Dead Centre - Andy McNab [141]
As we moved through the blacked-out city, there were plenty of signs that Gaddafi had lost control. If it wasn’t covered in graffiti, every physical sign of the dictator had been taken down and shot or torched. The solid green flag was no longer flying above ramshackle and ransacked government buildings that Gaddafi’s troops had wrecked when they withdrew; the old royal standard – red, black and green with the crescent and star at its centre – hung in its place.
A storm was raging out there in the Mediterranean. I spotted several passenger ferries offshore, all lit up as they rode it out. They’d been waiting for days to come in and evacuate foreign nationals.
Another rumour was that because the Turks, NATO’s second biggest army, had provided a large naval contingent, the Brits had been forced at last to up their game. They were sending a frigate. It would park up in the port in the next couple of days and take off Brits and anyone else it had room for. Kandy laughed at that one. The Turks, Italians and Russians had already been and gone. Even the French were back home drinking coffee and watching the war on the news. But the Cumberland’s late arrival was good news for Anna. Jules had booked her a place on board.
The vehicle slowed. Kandy turned in his seat. ‘Nick, here we are.’ A big friendly smile wreathed his face. ‘Nick?’
I was dozing.
‘The hospital – we’re here.’
I stretched in my Timberland-effect fleece that I’d bought at the border crossing. Even in war and desperation, there will always be a Del Trotter setting up his stall.
‘That’s brilliant, Kandy.’ I passed him the bundle of a thousand US dollars. ‘Thanks, mate.’ Two dollars a kilometre, as promised. He waved the cash before putting it into his pocket, uncounted. ‘This will buy us fuel to go back and make another run here the day after tomorrow. Thank you.’
I had no doubt that it would.
We got out of the wagon as the lads hooked up with the waiting militia. We all shook. ‘Good luck, Nick. I hope that you find her.’
I nodded. ‘And good luck to you, mate. Hope you get back in one piece, eh?’
From the outside, the main hospital, Al-Jalaa, looked like most of the rest of the city: concrete, rectangular, plain. The courtyard and car park were a blur of news crews, ambulances, 12.7-mounted technicals, and casualties from the fighting in the west.
A pair of fast jets screamed through the darkness somewhere overhead. Nobody looked up. They could only be French or British. Although someone had said that the Italians were about to join in too.
For the news agencies, war was business. They set up shop outside hospitals to be close to the action, but also for protection. Gaddafi wouldn’t hit a hospital, would he? Hmm. We’d see.
I hobbled up to the nearest crew. ‘You know where the foreigners are being looked after? I’m looking for a Russian reporter, Anna Ludmilova.’ I nodded at the three lads sitting on blue nylon folding chairs. ‘You know her at all, lads?’
Even in the middle of a war zone, the Germans were always immaculate. Even the military contractors protecting them were perfectly turned out, right down to their national flag on the front flap of their body armour. Me, I still hadn’t washed or shaved since landing in Mog. Frank’s clothes and trainers would probably start to dissolve quite soon.
One of the coffee drinkers pointed me towards the main doors. ‘They’ll know inside. There’s a couple of media who can’t be moved yet.’ He threw a bottle of water at me. ‘Good luck.’
3
THE INTERIOR OF the hospital was cleaner and brighter than a lot of the NHS ones I’d been in. It was also a whole bunch busier.
Medical teams in green aprons and masks rushed past with trolleys laden with militia, kids, old people blasted by Gaddafi’s artillery and mortar fire. I walked across the freshly polished floor. I almost felt embarrassed to wait in line for