Crossfire (9 page)

I felt numb and dumb, like a drunk bouncing off
the furniture in some badly lit nightclub.

It was Dom, I was sure of it, shaking me, talking
close to my ear. He was panicky, out of
breath. Scared.

'Pete's gone . . .' He said it over and over.
'Pete's gone . . . It's all my fault . . . I'm so sorry,
Nick. I've got to go . . . I've got to go . . .'

Was he crying? 'What the fuck you on about?'

'I've got to go . . .'

He was a blur, but it was definitely Dom. He
sobbed something I couldn't quite hear. 'What
you on about, mate?' I tried to push myself up
but he stuck out an arm, told me to rest.

His head moved closer to mine. 'Nick, no
matter what you're told, it wasn't me, OK? It –
was – not – me . . .'

I felt him grip my hand. I tried to make sense
of what the fuck he was on about. My head was
still full of whatever shit had been mixed with
the morphine.

'Wasn't what? Wasn't you who what?'

He squeezed my hand. 'You'll know soon,
when the drugs have worn off. They'll tell you.
Remember – it wasn't me. Say it, Nick.'

'It wasn't me . . .'

He let go of my hand and I tried to stay awake.

Friday, 2 March
1126 hrs

'Nick, it's me. Wake up, lad.'

'Dom?' I turned over in a semi-daze. 'What
you on about? Pete's done what?' My arm was
throbbing. I eased open one eye. My arm
was covered with a clean dressing. It felt newly
sewn up.

'You're going to be right as rain, lad. The
doctor said you'll be up and walking today.'
The Scouse was thick as soup.

'Rhett?' I tried to open both eyes.

'Course it is, you soft twat.'

He was sitting on a plastic chair beside
me. He had fresh combats and body armour on,
and sweat ran down his shiny clean-shaven face.
He cradled his helmet under his arm.

We were in a huge marquee. The plastic roof
was twenty metres above me, stretched over an
aluminium frame. The area had been partitioned
into cubicles with 3x3-metre plywood. My head
hurt, and I smelt of Dettol, or whatever had been
thrown over me when I'd been washed and
sorted out. It was hot and muggy. Shouldn't
a hospital or whatever this was have airconditioning?

'I feel like shit. Where am I?'

He tried to laugh, but couldn't manage it.
'COB.'

My eyelids drooped. They wanted to stay
glued together. I was thirsty, but my mouth felt
too furred-up ever to let anything through again.
As I lay on my back and tried to get my fingers
working, I heard Land Rovers speed past. I'd
have recognized that engine note anywhere. The
odd Brit shout penetrated the marquee walls. I
eventually opened my eyes again. It was still a
bit blurry but that felt like tiredness rather than
drugs.

All my kit from the palace was on a bench in
the corner. There wasn't much of it, but I didn't
care. Out here, whatever you had would be in
shit state within seconds.

I took a breath and forced myself to sit up.

'I got bad news, Nick. It's Pete . . .' Rhett was
grim-faced. 'He's dead, mate.'

I couldn't have heard him right.

'He got shot about four hours ago. Sorry, mate,
he was a good lad.'

Pete's gone . . . I've got to go . . . I've got to go . . .

'Where's Dom?'

'Dunno. Probably well shook up. He saw it
happen. Media Ops asked me to break the news.
It's a fucker.'

I pointed over to my kit. 'Can you pass my
mobile? It's in one of the side pouches.'

I was fully awake now. I was thinking about
Tallulah, Ruby and those birthdays he was determined
not to miss.

I sparked up the phone. Iraqna had treated me
to a three-bar signal.

I called Dom. The default Vodafone Ireland
message kicked in immediately.

'It's Nick. Rhett's just told me. Call me
back soon as, mate. I need to know you're
OK.'

I sat cradling the phone in my lap. 'What the
fuck happened?'

He placed his helmet carefully on the plywood
floor. 'Fucking nightmare.' He shook his head.
'We brought both of them back here from OSB.
You were out of it, so Dom said they'd decided to
go outside the wire to film the Merlins flying low
into the city. Some fucker must have been waiting.
Pete took two rounds. There's always some
of those shites hanging around looking for a
target. Dom ran and got help, but it was useless.
He'd have died instantly. What can I say?
Fucking crying shame . . .'

'What about the shooters?'

'The QRF [quick reaction force] were out like a
bunch of fucking whippets, but they'd legged it.'

'Where's Dom?'

'His kit's gone. He's fucked off.'

I willed the phone to ring. A cameraman had
died on my watch, and now the reporter was
missing.

I looked up. 'Help me get dressed, mate.'

I did it as fast as I could, one-handed and with a
bit of help from Rhett. My jeans and T-shirt were
on my Bergen, but my boots had probably been
burnt along with the rest of last night's shit-covered,
infected gear. I dug out my trainers.

