Deep Black - Andy McNab [34]
The other constant with him was his dress sense. His uniform was blue button-down shirt, straining a little round the gut these days, chinos, Caterpillar boots, and a fuck-off Seiko diver’s watch the size of a Big Mac.
I didn’t know if he’d seen me; we certainly hadn’t had eye to eye. It was one of the unwritten rules. Even if you recognized each other, you wouldn’t go up and say hello. One or both of you might be on a job; you might be putting him in the shit if his name wasn’t Rob Newman today.
It would have been good to say hello, though.
24
The back of Rob’s head was still covered by a mop of wavy brown hair that stuck out in all directions. I was happy to see a bit of grey at the sides, and that he’d put on a bit of lard – not that I could talk after a few months on the toasted cheese and Branston diet. He was taller than me, maybe six one or two, but I didn’t mind because he also had the world’s biggest nose. By the time he was sixty it was going to be bulbous and red, with pores the size of craters. He came from the Midlands somewhere and had a voice like a midnight radio DJ.
He was with a guy in his mid-thirties, with thick black hair and very pale skin whose slight build reminded me of the younger Nuhanovic. He hadn’t been hanging around in the Middle East for long, that was for sure. In the aisle seat of the row behind them was the sky marshal, a tall Jordanian with severely lacquered hair and a big bulge under his cream cotton jacket. Next row back were two Iraqi women who hadn’t stopped gobbing off at each other, and their two mates across the aisle, at a hundred miles an hour since checking in. Then there was us: both bored, knackered and gagging for something to drink.
Apart from the bouts of turbulence, it had been a pretty uneventful trip. No flight attendants running up and down with coffee and biscuits. Nothing below us but mile after mile of the Mars expedition training area. Our inflight entertainment came from the row behind. A Canadian woman was going to Baghdad to write a book on women’s rights. Her mother was Iraqi, but she’d never been there herself. She was sitting next to an American who’d been working on her almost since take-off, and deserved an A for effort because at last he was getting some feedback. He looked like he’d stepped straight out of a Gap store window, in khaki cargoes, polo shirt and a diving watch even bigger than Rob’s. If he didn’t get a shag I was going to suggest he could always go forward a few rows and compare functions.
She was going to change the world, and he was sitting there agreeing with everything she said. He made sure he kept his voice down, which was a shame for the rest of the cabin: when it came to bullshit, this boy was first class. It was very strange, almost fate, them meeting. He was also interested in women’s rights. He worked for the CPA [Coalition Provisional Authority] now as a civilian, but he’d been in special forces. Not that he was really allowed to talk about it.
Jerry leaned across to me. ‘Yeah, right. He can’t tell her because it’s a secret!’
The Canadian woman seemed to be warming to Mr Gap. ‘You know, being in Jordan was so, so – like karmic. I can’t wait to get to Baghdad. I just know it’s going to feel like my spiritual home.’
Jerry winked at me. ‘I’ve had my mom ramming this shit down my neck since I was a kid, but it ain’t no spiritual home for me.’
I smiled, but my mind was on other things. We were in Baghdad airspace, and the desert was giving way to the first signs of habitation. It was a grown-up city, its history stretching back thousands of years. It wasn’t a factory-built, flat-pack affair like Riyadh: let’s have a capital, all right, stick one in the sand here. Below us were buildings centuries old, interspersed with tower blocks and elevated freeways that could have been on the approach to Heathrow. Snaking through the middle of it was the Tigris, glinting