They’re early. Most of the raids don’t happen until after midnight. The Apaches hover above convoys of armored Humvees that will seal off entire streets. The phys-ops vehicles are fitted with loudspeakers broadcasting messages in Arabic or Farsi or Kurdish, telling people to put their weapons next to the front door and walk outside. Few have time to comply.
Five soldiers will enter the house while five wait outside. They go upstairs first, grabbing the man of the house, dragging him out of bed in front of his wife and children, forcing him up against a wall. Other family members are corralled into the same room and made to kneel with their hands on their heads.
The interpreter will ask the head of the household if he has any weapons or anti-US propaganda. He will then ask if he is involved in any insurgent activity. The householder will say no, because that is normally the truth. If something is found, they will shackle and hood the men and teenage boys, tossing them in the back of a Bradley. If nothing is found, they will say, “Sorry to have disturbed you, sir. Have a nice evening,” before moving on to the next house.
Luca spent three months embedded with the Third Brigade, First Armoured Division, and watched these “cordon and search” operations first hand. He saw Iraqi men humiliated in front of their terrified families and their homes trashed. He saw accidents because soldiers, wound up with fear, were convinced that people inside these houses were waiting to kill them. One wrong move, one mistaken gesture, and innocent people died.
Passing through the hotel security screening, he enters the foyer of the al-Hamra. Some of the windows still haven’t been replaced since the bombing and are covered with plywood. People have taken to scrawling their signatures on the wood panels and leaving short messages.
The bar is crowded with security contractors, engineers, journalists and western NGOs. Luca knows most of the reporters, cameramen and photographers. Some of them are in the veteran class because a year in Baghdad can seem like a lifetime.
They’re talking about a car bombing this afternoon in al-Hurriyah Square. Fifteen civilians died and thirty were injured in the marketplace. One of the Associated Press photographers has photographed the severed head of a small girl. Now he’s drinking tonic water and showing the picture to anyone who wants to see it.
The security contractors are out by the pool because the al-Hamra doesn’t like guns in the main bar. For the most part their weapons are hidden, tucked into shoulder holsters or socks. Their heavy artillery is at home in their apartments and hotel rooms.
“Hey, Luca, you made it!”
Shaun Porter waves from a deckchair. He’s lying next to a pretty Iraqi girl who is sipping a fruit juice. Prostitution in Iraq is one of those hidden vices, outlawed under Saddam, but never stamped out. Now there are families that bring their daughters to the hotels for the enjoyment of the westerners.
Shaun pulls a beer from a bucket of ice and flips it open with the edge of a cigarette lighter. He hands it to Luca, who wishes him a happy birthday.
“You know most of the guys.”
“I’ve seen them around.”
Beer bottles are raised in welcome. A redneck from Texas is wearing a T-shirt that says, “Who’s your Baghdaddy?” He starts telling a joke about why Iraqis have only two pallbearers at their funerals.
“Because garbage cans only come with two handles.”
The men laugh and Luca wishes he were somewhere else. A big guy in a cut-off sweatshirt joins them. He has blue flames tattooed on his forearms.
“This is the mate I was telling you about,” says Shaun. “Meet Edge.”
Edge’s grey eyes flick over Luca as though sizing up his fighting weight. Slightly older than the others, he has deep wrinkles around his eyes and a crushing handshake.
“You’re that journalist living outside the wire.”
“That’s right.”
“Does that make you crazy or fucked up?”
“Deluded, maybe.”
Edge raises his margarita and sucks salt crystals from around the rim. Behind him, the pool lights glow an alien green beneath the water.
Two Filipino women shriek with laughter. They’re wearing short denim skirts and skimpy tops, flashing midriffs and muffin tops to the group of contractors who keep plying them with drinks.
Edge is watching, amused. Sexual conquest is a local sport among the contractors.
“You were here in ’03,” says Luca.
“Saw the whole clusterfuck.”
“So what made you come back?”
“I missed the place.”
Edge drains his margarita and licks his lips.
“I got bored working for my father-in-law. America’s fucked, man-people losing their houses, their jobs, factories going offshore-the bankers and politicians screwed everyone over.”
“You think this place is any better?”
“Here you can shoot the bad guys.” He grins. “In America we give them corporate bonuses and promote them to Treasury Secretary.”
He holds his glass aloft, signaling to the barman for another. “You know the moment I knew I was coming back to Baghdad?”
“No.”
“Happened before I even left. I had to pick up a package from the Military Postal Service-it was a birthday present from my folks. This fat chick was sitting behind the counter painting her nails. She said it was her coffee break and she made me wait fifteen minutes while I watched her stuff her face with Twinkies. I was getting blown up and shot at for twenty-five grand a year while that fat chick, sitting on her fat ass, lifting nothing heavier than a pencil was making four times what I did. Tell me if that seems fair?”
“I’m not a great judge of fairness.”
“Yeah, well, nobody twisted my arm to come here the first time, but now I’m gonna fill my boots.”
Luca glances past Edge to a table on the patio. A woman is sitting with two men. Luca recognizes her from the Finance Ministry. She was part of the UN Audit team. Dressed in grey flannels and low-heeled shoes, she’s wearing her hair down and nursing a glass of wine. Her high cheekbones look almost carved and her eyes are shining in the reflection from the pool. She doesn’t seem to be listening to the conversation at her table.
“I wouldn’t waste my breath,” says Edge, following his gaze.
“Why’s that?”
“I offered to buy her a drink and she treated me like I was contagious.”
“Maybe she’s sick of being hassled.”
“Or she could be an uppity, better-than-everyone, super bitch.”
Edge has the barman’s attention. Luca slips away and stands beneath a palm tree, checking the messages on his phone. The woman is no longer at the table. She’s standing by the pool, talking on her mobile, arguing with someone.
“It’s only for two more weeks… I know… but you can wait that long. No, I’m not at a party. It’s the hotel.” She makes eye contact with Luca. Looks away. “I think you’re being totally unreasonable… I can’t talk to you when you get like this… I’m going to hang up…”
She snaps the phone closed and purses her lips.
“Problems at home?” asks Luca.
“That’s not really any of your business.”
“No, I’m sorry.”
She has an American accent and large eyes with eyelids that pause at half-mast like a face from a da Vinci painting.
“I shouldn’t have been listening. I’ll leave you alone.”
Luca walks away. She doesn’t stop him. He goes to the bar and has a drink with a German journalist and his French colleague, who are both pulling out when the last of the American combat troops leave at the end of the month.
At nine o’clock Luca calls it a night. As he crosses the hotel lobby, he notices the woman again-this time she’s arguing with the hotel receptionist. There is a problem with the room. The power points don’t work. She can’t recharge her laptop.
Luca is going to walk right by but stops and addresses the receptionist in Arabic-sorting out the problem.