More Than You Can Say (6 page)

Anyway, we were here now, and Saddam was gone. So that was good. Sergeant Hawkes said we’d started the war to make sure we kept control over Iraqi oil, but he was a cynic. Some of us even suspected him of being too clever for his own good, but I liked him. He was interesting to talk to, and read a great deal more than the rest of us put together. I also knew that, despite his remarks, Sergeant Hawkes felt the same sense of excitement about this new mission as the rest of us.

The set-up where we were going was unusual. The Multi-National Force was headquartered in Baghdad but the city and all of central Iraq were under the control of the US military. We had been sent there in support of an operation
called Task Force Black. This was a special forces job: SAS and Delta Force working together to suppress the spiralling violence on the streets of Baghdad – and practically every other town of any size in central Iraq. Our job was to provide an outer cordon: security cover for the special forces teams while they did what they were good at.

‘The squadron is located in a compound in the Green Zone,’ my commanding officer told me before we took the plane to Baghdad. ‘But the quartermaster has run out of room for the moment. Your platoon will be quartered on a temporary basis in a villa near by. There’s a Yank PMC called Green Park based there.’

‘A PMC?’ I asked. It was spring 2005 and some of the jargon of this war was still new to me.

‘A Private Military Contractor. They are there to provide logistical services to the task force – food, accommodation and so on. You will get your orders from Squadron Command at the Task Force Headquarters in the main compound. Intel comes into the squadron via the Joint Support Group. You may remember them from Belfast. You’re there in a support role, to watch the backs of the SAS.’

I did remember the Joint Support Group from the time we’d served in Northern Ireland. Its name made it sound as if it was one of those organisations set up to help distressed gentlefolk but its mission was somewhat different. In Northern Ireland it was responsible for agent-handling. I didn’t know they had become involved in Baghdad, or what their new job might involve, but not all of the agents that the JSG handled in Belfast had lived happily ever after.

‘Do we have anything to do with Green Park, sir?’

‘Yes. Green Park are operating a Temporary Screening Facility. Any prisoners you collect should be handed over to
them for questioning before being sent to the interrogation centre at Camp Nama, up by the airport.’

I’d heard of Camp Nama. It was a ‘black’ prison similar to the ones at Bagram or Guantanamo.

‘Anything else I need to know about them?’ I asked.

‘They know the city so they will give you a briefing on arrival. They’ve got a consultant advising them called Mr Harris. He’s also a consultant to Delta Force. One of their jobs is to obtain local intelligence, which they pass on to JSG. This is going to be different to any operation you’ve been on before, Richard.’

‘I’m not sure I understand, sir.’

‘Rules of engagement are different to what you are used to.’

‘In what way, sir?’

In every other place I’d been our rules had been very clear: don’t shoot unless someone is about to shoot you. Sometimes you had to wait until they’d actually tried to kill you before you were allowed to return fire. Sometimes you had to have written clearance in triplicate from some staff officer sitting safely in London before you could even take the safety off your gun.

‘It’s more flexible here, Richard. You can shoot if you perceive a threat.’

‘What does that mean exactly, sir?’

‘It means whatever you want it to mean, Richard. It means use your initiative.’

Our convoy was thundering along Route Irish into the city. I had been expecting the sort of landscape I’d seen on the television reports in 2003: miles of flat, sandy desert, across which the all-conquering armoured columns of the US 3rd Infantry Division had charged. But this was the Tigris valley,
where the great wide, mud-coloured river flowed down to its confluence with the Euphrates at Shatt al-Arab, then on to the Persian Gulf. It was much greener than I had expected. Palm trees lined the road, and there were green fields and banks of vegetation. There was also an extraordinary profusion of litter. Piles of refuse lay by the roadside or on patches of bare land, and the smoke of dozens of small fires rose into the sky as half-hearted attempts were made to burn some of the rubbish. The air was full of dust, from traffic or from running repairs going on to damaged buildings or, occasionally, holes in the road. No doubt these had been made by IEDs.

We passed a huge white building. The upper floors were in a state of some disrepair with gaping holes in the masonry. I leaned forward and tapped the American driver on the shoulder.

