The grey BMW passed through the al-Kindi gate into the heart of Baghdad. A busy late afternoon and the streets were pullulating with hot, dusty activity. Most Baghdadis understood the ‘live and let live’ principle, Ashe was coming to realise, but that didn’t mean someone was going to let them live.
Heading towards the Tigris along al-Mamoun Boulevard, the car turned sharp right, following signs for the Main Supply Route – or MSR as Richmond referred to the Basra–Baghdad highway.
Ashe enjoyed talking to Dr Zaqqarah. It turned out he had a cousin working as a surgeon in Burton-on-Trent, ten miles from Ashe’s home. Ashe wondered if Zaqqarah’s cousin might find better employment in Iraq.
‘This is what I tell him, sir. And he says, “Come home? Is it safe?” What can I tell him? Here, criminals kidnap doctors and hold them to ransom every week. The rebellion must stop; we want normal lives.’
The car pulled up outside a café at a huge crossroads. The single-storey establishment stood out starkly against the barren site. The surrounding structures had been bombed and the debris bulldozed to make way for yet another car park. The positive point was that there was little cover for anyone contemplating an ambush, and ample means of escape should such a thing occur.
The air was still; Richmond checked his watch. Zappa muttered under his breath, ‘Eyes peeled, TA.’
The American stretched his left arm down to an M4 carbine secured in a special pocket to the side of his seat. Richmond had his hand close to his jacket’s inside pocket; he checked his watch again.
‘Twenty seconds.’
‘What’s that?’
A red Toyota pickup skidded into the bay at the side of the café. A teenager emerged from the back of the building, spoke to the driver and went back inside.
‘That’s it, guys, we’re off.’
Richmond put the car in gear.
‘Hold it, Major. Look!’ Zappa pointed to the café entrance. A big man in a dark-pink shirt and holding a newspaper came out of the café. He pulled a rag from his back pocket and blew his nose. At the same moment, the teenager returned to the Toyota at the side, carrying a huge plastic petrol container.
‘It’s OK. Black market.’
‘Free market,’ added Zaqqarah.
The man with the newspaper thrust a fat cigarette through the bush of his moustache. A match failed; he reached into his back pocket for a lighter.
‘That’s the signal.’
Richmond revved the car twice. The man walked slowly towards the BMW.
Ashe held his breath. It could be a set-up. He fingered the SIG, trying to recall a wet weekend’s weapons-handling course at British Army Kineton. A dismally damp Warwickshire suddenly seemed a very attractive alternative to a car park in Iraq.
Zaqqarah depressed the rear-window control and spoke to the man in Arabic.
Before Ashe had a moment to grasp the exchange, the car had a new passenger and was speeding off south. Hurried, nervous conversation passed between the man and the interpreter.
‘What’s going on, Simon?’
‘Confirmation of the price. Agreement of terms.’
‘Replacement car parts mostly. Handy equipment, difficult to obtain. A car service. Nothing conspicuous. Maybe a little money. Petrol. That sort of stuff. Common things but bloody useful.’
The car sped on beyond the outskirts of Baghdad. In the distance, Ashe caught sight of a row of massive guard towers, spaced out some fifty meters from one to another. It looked like the outer limits of hell. As the car got closer and the towers loomed larger, gargantuan soil embankments 100 metres high blocked the eye line, leaving the perimeter road in heavy shadow.
‘What the hell’s that?’
‘That is the al-Tuwaitha Research Facility.’
‘And those mounds? Looks like archaeology.’
‘Maybe in the future. This is just part of Saddam’s protection investment.’
The car screeched to a standstill.
‘Shit!’
Thirty metres down the road, a great plume of black smoke billowed from a cauldron of twisted metal and orange fire: a Humvee had hit a mine. A makeshift roadblock had been erected.
The source began to fidget awkwardly in his seat.
‘Everybody, stay calm. Translate that, please Dr Zaqqarah.’
The source was sweating uncontrollably. Ashe’s shoulder was feeling the damp.
An M16 was levelled at the car. An American private indicated for an interpreter to move forwards between himself and the vehicle. As the interpreter raised a battery-powered megaphone, he tripped over a corpse by his feet.
‘Get down everyone!’ bellowed Richmond.
The private looked startled, and released a three-round burst towards the car. Tiny shards of windscreen scattered as the car shook, echoing with the deafening shots.
