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The hotel floor was black marble and the walls were white. The marble of the floor probably thicker than the walls, which didn’t say much; a crack showed it to be cardboard thin. A long glass mirror behind the reception desk reflected a foyer designed on the European model but a little more ornate and gilded. It was like a nineteenth-century French designer brought up in the Middle East had been given free run of a catalogue of late twentieth-century building materials.

‘Penny for them, Lawrence?’ I turned, taken by surprise. The English journalist was tall, broad-shouldered; his hair, salt-and-pepper grey at the temples, stuck out at all angles, as if he hadn’t bothered to look in a mirror when he got out of bed. But somehow it worked. Along with his flak jacket hanging loose over his fatigues, it gave him a rakish air. And he knew it. In the forty-eight hours we’d been here, it was the first time he’d spoken to me. Even then, I didn’t make the connection.

‘Kitsch,’ I said, indicating the décor.

‘Kitsch?’ he said. ‘That’s it? Kitsch? Glad I didn’t offer you a pound.’

Further conversation ceased when an American major pushed his way through the swing door, followed a second later by a captain and a sergeant. There were seven of us. All American, bar a French photographer, Art and me. Six men, one woman.

‘Good morning,’ the major said. He looked around at the group, his gaze not quite meeting mine, but passing over my body which was hidden beneath a blue flak jacket with
Press
stencilled above one breast and on the back. His sergeant’s gaze was more openly curious. It didn’t bother me, I was used to it by then.

‘Three journalists, two camera crew, two photographers. Is that right?’ His eyes singled me out, and I realised why he’d been avoiding looking at me until now. ‘I’m afraid I’ve got bad news for one of you. We’re taking three groups of two each. That’s all we’ve got capacity for today. It’s a bit rough out there and we’ve chosen our routes carefully …’

His voice was reassuringly normal, just the right mixture of authority and friendliness to let us know he valued our opinions, and the democratic freedoms a free press represented, but he was the one in charge and he was the one making the decisions.

Once upon a time
… I thought to myself sourly, journalists went to war and risked being killed and were on their own, mostly. Until Vietnam taught the military that uncontrolled journalists wrote stories you didn’t want written, took photographs you didn’t want taken, and lost you wars; particularly if you let them photograph coffins coming home. So the embedded journalist was born. On the upside you got transport, protection, good and open access to the troops and press briefing. On the downside … Well, the downside was obvious.

The major ran through his briefing. Mentioned the escalating tension between Sunni and Shia, talked about a hospital recently reopened, a road out of town made safe, the number of new troops in the area. We were given a little background on why this increase was essential, how a surge now would help bring the violence to a close.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘Let’s get to it.’

The captain looked at a clipboard and muttered to the sergeant, who called out two names. The pair hurried over, listened and made their way outside. There were tank traps at either end of the short road that ran past the front of the hotel to keep suicide bombers away. A checkpoint on the way. Hired contractors armed with AK-47s patrolled the grounds. The hotel was a safe zone, inside another safe zone, and yet no one believed we were all that safe. But we knew we’d be a lot less safe with every checkpoint we passed.

Two more names were called, the pair grabbing their equipment and leaving the room. Three left. I was still waiting for the major to let me know I wasn’t going.

‘… And Mr Huntingdon.’

That was the last of them.

Huntingdon?
It was only when his name was called that I realised who he was. Huntingdon – Art – cast me a lazily apologetic look. I scowled. He wasn’t that sorry. Nor would I have been in his place.

‘I’m not going?’

The major looked as if he always knew this moment was coming. The irritated and irritating English woman with the too loud voice. ‘As I said, we’ve only got six slots.’

‘You’re leaving the woman?’

He consulted his own list as if to confirm that, yes, the others were indeed men. ‘That’s not the reason.’

‘So, what is the reason?’

He looked as if he was about to answer, then remembered he didn’t have to justify himself to anyone, let alone me. Instead he turned on his heel and marched out, flanked by his flunkies. I was halfway across the foyer myself, headed for the little garden at the back, and fucked if I was going to let them see my tears of fury. There were days I wished I was a smoker, this was one of them. When I returned a few minutes later, the room was empty and I was alone in the foyer with the lumpy-looking girl on the check-in desk. She was in her late teens or very early twenties, bareheaded and quiet. Each night, before she left, she put on a headscarf and a black robe that hid her jeans. I’d seen her do it.

‘We have a swimming pool,’ she said.

Until that point, I hadn’t realised she spoke English, although I supposed she must do to be on the desk. The army had handled our checking in and it was the first time I’d heard her talk.

I looked at her astonished. ‘Really? Where?’

‘On the roof.’ She glanced around the empty foyer, considering. ‘The water’s fresh. There are sun loungers and parasols. Would you like me to show you?’

I’d used three Iraqi lifts since I arrived and been briefly trapped by brown-outs twice. We climbed five flights of stairs, our feet echoing on the concrete. By mutual but unspoken agreement we paused on the third floor to get our breath and look out at mountains that began where the dirt-brown fields ended on the outskirts of town. I could see three farms, two bridges, and a grove of what might be olive trees. A village in the distance had a small white-painted mosque with a spindly turret.

‘Through here,’ she said, pushing a door open for me. A pristine pool filled with crystal-clear water awaited me. The tiles in and around the pool were pale blue, apart from deep blue detailing. The sun loungers were arranged around the edge, their thin mattresses folded into a neat pile beside the door. The umbrellas were closed, their canvas and spines pointing down like broken palm trees. In between them were actual palm trees, tiny stubby ones in terracotta pots.

