Andy McNab - Deep Black

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 cafe-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 combed back, was sitting flanked by a couple of speakers, an amplifier and a Casio Beatmaster. Apart from the Saddam moustache, he was a dead ringer for Johnny Cash's dad.

A few Iraqis sat half listening, drinking glasses of tea, as a couple of big white guys with flat-top crewcuts, one with a goatee, tried to do business with them. They exchanged a few words with each other in what sounded like Serbo-Croat, then switched back to something approaching English for the next stage of their mumbled negotiation. Their accents were so heavy, all they needed was a black-leather jacket each and they could still have been in the Balkans. I'd need to find out where exactly they came from before bouncing in and asking about a Bosnian. The war might have officially ended, but for a lot of these guys the Dayton Accord was only a piece of paper.

Asmall bowl of boiled eggs, a plate of cheese and some bread rolls looked rather tired on the bar top, carefully guarded by two guys in crumpled white shirts with elasticated bow-ties who were trying hard to look as if they were doing something useful.

One finally made it to my table. I wasn't going to drink Arab coffee so I ordered a Nescafe with milk, and a couple of the rolls.

He went away to put the kettle on.

A news crew came past, talking English but sounding French, with a couple of the local boys in tow. They sat down to hammer out what they were going to do tomorrow and how long they'd need the driver and interpreter. It wasn't long before everyone was nodding and one of the Frenchmen peeled some dollar bills from a wad and handed them over. The going rate seemed to be ninety dollars a day for an interpreter and sixty for a driver, paid in advance – and if the French wanted to go anywhere outside Baghdad it would be extra.

My coffee, rolls and a foil-wrapped pat of butter turned up as the two Balkan boys got up to leave. Their Iraqi companions had a little waffle among themselves, puffed happily away on their cigarettes, and went back to listening to Johnny Cash's dad.

I was half-way through my first mouthful when I realized I had competition. The oldest biker in town was making a beeline for the buffet. He was late fifties, early sixties, only about five foot five, but powerfully built, with big freckled arms and hands the size of baseball gloves. He ordered eggs, rolls and cheese with his Nescafe and, judging by the size of his gut, it wasn't for the first time: it strained under a black Harley Davidson T-shirt that shouted: 'Born To Ride, Born To Raise Hell'. The image was completed by a long grey beard, jeans, and a big black belt with a Harley buckle. His head was totally bald, and he'd been out here for ever, by the look of it. He was nearly as brown as Jerry.

He was certainly pretty pleased with himself. He waved at the French, who were now in a smoking competition with the Iraqis, as he settled himself on a stool a few down from me, and treated me to the sort of nod that said, 'Later, we'll talk.' I treated him to one that said I was in no hurry, but I had a feeling it wouldn't be long before we were best mates and he was offering me the use of his house, car and wife next time I was in the States.

I'd just filled my second roll with butter and shoved it in my mouth when the baseball glove appeared in front of me. 'Howdy, I'm Jacob. How's it hanging?'

I swallowed fast but my reply still emerged in a shower of crumbs. 'Fine, how about you?'

'Good, real good. Big day tomorrow. My son's in town.'

His T-shirt should have said 'World's Proudest Dad'. None of his worldly goods heading my way, then.

'Here in Baghdad?'

'Sure. He's in the 101st, up north. Ain't seen the boy for months. I'm kinda excited.'

His food turned up and he started to make himself an egg and cheese roll. I finished my Nescafe and ordered another. Why do Arabs only serve the stuff in thimbles? 'So, you've come to Baghdad to see him?'

His gut quivered with laughter as he sliced the eggs. 'Hell, no. I work in power – been getting the juice back on for five months now. I've got another son here, too – Apache pilot. Pretty cool, eh?' He beamed. 'Yep, he's west of here. I'm gonna go see him some time soon. He can't get into the city.'