Andy McNab - Deep Black

'Aye, I'm here and there. You know how it is.'

I didn't. I hadn't a clue what he was on about.

The Canadian woman floated into the pool area with Mr Gap in tow. He looked as if he'd stepped straight out of the shop window, only tonight his polo shirt was green. She was in a black cheesecloth dress that she knew made the best of the buttons she had left unfastened between her breasts.

Lats couldn't keep his eyes off them as she joined the bunch by the barbecue. He put down his empty bottle and kicked into the next as he fished in the bin for another. 'I'm gonna fuck her. She with that dickhead in green?'

'Don't know, mate.'

'I'm going to give her the old special-forces chat-up. Know what I mean?'

This time I did know what he was on about. 'Well, good luck, mate. I've got to go talk to my man about tomorrow.'

It was a mistake shaking the hand that had just come out of the ice bin. As I walked away I felt like I'd just had a close encounter with the living dead.

Jerry hadn't wasted any time. He'd hooked up with a guy who looked a bit like a New Age traveller. Randy was a TV cameraman, though I wondered if he'd remember that come the morning. Waccy baccy was probably as easy to get hold of here as beer and Randy had been making the most of it. 'I've been here seven fucking months, Jerry,' he drawled. 'Ain't no Bosnian Messiah here, no way, my man.' So much for not talking to the media. 'I came in with the Marines-' He stopped and looked up as three helicopters screamed overhead, one after the other. We couldn't see them: they were unlit. Randy staggered backwards and pointed up, shouting, like a driver with road rage, 'Quiet! For fuck's sake, be quiet – it's my fucking birthday.'

Once he regained his balance he had a fit of giggles, then leaned an arm on Jerry's shoulder. 'I got a way with choppers. See, they get off my case pretty damn sharp, man. It's those fucking tanks I have issues with, man.'

Over Jerry's spare shoulder, I saw Rob coming into the pool area from the lobby. He looked as though he was heading for a different kind of party. There were sweat stains on his T-shirt from where he'd just removed his body armour, he had a pistol on his belt and an AK in his hand. I didn't think he'd be staying long.

'Good to meet you, Randy.' I had a crack at trying to shake his hand, but he was too busy waving at another burst of tracer. 'Jerry, I've got to go – Rob's here. See you later.'

Randy tried to focus his eyes on mine, but gave up. 'Yeah, me too. I've gotta get out of here. Right out of fucking Iraq. Seven months, man.'

Rob was searching the crowd. He smiled as I approached. 'Sorry, mate. I'm not hanging about. Ten minutes and that's it.'

'You with your man?'

He shook his head as his eyes scanned the party. 'At the al-Hamra. Thought I'd come and say hello. How's your search for the Bosnian getting on? You have a name for him?'

'Nuhanovic. He's their answer to Mahatma Gandhi. You heard anything?'

'Nah. It's just a picture you want?'

'Jerry, the guy I'm with, says he's going to be famous one day.'

'For what?'

'World peace, mate. Putting us out of a job.'

He held out his hand and pointed at nowhere in particular. 'Just don't tell that to any of the Serbs on the circuit, will you?'

'You want a Coke?'

'No Coke, thanks – water will do.' Sweat streamed down his face.

I grabbed a bottle from one of the ice bins. He twisted the cap and threw his head back. It would have made a great commercial if I'd really been in the advertising business.

A couple of AKs sparked up the other side of the fence and a tracked vehicle rattled along the road. Rob listened to the chaos and shook his head. 'Close my eyes and I could be back home.'

'Fuck me, Rob, I know Coventry can be bad at times but-'

'No, mate, Uzbekistan. They're my people now. It's the same sort of situation out there.' He jerked his head roughly in the direction of the outside world. 'Indiscriminate body-count stuff. There's got to be a better way, don't you think?'

I shrugged. Why Uzbekistan? From the little I knew, it was in a shit state. It had got independence from Russia in '91, but was still state-run. The government decided everything, from what food you could buy to what TV you could watch. I'd been slumped on the settee not long ago watching a documentary about human rights. Uzbekistan had the sort of record that made Pol Pot look like Mother Teresa. One of their favourite tricks was boiling people till their skin peeled, then scrubbing them down with disinfectant. 'Know what, Rob? I try really hard not to think about it too much.'

He held his bottle in his right hand, weapon in the left. 'We're fucking up here, exactly like the French did in Algiers. History repeats itself, but nobody learns.'

I scratched my head. 'Well, I've only been here a day, mate. I haven't taken much notice.'

He pointed at the media crew the other side of the pool with Jerry. 'The French used to report stuff exactly the way those wankers over there are reporting this. Telling the world things are improving. Are they fuck. Demonstrators killed in Fallujah – so what? Not worth reporting. An American goes apeshit with a full mag and drops some kids in Mosul – who cares? Iraqis slaughter each other by night, but come first light, everyone's blind.' He lifted the bottle to his mouth.

I suddenly felt as tired as he was. 'You're right, mate, but that's how it's always been. We know it's all bullshit. We're never going to be told the truth.'

Rob finished the bottle and placed it alongside a collection of empties on a low wall. Randy was arguing over the Apple with a guy in a hat with Mickey Mouse ears. He didn't want Bob and the Wailers any more and, after all, it was his birthday. I didn't think Mickey had a problem with switching the music: he'd just had enough of Randy slobbering over his keyboard.

Rob was still grappling with the big picture. 'It's not as if I'm all bitter and twisted. I understand what's going on, and the reason why. I just can't help feeling there's got to be a better way. Back home my man listens to Al Alam radio. It broadcasts out of Tehran, but it's the only station with up-to-date news of what's really going on in Iraq. Isn't that bizarre? The closest we get to the truth, and it's coming from the latest axis of evil.

'The Western news agencies are just reporting whatever the CPA tells them to: "There's a little local difficulty here, nothing that can't be sorted." But the boys on the ground know different. Two Americans get blown up here. Six Brits get shot there. You know the US isn't even covering the funerals now? The White House doesn't want sobbing families and coffins draped in the Stars and Stripes on TV.'

He glanced again at the partygoers around him. 'Know what, Nick? They've got to pull back, start telling it like it is, otherwise everyone at home will think things are great. They won't demand action, we'll lose this war, then we're fucked. Because it won't end here, mate. It'll spread.'

Randy was really starting to piss Mickey off, especially since he was now pouring beer over the keyboard because he wasn't getting his own way.

'If other countries get it into their heads the Americans can be humbled by strategic resistance, why should they give up their own struggle?'

'You talking about Uzbekistan?'

'It's a fucking nightmare there, mate. Our esteemed president, Karimov, has made himself Dubya's new best friend.'

I knew courtesy of the Discovery Channel that Uzbekistan had one of the best tables in the Washington Good Lads Club: it had let itself be used as a base for US forces during Operation Fuck Off Taleban, and they'd stayed on as part of the war on terror. Of course, the guardians of freedom and liberty hadn't jumped up and down too much about their host's misdemeanours: he'd handed them a strategic position at the heart of Central Asia, the reward for which was a full-dress White House reception and a couple of hundred million dollars in aid.