‘What’s that place?’ I asked him.

‘We call it Camp Prosperity,’ he replied. ‘It used to be the As-Salaam palace, one of Saddam’s. It’s where they store his heads now.’

‘His heads?’

‘Yeah, big stone heads, the ones that were chopped off his statues all around the city.’

This struck me as odd.

‘Why are they keeping them? Do they think they’ll need to put them back on again at some point?’

The driver shook his head.

‘In this place, you never know. Now if you don’t mind, I need to watch the road.’

We were driving in convoy – not too close together, in case of problems – and keeping up the best speed we could in the traffic.

I shut up, and stared out of the window. It was so strange to be in this city, so often talked about, read about, seen on television: an ancient place, the cradle of civilisation. Now it looked remarkably unimpressive – like a shanty town on the outskirts, under a white-hot sky. The signs of war were everywhere: charred vehicles that had not yet been towed away, damaged buildings lining the roadside. The convoy slowed down as we approached the centre of the city and the buildings became larger and the streets a little busier; not too much traffic, apart from the military and police and a few very old cars or pick-ups that had managed to find petrol. On every street corner there were men with guns: Iraqi police and army, US army, private security. Looking up I could see half a dozen helicopters circling overhead. Above the helicopters and out of sight I knew a Nimrod or E-8 Joint Stars surveillance flight would be circling above the city.

We had to pass through several different checkpoints before we could enter the Green Zone, at Checkpoint Twelve, weaving around concrete chicanes and through anti-crash barriers that were raised and lowered to let us through. Finally we turned into a white-walled compound. As we arrived in the central courtyard I saw a man in jeans and an old khaki shirt standing at the top of the steps that led to the main entrance of the building.

‘That’s Mr Harris,’ said my driver, pointing him out. He switched the engine off. ‘He’ll take care of you.’

All of us climbed out of our vehicles and clustered together, waiting for Mr Harris to come down the steps. But he just stood and watched us. Around us other men, all in civilian dress, either Arab or European, moved across the courtyard in one direction or the other. The place smelled of strong coffee, cigarettes, sweat and petrol fumes. Underlying
it all was the bitter scent of blood. The roof of the building was a forest of radio antennae and satellite dishes. In another corner of the courtyard were several dusty Toyota pick-up trucks. I saw that one of them had bullet holes stitched along one side, and an Iraqi was sluicing out the tailgate with buckets of water. The sun was well up in the sky and the heat was unbearable. I mopped my brow. Finally Mr Harris came down the steps towards us.

‘Captain Gaunt?’ he asked.

‘I’m Captain Gaunt,’ I replied. ‘Sir.’

‘Green Park is a company, not the army. So I’m Mr Harris.’

He looked as old as Methuselah. His face was deep brown, grizzled with beard, and lined in every way it is possible for a face to be lined, as if it had been etched by sand and cracked by drought. His eyes were pale blue, the whites slightly yellow. His jawline sagged slightly, and there were pouches under his eyes. His mouth was thin, like the slit in a letterbox. It was difficult to tell what age or nationality he was.

‘Get your men inside, Captain Gaunt,’ he told me, jerking his thumb at the dark doorway in which he had been standing a moment ago. ‘We’ll give you your local briefing first, then show you your quarters.’

‘Local briefing?’ I asked.

Mr Harris smiled, revealing firm white teeth. It was not a comforting smile.

‘We’ve been asked to tell you a little about what life is like in this great city.’

Once inside the building we were led to a large cool room in which several rows of chairs had been set out, with a map of Baghdad on the wall. All of us sat down. Then Mr Harris came in and sat in front of us. His shirtsleeves were rolled up,
revealing forearms that looked as if they were made from some knotted tropical hardwood. His belly strained at his shirt but he did not look unfit. Patches of sweat stained his shirt under his arms but he did not look hot.

‘You’re here …’ he began, then stopped and said, ‘Fucked if I know why you’re here. Anyone got any ideas?’

‘We were told we were to provide support for a counterinsurgency operation, sir,’ I said, feeling that someone should say something. Then I remembered the injunction against rank. ‘I mean, Mr Harris.’

