The hotel doors opened and Jerry was heaved out past the fixers. He hadn’t come quietly. Blood streamed from a cut on his forehead. ‘Where are you taking me?’ He looked at the crowd. ‘Remember me if I disappear. Remember what happened here. I’m an American.’
Why didn’t the fucker just shut up and get in the back of the wagon? If they were going to kill us, they would hardly have done this in broad daylight, in front of half the world’s media.
The sergeant leaned in and produced a length of cloth. I got a kick from one of the boots level with my right shoulder.
I closed my eyes to protect them as the blindfold went on. The cloth wasn’t fit-for-task. Daylight still got in: I could feel it through my lids.