Andy McNab - Deep Black

A group of American squaddies came in, looking as if they should have had schoolbags over their shoulders, not automatic weapons. Shit, I used to look like that. They unloaded their belt-kit and body armour and dumped it beside the sofas.

Jacob smiled at them and they smiled back. He got back to his roll and coffee. 'Yep, been following my boys about since Grenada.' He chuckled so hard his beard threatened to slide off his chin. 'My boys destroy the power, their daddy gets the contract to fix it. Kinda neat, ain't it?'

I was seeing the United States military industrial complex at its lowest binary level. 'Sounds like the perfect family business.'

He roared with laughter. 'Where you from?'

'The UK. I'm looking after a journalist.'

'You one of them snake-eaters? Hey, I got two myself.'

'By the look of you, you're one of the few people around here who doesn't need them.'

He liked that. But it was true. 'You know the companies, they gotta look after their people. It's Crazyville out there. But I was in the service myself. Nineteen years in the 82nd. Damn proud of it.'

I thought this might be a good time to get on and do the white thing. 'Reminds me of Bosnia…'

He wiped some crumbs from his beard and shook his head. 'One gig I never got to. There wasn't that much work for us.' He nodded towards the French. 'Them cheese-eating surrender monkeys got most of it.'

I smiled as he shoved another lump of cheese into his mouth. 'Well, it looks like the Bosnians are about to level the score. I heard they're here in force. You bump into any along the way?'

He shook his head. 'Not in the reconstruction game.' He gave me the sort of wink that used up most of the muscles in his face. 'Some other kinda game, maybe? You got a special interest there?'

I didn't answer. The Casio sparked up a bit, and Johnny's dad began to knock out the theme tune to Bonanza. War or no war, a man had to feed his family. He plucked away, eyes closed as if he had the music tattooed under his lids.

'Say, how long you staying here?'

'Dunno,' I said. 'A week or so?'

'Cool, maybe we'll crash into each other. You can meet my boy.'

Two bullet-headed MP5 slingers headed in our direction. All they needed was the boom mikes and they could have gone into partnership with the CPA Action Men at the airport.

Jacob lifted a hand as they reached our table. 'Hey, boys, nearly ready.' He finished shoving egg slices into his last roll and squashed it into his left hand, then stood up and held out the other for me to shake. 'Good to meet you. Say, I didn't catch your name…'

'Nick,' I said. 'Good to meet you too. I hope you get to see your sons.'

He nodded away. 'Yep, I hope so too, Nick. Maybe catch up tomorrow.' His eyes twinkled. 'I'll look out one of those little Bosnian ladies for you…'

He joined the two BGs and slapped each of them on the shoulder. 'Come on, boys – let's go make some juice.'

He disappeared to the final chords of Bonanza and I threw down the last of my Nescafe. Jacob might be right, this was Crazyville, but I'd definitely made the correct decision coming here.

Ten minutes for the beers, my arse. I went and joined the Saddam-lookalike competition on the settees; I just didn't bother trying to smoke myself to death at the same time.

Faces flowed constantly in and out of the hotel, and I recognized one. It was Rob, on his way out. He was on his own, with no ID laminate round his neck but an old semi-automatic on his hip. The Parkerization had worn away, exposing the dull steel beneath. In his hand was an unloaded AK, Para version. It had a shorter barrel than the normal assault rifle and a collapsible butt. Great for close-quarters work or in a car. That, too, had seen a few years' wear and tear.

He caught my eye and smiled. Things were different now: we were on our own. I hauled myself off the settee. 'Hello, mate, I thought you were dead!'

His big nose crinkled into a grin. 'What's going on, you on the circuit? I thought you'd dropped out years ago.'

'Sort of. I'm working for an American. A journalist. He's here for maybe a week to get a picture – a Bosnian guy, here in Baghdad, if you can believe that.'

He could. 'There's plenty of weirder stuff going on here – listen…'

Three German ex-Paras were singing their regimental song by the newly erected Bedouin tent as two Russians loading AK mags chatted to each other about the noise. Going by their crewcuts, tattoos and scars, they'd spent longer in Chechnya than in Moscow.

'What about you? What firm you working for?'

'None of those wankers.' Rob had always wanted to go his own way. 'I work for an Uzbek – he's in the oil business.'

'Staying here?'

'No, the al-Hamra. Famous for its swimming-pool, chilled beers and dancing girls. Allegedly. It's not as well protected as this, but he's a private sort of guy, and it's not like he's not used to a bit of drama, if you know what I mean. That's why I've been looking after him for the last three years. He's a good man, as it happens.'

'Even better. How long you here for?'

'Four, five days? We're not too sure. But no more than a week. I came to pick these fucking things up.' He hefted the AK. 'Three fifty they wanted for this heap of shit.' His nose crinkled again as he had a thought. 'What you doing tonight? CNN are having a pool party here.'

'Without water?'

My fixer arrived with the beer. It had a Bavarian-looking label, and was probably brewed just up the road. There'd never been a problem with alcohol in Muslim countries like this, even in restaurants. You just brought your own and asked if it was OK to drink it.

I gave the guy fifteen dollars instead of the five he'd asked for. The ten was to make sure he came back in the morning with the weapons. As he left I turned back to Rob. 'What time's kick-off?'

'Eightish? You're here anyway.'

We shook hands and I watched him loading a mag on to his AK as he headed for the door.

The best part of an hour must have passed back on the settee before I heard the sudden sound of a heavy machine-gun, then short bursts of 5.56, both from less than three, four hundred metres away.

Jerry came through the main doors as if his tail was on fire. 'You hear that? Fuck…'

I stood up. 'Any luck at the mosque?'

'Nope. Nothing at all. I'll try again at Maghrib.' His eyes scanned the activity in the lobby. 'I got no news from DC either. I'll keep on calling. I know if he finds out we'll find out.'

'So, come on, you can tell me now. We're here, so it doesn't matter. What paper does he work for?'

His eyes locked on to mine. This was going to be the last time he told me. 'Look, Nick, you know the score with sources. I can't, and won't, say zip. He'd lose his job, man, everything. We gotta respect that shit.'

He was right, of course. But it didn't stop me wanting to know.

He had an afterthought. 'You want to use the phone?'

I shook my head.

'What are you, Billy-no-mates?'

'Something like that.' I held up the beers. 'Here, for you. I ain't touching this shit.'

He took the bag off me as we headed for the lifts.

'You staying in all night to drink those?' I hit the lift call button. 'Or you want to come to a party and maybe find Nuhanovic?'

There was a knock at the door. It couldn't be Jerry. He had left ages ago for the mosque to catch Maghrib at around last light. I opened it to find two old boys, cigarettes in their mouths. One handed me a sliver of soap and a hand towel. The other gave me some thin sheets that had gone grey a few hundred wash cycles ago. Everything stank of cigarettes.

I tried the shower tap and got a trickle of cold water, so I jumped under it before it ran out. The 1970s radio set into the Formica bedhead was tuned to American Free Radio and pumped out country-and-western.