‘Counter-insurgency? Forget that bullshit. We’re in the real world now. Call them insurgents if you like.
We
call them criminals and terrorists. The people we are mostly fighting,’ he said, ‘were part of the Iraqi army, only some clever schmuck fired the lot of them, just after the invasion ended, without pay. They took to the streets, of course, so the war goes on, only the enemy isn’t wearing a uniform. That’s the only difference. The war never ended. And right now, we are in real danger of losing it.’

He paused, letting the silence grow, looking at us as if we were children in our first day at infant school. Perhaps that is how we appeared to him.

‘You are here to fight the terrorists,’ said Mr Harris. ‘The Mahdi Army, al-Qaeda, Ansar al-Islam – it doesn’t matter which. When they’re dead they all look much the same. Your intel will come from the Joint Support Group, and from us here at Green Park. Your orders come from Task Force HQ. I am here to offer advice and support and to teach you the wicked ways of this sinful city.’ It sounded dangerous. Mr Harris hadn’t finished with us yet either.

‘Now, you’re all experienced soldiers. You were in Kosovo, right? Tell me, how do you fight terrorists?’

There was a silence while we all tried to recall our training manuals, but Mr Harris wasn’t really interested in anything we had to say. He curled his hands into two massive fists and smacked them together.

‘You fight them like that,’ he said. ‘You crush them. You fight terror with terror. You make sure these people are so frightened of you that all they want to do is hide under their beds.’

He stood up then. He was an old man: God knows how many wars he had fought in. God knows where he came from – Sergeant Hawkes told me later he thought Mr Harris was Mossad, drafted in by the Americans to give them the benefit of Israeli experience in counter-terrorism. There were some strange people in Baghdad that year. But wherever he came from and whatever he had done, Mr Harris looked as if he knew everything there was to know about terror. He looked as if he had dished it out in his time. He had probably fought in most of the dirty conflicts around the world since the last world war, and we were already more terrified of him than the insurgents who waited for us somewhere outside in the Red Zone.

‘Time to go to work, boys,’ he said. ‘Mr al-Najafi will see you next. He will show you your quarters and give you a geography lesson.’

That was the beginning of the best and worst few months of my life. Whatever I had been expecting from my tour in Baghdad, it was not what happened. That was the last time I felt as if I was alive: really, truly alive.

The next morning, I had difficulty in remembering where I was, or why I was there. Then I remembered: Mr Khan. This was my wedding day.

‘I’m getting married in the morning,’ I hummed to myself, ‘Ding dong, the bells are going to chime,’ trying to brush my teeth at the same time. The result was messy. I finished shaving and then climbed into my smart new wedding clothes, making sure I transferred my belongings into the pockets. Another hour or two and I would be clutching a large cheque, happily married and counting off the hours and days, weeks and months until I could file for divorce.

It had been a diverting interlude. My life had been so deadly boring for such a long time that the last couple of days had been an almost welcome change. If only there was someone I could have shared the joke with: walking to Oxford for a bet, being kidnapped by thugs, then married off to a beautiful girl from Afghanistan. And being well paid for it.

I caught sight of myself in the mirror: a foolish man in a wedding suit with a stupid grin on his face. Suddenly I felt sick. What the hell was I doing? How on earth could I contemplate marrying some wretched girl then simply taking the money and walking off with it in my pocket? Of course I couldn’t share the joke. If I told anyone what I was up to they
would look at me in disgust. No wonder I had so few friends left, apart from the card-playing vultures at the Diplomatic.

I was sick. Sick in the head even to be thinking about doing this. I ought to just get up and leave.

That would be difficult, though. After all the trouble he had gone to, Mr Khan didn’t seem the kind of man who would let his guest slip through his fingers. I went to the door and tried the handle. It was locked. Even if I could get out of the room somehow, I was likely to meet Kevin. Kevin struck me as the type of person who lacked any common sense and would be quite likely to shoot me just to see what happened next.

Another thought struck me. Once Mr Khan had obtained my signature on the marriage register, was he really going to let me go just like that? Wouldn’t it be cheaper and better for him if I disappeared? For the first time I began to wonder whether the situation I found myself in might not be more serious than I had at first imagined.