'You know where they keep the bodies?'

Rhett was in awkward mode. 'No, it's not the
sort of place we want to go near.'

I held out my good hand and we shook.
'Thanks, Rhett. If you want to come with me and
have a last look, you can.'

'Nah, I want to remember him as a gobby
shite.'

He left and I finished dressing. A mirror hung
on a bit of string from a section of frame by the
side of the bench, and I saw what was left of a
large black M that had been written on my forehead
in permanent marker. At some stage I
would have had a label attached to me too, to
make doubly sure everybody further down the
chain knew I'd been administered morphine. It
affects other treatments.

With greasy, sticking-up hair and already
sweating, I pushed aside the green nylon sheet
that acted as a door, turned left and walked
down a corridor of cubicle walls towards the
sound of music. I passed air-conditioning ducts,
but they weren't working.

There was another cubicle at the end of the
corridor. This one was an office. Two guys in
white coats sat on plastic chairs, watching MTV.
They had their backs to me but I could see the
mugs of brew and a packet of Rich Tea.

'Lads, where's the morgue? I think one of my
mates is there – you know, the cameraman who
got shot.'

They both looked round, and then at each
other. It was hard to interpret their expressions.
Either I wasn't allowed access, or neither of them
wanted to miss Beyoncé shaking her tits on MTV.

The blond one stood up. 'Next door.' He
picked up his armour and helmet. 'Where's
yours?'

'Don't know, mate.'

I followed him out into the blinding sunshine.
I almost had to close my eyes. We turned right in
the sand and headed for a concrete-block
building. The guy turned back to me as we
walked. 'You ever seen a dead body before,
mate?'

I nodded.

Entering the building was like stepping into a
fridge. This was where all the air-conditioning
lived. Beyond sheets of thick plastic hanging
from the ceiling lay five stone slabs like kitchen
worktops.

A body lay on one, covered with a sheet. Two
clear evidence bags lay on the floor next to him.
One was smeared on the inside with wet blood
that must have rubbed off his clothes. The other,
much smaller, contained his personal effects. His
wallet, his watch, his wedding ring. And his
precious memory stick.

The guy went over and pulled the sheet back,
then stood aside and leant against the next slab
along.

Pete's couple of days' stubble would keep
growing for a bit longer, but he'd been cleaned
up pretty well. I realized this was the first time
I'd seen him without a smile on his face.

He had two strike marks in his chest. They'd
dried up and looked like big scabs. The rest of his
skin was pale.

'What's going to happen now? How's he going
to get home?'

'I guess we'll fly him back to Brize. That's what
normally happens.'

I looked at Pete again. Something about those
strike marks wasn't right.

I walked all the way round him, looking for
more strikes, more marks. 'Why wasn't he wearing
armour?'

The guy was getting bored now. He'd done his
bit. Beyoncé beckoned. 'Don't know, mate. He
just got shot and brought here. That's it.'

I lifted Pete's right arm, then pulled it up a bit
more until his shoulder lifted and I could see the
exit wounds in his back. They were large, as they
always are when the rounds are allowed to exit
the body. I put his arm down where it belonged.

'I'm going to see you all right, mate . . .' I said
quietly.

The medic came towards me with the sheet.
'No need to worry about that.'

'I wasn't talking to you.'

I picked up Pete's personal stuff and left him to
it. I walked back out into the sun. Dom and I
would take his gear to his family. The least we
could do was make sure the stuff that was most
important to him got back to the people who
were most important to him. Small things in big
firms always tended to go missing.

Why wasn't he wearing Osprey? Everyone had
to wear it even to go for a dump. Pete was so
careful. He would have had it on. Even if those
two rounds had pierced his body armour by
some sort of miracle, they wouldn't have exited
like they did. When a high-velocity round enters
the body, it creates a vortex behind it like the
wake after a boat. As it leaves, the pressure
equalizes. There's a small air explosion that rips
the exit wound open. It's what high-velocity
rounds are designed to do.

My arm hurt like fuck as it swung and I had to
cradle it against my chest.

Screwing up my eyes, I turned right, headed
past the morgue and into the dining tent. People
were coming and going with mugs of brew. The
entrance was full of people in body armour and
helmets washing their hands in cleansing liquid
so's not to waste water. They looked at me like I
was an alien. 'I know, I haven't got any. Anybody
know where Media Ops are?'

I was pointed beyond the cookhouse. I turned
left by the showers and half walked, half ran,
asking for directions along the way. Most people
knew their own areas and that was it.

Eventually I found myself outside two
Portakabins with huge air-conditioning condenser
boxes. I knew where I was now. This was
where we'd had our briefings.

