Deep Black - Andy McNab [38]
He punched me in the arm. ‘It’s good to see you, mate. I didn’t know you was on the circuit. I haven’t heard about you since fuck knows when.’
Once I’d left the Regiment and started to work for the Firm, I dropped out of almost everything I’d known. That was just how it had to be.
The ‘circuit’ was the job market for the ex-military. Security companies snap up personnel for helping out in a war, VIP protection, guarding pipelines, training foreign armies, that sort of thing. There’s a whole bunch of firms, British and American, some more reliable than others. The work is mostly freelance, payment always by the day. You’re responsible for your own tax and insurance, which means that most blokes don’t take care of either. It’s called the circuit because you bounce from one company to another. If you hear of a better job, you drop the one you’re doing and move on.
Gaz introduced me to a South African, a Russian and two Americans. I didn’t bother taking their names – I wouldn’t be seeing them again. We shook hands anyway. ‘Me and Nick used to be in the same troop,’ Gary announced, with evident pleasure.
The guys nodded a hello, then fell back into their own conversation. It was no big deal: I wasn’t expecting a group hug. It’s not as if we’re part of some brotherhood – it’s a business like any other. That’s just how it is. This lot looked different from the guys working for the CPA. They were in it for the money, not the boom mikes.
It wasn’t just transport out of here I wanted to know about. ‘What’s the score on getting a weapon – you got any spare?’
‘Got ’em coming out our fucking ears. Where you staying?’
‘The Palestine.’
I spotted the four Iraqi women further along, struggling with their luggage, shouting and hollering at each other.
‘Great place. Fucking odd-looking – wait till you see it. Good protection, though. Tell you what, you’re better off just getting them from one of the fixers. They’ve got shedloads, but they’re tearing the arse out of the prices. Be a lot quicker than waiting for me to bring a couple round, know what I mean?’
I turned back to Gaz. ‘I’ll do that. So what you doing here, mate?’
‘Fucking brilliant. Money for old rope, mate. Training the police. They’re using AKs, but we’re showing them how to use the fucking things properly. I get my training in twice a day and then I head out on patrol with the boys.’
I wanted to keep up this pretence of being on the circuit. ‘How much a day you on?’
‘Three fifty, plus expenses. Better than last time we were fucking about here, eh?’
In those days it had been MoD pay of about seventy pounds a day. Three hundred and fifty for freelancing sounded about right. Where middle-management guys in London talk about the rise in their house prices at dinner parties on a Saturday night, guys on the circuit talk about their daily rate. Nine times out of ten they’re bullshitting. Anyone who says, ‘Six or seven hundred,’ is lying through their teeth. As far as Gaz was concerned, three hundred and fifty pounds a day was the dog’s bollocks. He was just happy to be there, and had probably even paid his own fare.
‘I’m staying as long as they want me, Nick. There’s a bit of drama now and again, but fuck it. It’s Baghdad, innit?’
It was wonderful to see him; it added to the good feeling I was already getting. I didn’t know about the Canadian woman, but for me it was definitely like coming home.
I didn’t want to be with Gaz when Jerry turned up, but I had one last question. ‘Do you know how we get out of here? We’re trying to get into town.’
He was apologetic. ‘I’d give you a lift if I could, mate, but we’re waiting for PC Plod. Some superintendent from the Met. The poor fucker’s been seconded here for a couple of years. I can’t wait to watch him trying to teach ethical policing, know what I mean? The boys we’re training were lobbing RPGs [rocket-propelled grenades] at American tanks five minutes ago.’
The South African spotted their passenger and went to pick him