karmic. I can’t wait to get to Baghdad. I just know it’s going to feel like my spiritual home.’
Jerry winked at me. ‘I’ve had my mom ramming this shit down my neck since I was a kid, but it ain’t no spiritual home for me.’
I smiled, but my mind was on other things. We were in Baghdad airspace, and the desert was giving way to the first signs of habitation. It was a grown-up city, its history stretching back thousands of years. It wasn’t a factory-built, flat-pack affair like Riyadh: let’s have a capital, all right, stick one in the sand here. Below us were buildings centuries old, interspersed with tower blocks and elevated freeways that could have been on the approach to Heathrow. Snaking through the middle of it was the Tigris, glinting in the sun. About six million people lived there. I hoped one of them, this week, would be Nuhanovic.
Jerry had finished stowing his camera and assorted shit back in his bumbag. First and foremost he was a fucking good action photographer. If he needed it, he’d need it quickly.
The pilot announced in Arabic and then English that we would shortly be landing at Baghdad International in the sort of tone you’d expect if you were about to run in to Málaga or Palma. But that was where the similarity ended. We didn’t glide gently into the final approach. We circled directly above it, just once, then went into an alarmingly fast spiral. Anyone on the ground who wanted to take a pop at us with a SAM 7 was going to find it hard to get a lock on today.
As we tumbled out of the sky, the pilot continued to give us all the pre-landing waffle as if nothing unusual was happening, but the businessmen had temporarily mislaid their machismo and the cameras had stopped clicking. Jerry leaned back into his seat. Behind him, Mr Gap was soothing the Canadian. ‘It’s OK, standard procedure. I come in and out of here every couple weeks.’ She didn’t sound fazed at all: if anything she seemed excited, but that wasn’t going to stop him.
I noticed two burnt-out 747s alongside the terminal building, noses and wings scattered across the tarmac. It was really a huge military camp, with a maze of fence lines and enormous concrete barriers. Rows of armoured vehicles, helicopters, and green Portakabins stretched to the horizon. Desert-camouflaged BDUs and olive-green T-shirts hung on washing-lines between the buildings.
As soon as the pilot hit the brakes, we were joined by a two-Humvee escort, their mounted .50 cals trained, by the look of it, against possible attack from the aircraft. The businessmen enjoyed that. The cameras were out again.
‘Fuck me . . .’ Jerry couldn’t stop laughing. ‘They’ll be out of memory by the time we get to Immigration.’
The Iraqi women were still going at it nineteen to the dozen, but my attention was on Mr Gap, willing him to get a result. He deserved to, if only through persistence. He was trying his hardest to meet up again once she was in Baghdad. ‘Where are you staying? Maybe I could help you with your research – after all, I work for the CPA. I could introduce you to the top guys.’
That was obviously what she’d been waiting for. ‘Yeah? You know what? That would be great. I’m staying at the Palestine.’
‘Cool.’ He was one happy hunter. ‘We can arrange to meet some time.’
‘That would be so nice.’ I could just imagine the big smile on her face. She had him by the bollocks.
We taxied past the terminal and finally stopped by a hangar. A few American soldiers dismounted from the Hummers and started to walk towards the aircraft as the propellers slowed and the door opened.
We stayed in our seats for as long as possible before shuffling towards the exit behind the Iraqi women. The moment we got there we were hit by a wall of hot air.
25
I squinted hard as I rummaged for my cheapo market sunglasses. The stench of aviation fuel was overpowering and the noise was deafening. It felt like the entire US military was
Jerry winked at me. ‘I’ve had my mom ramming this shit down my neck since I was a kid, but it ain’t no spiritual home for me.’
I smiled, but my mind was on other things. We were in Baghdad airspace, and the desert was giving way to the first signs of habitation. It was a grown-up city, its history stretching back thousands of years. It wasn’t a factory-built, flat-pack affair like Riyadh: let’s have a capital, all right, stick one in the sand here. Below us were buildings centuries old, interspersed with tower blocks and elevated freeways that could have been on the approach to Heathrow. Snaking through the middle of it was the Tigris, glinting in the sun. About six million people lived there. I hoped one of them, this week, would be Nuhanovic.
Jerry had finished stowing his camera and assorted shit back in his bumbag. First and foremost he was a fucking good action photographer. If he needed it, he’d need it quickly.
The pilot announced in Arabic and then English that we would shortly be landing at Baghdad International in the sort of tone you’d expect if you were about to run in to Málaga or Palma. But that was where the similarity ended. We didn’t glide gently into the final approach. We circled directly above it, just once, then went into an alarmingly fast spiral. Anyone on the ground who wanted to take a pop at us with a SAM 7 was going to find it hard to get a lock on today.
As we tumbled out of the sky, the pilot continued to give us all the pre-landing waffle as if nothing unusual was happening, but the businessmen had temporarily mislaid their machismo and the cameras had stopped clicking. Jerry leaned back into his seat. Behind him, Mr Gap was soothing the Canadian. ‘It’s OK, standard procedure. I come in and out of here every couple weeks.’ She didn’t sound fazed at all: if anything she seemed excited, but that wasn’t going to stop him.
I noticed two burnt-out 747s alongside the terminal building, noses and wings scattered across the tarmac. It was really a huge military camp, with a maze of fence lines and enormous concrete barriers. Rows of armoured vehicles, helicopters, and green Portakabins stretched to the horizon. Desert-camouflaged BDUs and olive-green T-shirts hung on washing-lines between the buildings.
As soon as the pilot hit the brakes, we were joined by a two-Humvee escort, their mounted .50 cals trained, by the look of it, against possible attack from the aircraft. The businessmen enjoyed that. The cameras were out again.
‘Fuck me . . .’ Jerry couldn’t stop laughing. ‘They’ll be out of memory by the time we get to Immigration.’
The Iraqi women were still going at it nineteen to the dozen, but my attention was on Mr Gap, willing him to get a result. He deserved to, if only through persistence. He was trying his hardest to meet up again once she was in Baghdad. ‘Where are you staying? Maybe I could help you with your research – after all, I work for the CPA. I could introduce you to the top guys.’
That was obviously what she’d been waiting for. ‘Yeah? You know what? That would be great. I’m staying at the Palestine.’
‘Cool.’ He was one happy hunter. ‘We can arrange to meet some time.’
‘That would be so nice.’ I could just imagine the big smile on her face. She had him by the bollocks.
We taxied past the terminal and finally stopped by a hangar. A few American soldiers dismounted from the Hummers and started to walk towards the aircraft as the propellers slowed and the door opened.
We stayed in our seats for as long as possible before shuffling towards the exit behind the Iraqi women. The moment we got there we were hit by a wall of hot air.
25
I squinted hard as I rummaged for my cheapo market sunglasses. The stench of aviation fuel was overpowering and the noise was deafening. It felt like the entire US military was
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