Standing at the front hatch of the RAF Hercules, fingers shaking, Ashe gripped his blue canvas bag. Baghdad International Airport felt like a vast oven. A blanket of heat penetrated his beige cotton clothes, welding them damply to his skin.
‘Come on, mate. Only ten minutes left to unload!’
Ashe was hurried down the ladder to the scorching tarmac. The muscular corporal jogged to the rear of the aircraft to supervise the scheduled roll-off of replacement vehicles and parts.
Ashe wiped his brow and dropped his bag, half expecting it to fry like an egg on the shimmering runway. If the Pope had kissed this turf, he’d have left his lips behind.
From the direction of the distant control tower and its nearby lookout posts, a Land Rover Defender 110 sped towards him. Ashe thought longingly of the green fields of RAF Brize Norton. He could be back there just in time for pub-closing. All he had to do was turn round and climb back up.
Too late. The Land Rover drew up smartly to the side of the cockpit. Out stepped a good-looking, enthusiastic young officer. Smiling, he extended a huge right hand.
‘Welcome to Baghdad International! How do you feel?’
‘Good to see you again, Simon. Bloody good.’
‘Toby, I’m afraid you’ll have to sit in the back of the Snatch.’
‘Snatch?’
‘This is an in-and-out vehicle.’
‘What?’ The noise from the Hercules was deafening.
‘IN AND OUT! Snatch!’
Ashe climbed into the rear seat. In front of him was an American private, face obscured by helmet and shades, gripping an M4 carbine: small but lethal enough to incapacitate anyone within 600 metres.
‘You’re not in uniform, Simon.’
‘Officially, I’m off duty. But pass me my helmet will you? There’s one for passengers on the right. Put the body armour on as well. Straps are self-explanatory.’
As he buckled the helmet strapping around his face, the reality of the situation struck Ashe. ‘Are we likely to make it through the international zone in one piece?’
Major Richmond put the Snatch into first and sped off towards the roadblock at the airport perimeter. ‘Look in the back!’
‘What?’
‘Rear of the vehicle. Take a look.’
Through the narrow window behind the back seat sat two US marines. One of them cuddled the hard butt of a massive Browning .50 calibre heavy machine gun, mounted to the rear. The other clutched an M16A2. They both kept a keen eye on everything around them.
‘Quite a deterrent!’
‘Unfortunately, Toby, deterrents attract the mad.’
‘You’re sure putting me at my ease, Simon.’
‘You’ll be all right. But this is Baghdad, Toby, and no one forced you to come. Keep your eyes peeled and learn from what you see – and what you don’t. We were lucky to get support this morning. Incident at the UN Food Programme.’
‘Incident?’
‘Suicide bomber. Seems to be a never-ending supply of them.’
‘Home grown?’
‘Some. Many slip over the Syrian border. It’s an open wound.’
Ashe had already been briefed on Major Simon Richmond’s position in Baghdad. At the request of US military intelligence, he had been seconded to Baghdad from his Basra posting with the 1st Battalion, the Royal Regiment of Fusiliers. Having made an impression on senior American staff, Richmond was clearly a rising star.
As the Snatch sped along the corridor between the leafy suburbs of Baghdad and the Green Zone at the city’s centre, Ashe studied Richmond, noting the confident tilt of his jaw, and his steady blue-eyed gaze. Ashe had known him since Richmond was a shy teenager – a likeable, open-faced youth eager to follow his father into the army. Judging by the speed and authority with which he now received and relayed messages via the radio mike attached to his helmet, he had taken to officer training like a duck to water. Seeing him in his element like this, Ashe experienced a pride normally reserved for fathers.
Ashe studied the rows of shell-damaged but still attractive sandy-coloured hotels, offices, residences and shops that lined the four-lane motorway into the historic metropolis. Many of the newer structures had been the work of British construction teams, most of whom had enjoyed a decent life in Baghdad before the first Gulf War.
By and large, the Brits were not unpopular in Iraq – out of uniform, anyhow. Iraqi hospitality was legendary, and Ashe recalled a saying that some attributed to the Prophet Muhammad: ‘When you entertain a stranger, you are entertaining God.’
‘OK, Toby, you see over there? That’s the al-Kindi Gate – one of the three entrances to the secure area.’
‘The Green Zone.’
‘You’ve got the River Tigris on either side, and the US, UK and Australian embassies inside it.’
Ashe looked out of the bulletproof windows. Blackhawk helicopters buzzed about the perimeter. ‘Are those snipers on the walls?’
‘Yeah, they’re watching every possible point of entry. It’s like a sleep session for them, before they head back out there themselves.’
