The Wreckage - Michael Robotham [17]
The interpreter will ask the head of the household if he has any weapons or anti-US propaganda. He will then ask if he is involved in any insurgent activity. The householder will say no, because that is normally the truth. If something is found, they will shackle and hood the men and teenage boys, tossing them in the back of a Bradley. If nothing is found, they will say, “Sorry to have disturbed you, sir. Have a nice evening,” before moving on to the next house.
Luca spent three months embedded with the Third Brigade, First Armoured Division, and watched these “cordon and search” operations first hand. He saw Iraqi men humiliated in front of their terrified families and their homes trashed. He saw accidents because soldiers, wound up with fear, were convinced that people inside these houses were waiting to kill them. One wrong move, one mistaken gesture, and innocent people died.
Passing through the hotel security screening, he enters the foyer of the al-Hamra. Some of the windows still haven’t been replaced since the bombing and are covered with plywood. People have taken to scrawling their signatures on the wood panels and leaving short messages.
The bar is crowded with security contractors, engineers, journalists and western NGOs. Luca knows most of the reporters, cameramen and photographers. Some of them are in the veteran class because a year in Baghdad can seem like a lifetime.
They’re talking about a car bombing this afternoon in al-Hurriyah Square. Fifteen civilians died and thirty were injured in the marketplace. One of the Associated Press photographers has photographed the severed head of a small girl. Now he’s drinking tonic water and showing the picture to anyone who wants to see it.
The security contractors are out by the pool because the al-Hamra doesn’t like guns in the main bar. For the most part their weapons are hidden, tucked into shoulder holsters or socks. Their heavy artillery is at home in their apartments and hotel rooms.
“Hey, Luca, you made it!”
Shaun Porter waves from a deckchair. He’s lying next to a pretty Iraqi girl who is sipping a fruit juice. Prostitution in Iraq is one of those hidden vices, outlawed under Saddam, but never stamped out. Now there are families that bring their daughters to the hotels for the enjoyment of the westerners.
Shaun pulls a beer from a bucket of ice and flips it open with the edge of a cigarette lighter. He hands it to Luca, who wishes him a happy birthday.
“You know most of the guys.”
“I’ve seen them around.”
Beer bottles are raised in welcome. A redneck from Texas is wearing a T-shirt that says, “Who’s your Baghdaddy?” He starts telling a joke about why Iraqis have only two pallbearers at their funerals.
“Because garbage cans only come with two handles.”
The men laugh and Luca wishes he were somewhere else. A big guy in a cut-off sweatshirt joins them. He has blue flames tattooed on his forearms.
“This is the mate I was telling you about,” says Shaun. “Meet Edge.”
Edge’s grey eyes flick over Luca as though sizing up his fighting weight. Slightly older than the others, he has deep wrinkles around his eyes and a crushing handshake.
“You’re that journalist living outside the wire.”
“That’s right.”
“Does that make you crazy or fucked up?”
“Deluded, maybe.”
Edge raises his margarita and sucks salt crystals from around the rim. Behind him, the pool lights glow an alien green beneath the water.
Two Filipino women shriek with laughter. They’re wearing short denim skirts and skimpy tops, flashing midriffs and muffin tops to the group of contractors who keep plying them with drinks.
Edge is watching, amused. Sexual conquest is a local sport among the contractors.
“You were here in ’03,” says Luca.
“Saw the whole clusterfuck.”
“So what made you come back?”
“I missed the place.”
Edge drains his margarita and licks his lips.
“I got bored working for my father-in-law. America’s fucked, man—people losing their houses, their jobs, factories going offshore—the bankers and politicians screwed