Deep Black - Andy McNab [44]
Everyone, civilian or military, seemed to have some form of ID round their neck, a nylon tape with a hook and a plastic, see-through cardholder. Were we supposed to have one? What the fuck did I know?
As the doors closed, one Filipino offered the other a cigarette and they both lit up. By the time we reached the lobby I smelt like I’d spent the night in a pub.
There were now maybe a few more Iraqis than foreign businessmen sitting and smoking on the sofas, all with identical thick black moustaches, trousers, shirts, plastic dress shoes and white socks. Whatever else had changed here, the Saddam look was still in.
A pair of Hummers was parked up outside. A group of sweaty soldiers were dumping their body armour and taking off their soaking wet BDU jackets; hot food and bottles of mineral water were being passed round from the back of a canvas-skinned truck.
I could see two or three civilians pacing up and down just beyond the Hummers, chatting away on their sat phones. They must have been staying on our side of the hotel.
The two shops in the lobby were doing a roaring trade in toothpaste, Saddam watches and banknotes, which were still in circulation. Saddam looked the same on the dinars as he did in any picture: big smile, big moustache, and outstretched arm pointing at something we never got to see. You could also buy Arabic coffee-pots, maps, clothes; one guy was putting up a little Bedouin tent to use as a carpet stall. Even DHL were setting up a stand as we walked past – so people could jet their purchases back home in time for Christmas.
As Jerry headed out into the blinding sunlight, I spotted a group of fixers.
I was greeted by three big smiling faces. ‘Hello, Mister, what can I get you?’ It doesn’t matter where you go in the world, everyone in this line of business speaks English.
I shook each by the hand and gave them a smily ‘Salaam aleikum. I need twelve beers.’
The youngest was the first to answer. He looked very smart in his brand new jeans and trainers. ‘Ten minutes. You wait inside?’
The other two left us, still smiling away. They had more than enough custom. I grabbed my boy by the arm as he turned towards the door. ‘There’s a couple more things.’
His smile got even bigger. ‘You want girl? I get you young girl, European. Very new.’
‘No, just two pistols, with magazines and lots of ammunition.’ I didn’t even bother phrasing it as a question.
‘Sure. For you I have Saddam’s own pistols, good price. You want rifle, I get you Saddam’s own—’
‘No, mate, just two pistols. Saddam’s or not, I don’t care. Make sure they’re semi-automatics.’
‘Sure. For you, tomorrow morning. I bring here, OK. OK?’
I nodded and pointed towards the coffee area. ‘I’ll wait in there for the beers.’
He ran off before I’d had the chance to ask him about vehicles. Through the glass entrance I saw that Jerry had joined the other members of the Thuraya club and was waving his free arm about like a windmill. I hoped his source was coming up with the goods.
One of the soldiers who’d been eating outside came into the lobby and homed in on one of the fixers. He spoke low and close up. There was a smile as the fixer showed him the size of the breasts he was about to get hold of. These two hotels were probably Shag Central for the grunts, for whom business would be conducted quickly in the toilets.
I left them to it; money changed hands as if it was a drugs deal.
Whoever had designed the café-bar area had opted for plastic banquettes and gone for the seventies, dark, sophisticated and moody look. They’d got the seventies, dark part of it spot on.
The carpet was threadbare and the air was heavy with cigarette smoke and country-and-western music. An old guy dressed in a red shirt and shiny plastic shoes, his hair immaculately