There was movement inside the second
Portakabin. I went in and the place was almost as
cold as the mortuary tent. The Royal Artillery
captain who'd done the meet and greet was
behind a desk. I couldn't remember his name –
I'd just nodded and agreed as he gave his talk,
not expecting to see him again. But I did remember
he was in the Territorials, and had
volunteered to come out here. In the real world,
he was responsible for Plymouth Council's
CCTV cameras.

He seemed shocked to see me. 'Nick, how are
you? I was coming round later. I wanted you to
rest first.' He looked uncomfortable. He stood up
and took a breath to give me the bad news.

I put up a hand. 'I know Pete's dead. The recce
sergeant's already seen me.'

He sat down, relieved not to be the one. I was
a civvy. I might want to cry on his shoulder and
have a hug.

'Why didn't he have any body armour on?'

'I don't know. We told you lot to wear it all the
time – and a helmet. It was part of the briefing.
Dom told us they were getting some shots of the
Merlins flying low. They didn't have permission.
They didn't inform anyone of what they were
doing. We cannot take responsibility for these
actions. They should have informed me that
they—'

This was bollocks. 'Where's Dom now?'

'He's left. I don't know where or how. His kit's
gone and he hasn't even signed out.'

'Signed out? How the fuck's he going to get
out of here? Call a minicab?'

'He must be taking the two o'clock. It's
thoroughly irresponsible behaviour – it doesn't
help the media's call for closer liaison.'

'Shut up, for fuck's sake, and give me a lift to
the terminal.'

I followed him back out into the heat. The
Media Ops company car was a dust-covered
Discovery that knocked out air-conditioning, but
not enough. I shielded my eyes from the glare as
we came out of one compound and went into
another. We bounced over dusty tracks, working
our way up to the metalled road that paralleled
the runway.

'What's going to happen to Pete?'

'The TV station has notified his wife. They're
arranging for her to receive him at Brize Norton.
After that? Well . . .'

I held up the plastic bag. 'I'll take this back to
her.'

We hit the tarmac. The terminal was about two
clicks further up. It looked like another of
Saddam's palaces. Lots of marble and towers, but
surrounded by barbed wire and HESCOs.
Squaddies zoomed up and down the road in
stripped-down Land Rovers with .50-cal
machine-guns on the back.

The Brits had used the terminal as their
temporary HQ after the war until the COB was
built. It had since been handed back to the
civilian authorities, and catered for just one flight
a day. No airline except Jordanian was willing to
take the risk.

We parked outside the building. I didn't care if
the media guy stayed or not. I just ran into the
cavernous empty terminal.

There were about four people in civvies, but
none was Dom. All the rest, about ten of them,
were RMPs with dogs and SA80s.

Another marble quarry must have been gutted
to build this place. The roof had to be at least
seventy metres high. The walls still had gaffer-tape
marks from where the Brits had run cables.

The check-in area was a line of about forty
desks along the far wall. All had digital displays
behind them. None was working. None of the
belts was moving.

One solitary guy sat behind one of the desks.
His eyes widened as I ran towards him. The
flight wasn't for at least another hour and a half
and it wasn't as if there were masses of people
gagging to get aboard.

'This for the Jordanian flight? The Amman
flight?'

'Yes, yes.'

'Has Dominik Condratowicz checked in yet?'

He looked at me blankly.

I took a breath and slowed down. 'Mr Dom-in-ik
Con-drat-o-wicz.'

He checked his manifests and I leant forward
to help him. I couldn't see the name. 'Do we buy
tickets here? This desk?'

'Yes, yes.'

'Has he bought a ticket?'

'No.'

Dom hadn't checked in so he certainly hadn't
gone airside – if there was an airside. I didn't
know how it worked in this place.

Fuck it, I'd stay right here until the flight left
and see if he turned up.

I moved off and sat on one of the millions of
vacant chairs, waiting for him to show.

Flicking through Pete's gear, I found nothing
that gave me any clues about what had
happened. There was just the normal stuff in his
wallet. Two Lloyds debit cards, organ-donor
card, that sort of thing, with about sixty dollars.

Filming helicopters, my arse.

I got out my mobile.

'It's Nick Stone in Basra. I need to talk to Moira
Foley. It's important.'

I was waiting for Kate to answer, then go to
find Moira, but the boss herself came straight on.
'Hello, Nick. It's Moira, how are you? I've been
so worried . . .'

I knew she hadn't so she didn't have to sound
so concerned. 'Pete . . . you know?'

'God, it's fucking awful. They called me at
home and—'

'Where's Dom? You know where he is?'

'With you. He filed with Pete, then called me
after Pete was shot. He said he'd told you what
happened.'

I held the mobile away from me and checked
the display for messages. The thing was always
on silent as it was a big no-no to have a mobile go
off in the field.

'Nick, hello? Hello?'

I didn't need to move it back to my ear to hear
her.

'I need him to call me back soon, Nick. Tell him
we need a report to go with the film. It's great
footage and we really need to—'

I cut her off, sat back and waited.