No wonder Poole didn’t have a car: Telegraph reporters were probably taught to trek through the desert, in their underwear.
“Of course, all of this was quite a while ago,” said Glen.
“When?”
“1897, actually,” said Glen.
“What? What was his name again?”
“Winston Churchill. He went on to be quite famous, apparently. The Telegraph paid him only five quid for his effort—the tight bastards. At least that’s what it says in the Roy Jenkins biography.”
Over the next few days, more daunting factoids about Poole’s family connections kept being relayed to Los Angeles, including the revelation that his stepfather was the former Tory politician Lord Fowler, whose ex-wife was none other than Linda Christmas, my terrifying former City tutor. I half expected Glen to call back with the news that Poole was, in fact, related to George W. Bush. And Tony Blair. And the Iraqi royal family. The situation was turning into what Barrow had once called “the black curse of Ayres.” Why couldn’t the Telegraph have posted someone shallow and celebrity-obsessed to Los Angeles? Why Poole, for God’s sake? The best I could hope for was that the Marines would dump me in the rear, so I could blame my lack of heroism on bad luck. Still, comparisons between the two Hollywood correspondents would be inevitable. The media gossips in London would love it. I almost expected Poole to return from Baghdad with full military decorations for bravery.
Now that the worst-case scenario with the embedded scheme had actually transpired, however, I also felt strangely relieved. At least going to war might end my guilt over everything from my grandfather’s treatment by the Nazis to the fact that I had deserted New York. I wanted, in a strange way, to lose my war virginity properly. Not, of course, that I had any idea of what was in store for me. I knew nothing about the military. My only experience of it had been standing on the deck of the USS Constellation. My inability to visualize it made it worse. War films were my only references, and gore-soaked scenes from Saving Private Ryan, Three Kings, and Apocalypse Now flickered in my imagination like a private horror show. I saw Humvees and tank trenches, grenades and M-16s. And I remembered the quote of Private Joker, the war correspondent in Full Metal Jacket: “A day without blood is like a day without sunshine.” I had no idea how I would break the news to Alana. I knew, however, that until the moment I boarded a plane with a ticket to Kuwait, she wouldn’t believe it was happening. My parents were another matter. Perhaps I shouldn’t tell them at all.
I was still reeling from the double hit of euphoria and terror when I got home. I sat down heavily at my desk, chewed on the end of a ballpoint, and shook my head in sheer disbelief. I flicked on the television and listened to a CNN report about British intelligence on Iraq being copied from the thesis of a California student. Then I noticed a fresh sheet, shiny like cheap toilet paper, lying on top of my fax machine. It was dated February 10, 17:21, GMT. At the top of it was the News International Pension Plan logo. Below, it had: Nomination of Beneficiaries Form. Underneath that was my name and British national insurance number.
With dread, I skimmed what followed:
To: News International Pension Trustees Limited
I understand the Trustee has complete discretion as to the application
of the lump sum benefit payable on my death within
the terms of the Trust, but I wish the following to be considered
as possible recipients:
At the bottom of the page were four columns, each one for the name and address of a recipient along with their date of birth and relationship to me. The final column was for the percentage share of my life insurance policy they would receive if I was shot, blown up, beheaded, or gassed by the Iraqis. I stared at it for a second, shook my head again, then logged on to my computer so that I could e-mail Glen. I noticed a new message from the Pentagon in my inbox. It had arrived with two bulky Word file attachments. I double-clicked on them. The first document was entitled “smallpox vaccine”; the second, “anthrax vaccine series.” They both had the same heading: “Release, Indemnification, and Hold Harmless Agreement; and Agreement Not to Sue.”
I looked at the text of the e-mail. It read:
The Department of Defense has agreed to administer anthrax and smallpox vaccines to your media employees who will be participating in the DoD’s embedding programme. These vaccines carry risks along with benefits. We emphasize the importance of warning your employees who agree to be vaccinated to remain cognisant of any change in their health following vaccination and if there is, immediately seek medical assistance.
I closed the e-mail.
Three words came into my head: Gulf War syndrome. I had stupidly assumed that death could come only on the Iraqi battlefield. Perhaps I wouldn’t even survive the inoculations. My nervous system was delicate enough, without pumping it full of 57 varieties of poison. To inoculate against a disease, you first have to be given the disease. Anthrax, my old adversary from New York, would finally be introduced to my bloodstream, along with smallpox, cholera, typhoid, tetanus, diphtheria, and hepatitis. I imagined the size of the needle: four inches in circumference with a canister the size of an oil barrel, filled with green liquid.
Churchill, apparently, used to call his wartime depression “the black dog.” And as I sat there, numbed with the fear hormone, I could have sworn I heard it bark. Oh, how the black dog bayed and howled. I felt suffocated; helpless. I could have said no to all this. I had brought it all on myself.
HEREFORDSHIRE, ENGLAND
2003
9
WHO RUNS LIVES
The reporter was on his knees. His beard was matted with dribble and watery snot, and his right hand was cuffed to a radiator. Above him were his captors: two young, smiling men. They could have been Colombian, Algerian, or Arab. They wore denim and lumberjack shirts, which probably smelled of sweat, percolated coffee, and bootleg aftershave. In any other context, their hesitant smiles would have been endearing, fit for a mother’s mantelpiece. One of the men patted the journalist on the head and tousled his knotted hair. For a second, it was possible to imagine some fondness between them. Then the knife appeared. The reporter’s eyes died. His muscles lost grip of his flesh. A rag was stuffed into his mouth and the cuffs were unlocked. The man with the knife frowned with concentration. Now there was steel between the reporter’s ring finger and pinky. There was a muffled howl, and the sound of an empty stomach contracting. The journalist’s finger was detached with surprising ease, but with more blood than expected. The second captor swore as polka dots appeared on his white Nikes. The reporter was again patted, this time more vigorously, as though he were a favorite but misbehaving pet. The butcher held up the lonely digit. He found it amusing. Still laughing, he put it into an envelope. The reporter was hunched and crying.
“Look at ’im,” said a male voice with a Yorkshire accent from the front of the darkened room, where the reporter had been freeze-framed in his agony. It seemed cruel to keep him there, even though he was made of pixels and projected onto a wall. I wished there was a “dramatic reconstruction” disclaimer, or another scene, in which the surviving hostage was being interviewed on Oprah, looking relaxed and happy, with a Venice Beach tan. “Kidnap Ordeal Made Me Stronger,” the screen caption could say. But I feared there was no happy ending. I feared the worst.