Deep Black - Andy McNab [70]
The zip got closed on his bumbag.
‘Come on, Nick, there must be a million things you want to ask him. I know there are, you’re interested in him. Your face told me back in DC. I knew you were going to come. Seriously. Think about it. Wouldn’t you want to ask him stuff?’
I threw my empty bottle at him. ‘You’re talking bollocks. But I’ll stay with you.’
He grinned.
‘We’ll have to disappear, like Nuhanovic and the boys the other side of the river.’
‘Booking yourself a few rapid tanning treatments?’
‘No need.’ I started to pull myself up off the sandbags. ‘There’s Rob.’
51
It took a while, but Jerry eventually managed to flag down a rusting Passat taxi on the main. The driver was in his fifties and spoke perfect English. He said he used to be a chemist until the sanctions bit and the economy started to collapse.
The al-Hamra was only a ten-minute ride away, and would be easy to spot from the main. Stark white and six or seven storeys high, it had a billboard on the roof that was big enough to read from several blocks away.
We turned off the dual carriageway and down a side road, past neat, concrete middle-class homes set in small green gardens. Security was more lax here than round the Palestine. A steel barrier blocked our route, manned by a solitary Iraqi with an AK in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Kids did wheelies on their bikes or ran in and out of the surrounding houses. A shop opposite sold fruit, bottles of water, buckets and mops.
The guard sauntered across and held the barrier open as we drove through. The pot-holed drive ran in a semicircle to the front of the hotel, which was surrounded by a high concrete wall. White soldiers with Australian flags on their uniforms patrolled in its shade, their Steyr assault weapons looking like something out of a sci-fi movie. I didn’t have a clue what they were doing here, and they probably didn’t either. They watched from behind their Oakleys as we got out of the cab.
A few fixers hung around outside the main entrance, hassling what I guessed was a news crew unloading alloy boxes and rolls of cables from three 4x4s. Inside the wagons I could see mixing consoles, laptops and satellite-phone sets. Two of the crew had been injured. One had fresh bandages around his arm. Another, the German gun stud, had one round his head. A wounded reporter? He was going to score big-time when he got back home.
Jerry gave the driver a five-dollar bill and we walked through the glass doors into reception. The lobby area was a lot smaller than the Palestine’s, the ceilings lower. Wood veneer was still king, however, and a glass cabinet displayed the same kind of goods for sale, everything from packs of cards of the fifty-two most wanted, to Saddam watches and toothbrushes.
Jerry kept out of the way while I went up to the desk, which was manned by an Iraqi who smelt heavily of cologne and seemed more interested in his ledger than asking me if I needed help. A young woman was sorting out room keys behind him. I wondered if they were related. This had the feeling of a family hotel; they certainly had the same nose and eyes combo.
The news crew came in with their gear and headed straight for the lift, talking low and slow German. Just beyond, a pair of glass doors opened out on to a concrete terrace and I caught a glimpse of the end of a swimming-pool. Sunlight danced on the water. Danny Connor would have liked it here.
The young woman finished with the keys and looked up, her face creased by a big smile. She had long black shiny hair, parted in the centre, dark red lipstick and black eye-liner. ‘Good day. Can I help you?’ Her English was perfect; in fact, better than mine.
‘I hope you can. I’m looking for Mr Robert Newman. He’s staying here.’
She smiled and looked down at the book. They did have a PC but what was the point of using it when the power kept shutting down?
‘He may be with a smaller man with