Without thinking, I produced my camera. Shot the mattresses, shot a single sun lounger with its naked frame, another shot of a row of loungers and then stepped back to include the pool, ending with a shot of the pool and beyond it the village and the mountains. A spiral of smoke rose near the village. Bomb, that was my first thought, but I’d probably have heard the explosion. A farmer burning off his fields, more like. Or the town rubbish dump. Either way, it didn’t matter. It gave the view a slightly ‘off’ air and worked within the framework of the picture.

‘Could you sit there?’ I pointed to the low wall that rimmed the roof terrace; lower than would be allowed in Britain. She shook her head.

‘Please …’

The girl looked uncomfortable.

‘You’re afraid someone will see the picture?’

She nodded.

‘Face away from me then.’

‘Please … wait …’ Before I could answer, she’d vanished. I could hear feet descending away from me on concrete stairs. A few minutes later she returned, out of breath, but wearing a scarf round her face and carrying the robe she wore to cover her jeans on the walk home.

‘Now,’ she said, shrugging herself into the gown. She came from the city, she told me. Until she came here she never used to wear scarves. But these days, it was best. Safer. I positioned her on the wall, her face turned to the curl of smoke in the distance and then stood so the village, the minaret and the edge of her face were in the frame. I fired off three shots. Then another three from a slightly different angle.

‘Thank you.’

‘You’re welcome.’

I wondered if I should give her money and decided against, afraid of offending her. I’d leave some when I left.

I eyed the pool. The water was clear and, for all I knew, cool. I liked swimming. I hadn’t packed a costume, but I could improvise. Swimming in a hotel pool in the middle of a city at war was a story in itself, I supposed. Only it wasn’t the story I was there to get. Five floors below, the town was laid out around me. A square, smaller squares, old, flat-roofed houses and concrete office blocks. A market set up under canvas in a car park. Broken buildings and a burnt-out police station reminders it was fought over. I wanted to explore the narrow alleys behind the shell of the police station.

‘I’d like to hire you.’

She looked at me.

‘As a guide. I want to hire you as a guide.’

‘What do you want to see?’

‘What can you show me?’

‘There are tombs. Ancient. Very ancient. And a fort. The British were here before. They built a fort. These days it’s a ruin.’ Her smile was wry, she didn’t have to finish that sentence.

‘Over there,’ I said. ‘I want you to show me over there.’ She eyed me doubtfully. My hair was dark and curly, dyed almost black back then, my eyes brown. For once in my life it was better than being taller, thinner, blonder.

‘They’re coming.’ The girl stood in the hotel lounge doorway.

We’d been back about an hour – just long enough for me to edit the film, send in the pictures and pull myself together.

‘I ordered you, understand?’ I told her.

She nodded.

‘I told you that I had permission. I’d been told you’d help me. I was very firm. All right?’

‘You said you had permission.’

‘That’s right. I didn’t offer to pay you …’ That was true, I hadn’t. ‘You took me to the old quarter because I told you that was your job. You work at the hotel. I’m staying at the hotel. Understood?’

When she nodded decisively I knew that was what she would say. That, and only that. I hoped it was enough to keep her out of trouble. I didn’t care about being in trouble myself. Later, maybe. Then maybe I’d care. When my boss found out. When the MoD got on the phone to scream. Right now I was too cross with the men strolling through the door. They looked pleased with themselves, like they’d had a productive day. Only the major wasn’t smiling.

‘You went out.’ He stopped right in front of me, Art was directly behind him.

‘You could have been killed, Lawrence.’ That was Art.

I did a double take, looked at him. What was it to him? OK, so there was a code, we looked out for each other out here, but that didn’t stretch to this.

‘I wasn’t.’

‘Where’s your flak jacket?’ the major asked suddenly and I realised, stupidly, I had left it up on the roof.

‘It’s hard to blend in with a flak jacket.’

‘You’re not here to blend in,’ the major said. I glanced at the other journalists in their fatigues and patches, mostly still wearing flak jackets and at least one holding a television camera with the insouciance he might hold a weapon.

‘Obviously not. Unless you want to blend in with the army. Then you’d be fine.’

Behind him, one of the Americans leaned in and muttered to the other, who snorted. Art flushed in embarrassment and I felt a pang of something … it wasn’t his fault he’d been chosen and I hadn’t, after all.

‘There was a car bomb,’ the major said heavily. ‘You could have died.’

‘I know,’ I said. ‘I was there, and I didn’t.’

‘You took photographs?’

‘Of course I took photographs. I’m a photographer.’

‘I’ll need to see them. Tell me you haven’t sent them through.’

‘I haven’t sent them through.’

He held out his hand and, without protest, I handed him my camera. Well, one of them; the Leica hanging from my shoulder. ‘We’ll talk later,’ he told me. He walked back to where his captain was waiting, muttered a few words and they both turned to stare at me.

‘Drink?’ Art said when the others had dispersed.

I nodded, already drunk on adrenalin. It was my most impressive shot in ages. There had been plenty of others in the intervening years, but this was the first I could look at and say,
You nailed the truth.

Also, I’d got the shot the proper way, not hand-delivered and rubber-stamped by the army.

The beer in the bar was another thing that came via the army. I wasn’t sure of the arrangement but the beer was American and cold enough to make my teeth hurt. I drank down the first one Art brought me in unladylike gulps and swallowed a handful of pistachios, almost choking on an escapee shell. A television in the corner got satellite from the roof, and the Iraqi behind the bar, trusted because he wouldn’t be there if he wasn’t, turned it on and down, leaving it on rolling news at my request.

The bar was half full and Art and I were on our second beer.

‘Shit,’ one of the Americans said.

A talking head popped up and, in the corner, just above a ticker tape of rolling news, an agency headshot of me, so many years old as to be almost unrecognisable. Almost. My stomach lurched. I sensed what was coming. It was the shot the agency trotted out every time. The only one I’d been prepared to pose for back at the beginning before I knew better.