Dead Centre - Andy McNab [142]
The girl manning the desk was still in her teens. The phone rang. She answered it efficiently before nodding at me. This was the future of the Arab Spring. A head covered by a purple scarf, but face powdered, eyes made up, lips glossed. I didn’t think the jihadists were going to get much of a hold in this country.
‘Do you speak English?’
She smiled. ‘Of course. What do you need?’ She was surprisingly calm and pleasant. It made me feel even worse. ‘I’m looking for a Russian reporter, Anna Ludmilova. She was shot in Misrata a couple of days ago.’
‘OK. All the foreigners are on the second floor, Ward Seventeen. If you’re armed, please unload your weapon.’
‘I’m not armed.’
‘Can I see?’
I unzipped my fleece, lifted it up, and turned round so she could admire the crease in my jeans.
‘Thank you. I hope you find her.’
Two more militia came in. They’d linked arms to improvise a seat for a guy who couldn’t have been any older than the receptionist. His right leg had been blown away below the knee. His blood trailed all the way back to the main entrance.
4
THE FIRST-FLOOR CORRIDOR was grey lino, clean and polished. I came to the main hub. Phones rang. Staff shouted for help. The wounded moaned. But at least they were in beds and the dressings were clean. The place functioned. There was an air of total efficiency.
I wasn’t sure what I was going to say or do when I saw her. When people I knew got shot, they were normally mates and I just took the piss. But this was different. She was more than a mate. She was the most important person in my life.
Yes, I was punching above my weight. Yes, she might well tire of me one day. But I knew I’d have the best time of my life while it lasted. I was even looking forward to taking care of her until she was fit enough to go back and play reporter and leave me watching her on TV at Gunslingers.
Ward 17 went on for ever, a classic Nightingale ward with fifteen or twenty beds each side. Some had screens. Some had solid partitions. I walked down the centre of it, checking the beds I could see. Most were occupied by militia. A couple of white guys lay with wound dressings. Maybe they were oil or military contractors, or media. I didn’t give a fuck. I just wanted to find Anna.
I kept walking. The last two beds at the end were partitioned off like little cubicles. Maybe that was where the women were.
The one to the right was open. An old woman lay with her family gathered round. She’d been hit in the stomach. Blood seeped through her dressing, and onto her sheets. Her face was pockmarked with red scabs. A mortar round had probably zapped her.
I went to the left-hand door and knocked gently. I didn’t wait for an answer.
She was sitting up, half asleep, supported by pillows. She was wearing a green surgical gown.
‘Nicholas?’
5
HER BLONDE HAIR was a mess. Her face was washed out and knackered. But she still looked great to me.
‘I called. I tried but …’ I leant over and kissed her on the cheek. ‘You OK?’
She looked me up and down. ‘Are you, more to the point?’
‘Fine. I’ll tell you later.’
I sat down on the steel chair beside her and took her hand in mine.
Things were strained. Or maybe it was just me.
‘Where did you get hit?’
‘Left-hand side. Lower gut. It came from nowhere. There were bursts in the distance. There was an air raid, but nothing too close. Then down I went. The crew were fantastic. They got me here and I had surgery. No organs hit. But it hurts and I can’t be moved just yet.’
The family opposite started to wail and cry. Medical staff came rushing down the ward.
‘What’s wrong, Anna? Why can’t you be moved? It hit nerves on your spine or something? Your legs? Can you move them?’
She was welling up. She bit her lower lip to try and control it.
‘They said it’s the wound track, Nicholas. The round