M1 Abrams tanks were as common as taxis in Trafalgar Square. Humvees and Bradley combat vehicles filled the gaps and lined the road to the entrance. Queues of Iraqi civilian workers shuffled up to the checkpoint, one by one, towards the body searches. Any one of them could bring instant death to dozens of men, women and children.
‘Ten thousand work there every day, Toby.’
‘That’s a lot of body searches.’
‘We’ve trained the Iraqis to do the job.’
‘What are they like to work with?’
‘They do the job, but there are problems.’
‘Yeah? Like what?’
‘They’re cowed by authority. I’ll give you an example. An Iraqi guard is approached by someone looking like an officer. The guard asks for ID, which he is obliged to do. The officer screams at the guard, “I’m your superior!”, or something like that. The guard lets the man through. When we ask later, “Did you let a man dressed as an officer through without showing ID?”, he says “No”. We ask again. He says, “I always ask for ID. Those are my orders.” Different way of life.
‘People lie as a matter of course, because pride, for men, is more important than telling the truth. Truth is for religion. Truth comes with authority: something you must do or must believe. In ordinary life, truth costs money; it could cost you your livelihood, or your life – or the lives of your family, which is everything.
‘In Iraq, the truth is always veiled. They never believe official pronouncements. They want to see the body. If you ask a question, people will tend to give the answer they think you want to hear. Telling lies is almost a way of being polite – preserving your pride as well as theirs. If you ask the way to somewhere and they don’t know the answer, they’ll give you the wrong route just to appear helpful and so they don’t lose face. You get used to it.’
‘Tricky.’
‘No one asked us to come!’
Ashe took in the barricades and concrete blast walls ringing the priority offices.
‘You’ll be wanting the UK Embassy.’
‘Check. And a drink. I’m parched.’
‘Toby, I’m sorry. Here!’
Richmond handed Ashe a large bottle of Vittel mineral water from under his seat. ‘It’s a bit warm – I meant to give it to you at the airport.’
Ashe took as big a swig as he could and passed the bottle to the American private.
‘Thank you, sir.’
The Snatch drew up at the embassy checkpoint. The American soldiers smiled but still looked distinctly stiff and nervous. The Snatch was waved through.
‘Right, Toby. If you still want that bed at the Coalition HQ, I’ll pick you up if you can call me before five. Give me your mobile. I’ll type my number in… That’s it. You can keep the body armour, but I need the helmet back in the car. I’ll do what I can, but I should tell you, I’m under orders most of the time.’
Ashe removed the helmet and shook hands with Richmond. The major waved the marines off to rejoin their unit. ‘See you ’round, fellas. Keep your heads down.’
‘We will, sir.’
Ashe entered the reception of the pockmarked embassy. To the right of the reception desk, a gunner from the 1st Battalion, the Irish Guards, adjusted the optical sight of his formidable FN Minimi light machine gun. Concrete and sandbags provided cover.
‘I have an appointment with the ambassador.’
‘Papers please, Mr…?’
‘Ashe, Toby Ashe. Schedule B operation.’
The British staff receptionist, a Hindu with a Derbyshire accent, carefully perused Ashe’s papers and checked them on his computer. He then telephoned the ambassador’s office. The receptionist appeared somewhat doubtful as he looked Ashe up and down. He nodded at his interlocutor, then put the phone down abruptly.
‘I’m afraid, Mr Ashe, the ambassador is on a shopping expedition.’
‘Shopping expedition?’
‘If you would like to wait, there’s also a compound cafeteria, sir. Here’s your pass. Please wear it at all times. No exceptions, sir.’
‘How long?’
‘Maybe one hour. Maybe two.’
‘I’ll try the cafeteria.’
‘It’s very nice, sir.’
It was heartening to know there was something nice in Baghdad. After having his bag scoured by security, Ashe was directed towards a small quadrangle at the centre of the compound. Olive trees and date palms offered a luscious shade to the few dozen staff enjoying an early lunch and a beer. An Iraqi barman in a bright white shirt and black tie stood proudly behind the rolled stainless-steel bar. Ashe bought a bottle of Löwenbräu in pounds sterling and began to relax a little, despite the leaden weight of body armour suspended over his breastbone, back and crotch. He did not feel like taking it off.
He took a seat by a small enamelled fountain. What had once been a refreshing torrent was now a thirst-inducing trickle, but the wetness caught the sun, and the splashing sounds were welcome enough.
My God, Ashe thought to himself, what have I done? He reached inside his canvas bag for a notebook and began confiding his thoughts to paper. The important thing is—
‘Toby Ashe! What the fuck are you doing here?’
‘Mick! I was just asking myself that very question.’