‘Christ!’
The private’s interpreter screamed. ‘No shoot! It’s all right. I trip on body.’
The soldier, young, nervous, distracted, fired harsh words at the interpreter. The interpreter begged the driver and passengers of the BMW to get out, one by one, and lie on the ground with hands and legs stretched out in a cross pattern.
‘What’s he saying?’
‘He says everyone out of the car, one at a time. Only one at a time, or they shoot. No questions.’
Richmond spoke under his breath. ‘Thank God it’s a Class 5 windscreen. OK, you first Vinny.’
‘Why the fuck is it always me?’
‘Yanks like to be first, don’t they?’
The source lost control. Panicking, he flailed his arms about, kicking the backs of the seats.
‘For God’s sake, TA, calm him down!’
‘Why not show him your pistol?’
‘If they see me do that, you can kiss your life goodbye.’
‘I not want to die! I not want to die!’
‘Not you! Zaqqarah, tell the man we’ll all be bloody dead if he carries on like this!’
The interpreter reached for his megaphone. ‘One by one. Now!’
‘Shit, Simon! If the source gets out on his own, he could blow the whole thing.’
Zappa turned to the source. ‘Listen, man! You know some English, right?’
‘Yes, sir. But I don’t want—’
‘Can it! If you’re a good boy, brave lion, big man… your father’s son, pride of your family, then we all live, OK?’
Zaqqarah translated for good measure. The man nodded and wiped his nose.
The interpreter with the megaphone repeated the orders in Arabic. Richmond put his hand on Zappa’s shoulder. ‘Come on, old friend.’
Zappa calmly got out of the car, his hands in the air. The private indicated with his rifle barrel that he should hit the deck.
Ashe was next. Gingerly, he opened the back door to see, in the distance, the private calling up a ground-mounted machine gun: a bright new M240B. The crew loaded it, itching to give the lethal weapon a road test.
Ashe held his breath, tried to smile, and lay down near to Zappa. Zappa whispered to Ashe. ‘Why the fuck doesn’t the soldier use his sight?’
Ashe whispered back. ‘None as blind as them that won’t see.’
Zappa closed his eyes and began running Beatles songs through his mind, trying to get the singles in order of release – an old trick he’d been using at the dentist ever since he was a boy. With any luck, by the time he’d got to ‘The Long and Winding Road’ the pain would be over.
The source had begun to shake again, and had developed a curious tick in his neck. Richmond implored the interpreter inside the car to do something. ‘Tell him he’ll be fine. I’ll leave the car last.
‘OK, now you, Dr Zaqqarah. Give ’em a big smile and raise your hands. Everything’s going to be fine. Everything’s going to be fine.’
‘I’m afraid… I’m afraid I have…’ Zaqqarah tried to edge his way out of the car; his trousers were stuck to the seat. He gave an awful look to Richmond and shook his head. A stomach-turning stench filled the car’s interior.
Ashe, his body roasting on the tarmac, tried to move to spread the heat. He heard Zaqqarah’s feet crunch on the loose gravel chippings. In the distance: two choppers, like spiders descending from a celestial web, buzzed through the smoke-filled sky to the burning Humvee.
Ashe could hear the machine-gun crew addressing the private. ‘Christ!’ he thought, ‘a group of five men in an expensive car. US casualties on the ground. What was the crew thinking? Revenge? Something to release the tension?’
Ashe saw the machine-gun crew taking aim.
The source emerged from the car and stared into the barrel of the M240B, like a rabbit in headlights; he was paralysed.
‘One at a time,’ whispered Zappa from somewhere between ‘She loves you’ and ‘I want to hold your hand’. ‘Come on, boy!’
Ashe thought he heard something on the machine gun. The helicopters were now directly overhead, whipping up the gravel that danced along the road like demented locusts. The private and the gun crew started shouting at each other above the increased whirl and roar of ’copter blades. The crew pointed at the source, shaking by the back door. The man dropped to his knees. The private levelled his M16 downwards.
‘Move away from the car!’ pleaded Zaqqarah to the source.
‘Shut up!’ shouted the private’s interpreter.
‘Move away!’
The man would not move.
Richmond started audibly praying. The helicopter hovered overhead. Nothing he could say would be heard. The source would not move.