Bravo Two Zero

The woman came in with a hot loaf of nan bread she’d just baked and presented it to Chris. He was touched. The bread had obviously been intended as the family’s meal. He swallowed one mouthful and felt instantly full. His stomach must have shrunk dramatically. The lad brought him some hot sweet tea; as far as Chris was concerned, it was the best brew he’d ever had.

Chris tried to explain that he needed to find a policeman. The boy seemed to understand and said he’d take him to one. Chris took off his smock and webbing and stripped down his 203 to look less aggressive to anyone they met. He wrapped the parts inside his smock and put it in a plastic fertilizer bag that the boy gave him. They set off with waves and smiles, the boy carrying the bag, Chris limping along on his damaged feet. The children stayed with them until the hut was almost out of sight.

After they’d been walking for about an hour, a Land Cruiser pulled up alongside, and the driver offered them a lift into town. They sat in the back, and the driver and the boy exchanged a few pleasantries, but for most of the journey they drove along in silence. From time to time, Chris caught the driver staring at him in the rearview mirror.

Just as they were coming, into the town, the vehicle stopped outside a house, and the driver shouted to somebody inside. An Arab in his late thirties came out, dressed from head to toe in black. The two of them had a long discussion, at the end of which the driver told Chris’s friend to get out. He reluctantly did as he was told, and Chris noticed as he said goodbye that he looked very worried.

They drove on, and the driver, who appeared to speak more English than he had let on, started gob bing off about the war. He got quite agitated about it.

“You should not be here,” he said. “This is not our war.” Basically the drift was: “Fuck off back to Iraq, white eye.”

Chris showed him his indemnity slip, which stated in Arabic that anybody guiding the bearer to a British Embassy or to the Allied forces would receive a reward of 5,000. The Arab glanced at the piece of paper as he drove, then stuffed it into his shirt pocket. Chris explained that the paper was no good on its own; there had to be a live body to go with it. Just to let him know that he meant it, he gave the Arab a bit of an evil look.

They pulled up outside a garage. Another Arab who appeared to know the driver came out of the workshop, went around to the passenger side of the Land Cruiser, looked at Chris, then turned on his heels and ran back inside. It seemed to Chris that he was going to get slotted here, and he started to pull the weapon out of the bag. The driver grabbed his arm, and Chris responded with a bit of good news with his elbow. He jumped out of the vehicle as the Arab lolled across the seats with his head sticking out Chris’s side. Kicking the door so that it slammed on the man’s neck, Chris did a ru

He rounded a corner and spotted a man in uniform, armed with an AK47, who was on guard outside a bungalow.

“Police?” Chris shouted.

“Yes.”

“British airman!”

The man hustled him inside the building, which turned out to be the police station. Officers were lounging around the room in leather jackets and sunglasses, doing the sinister bit.

Minutes later, the driver of the Land Cruiser came in, holding his neck and cursing the British. Chris grabbed the indemnity slip from the man’s pocket and showed it to the police. They laughed at what it said. Chris began to get the feeling that he had a problem on his hands. Just as he was contemplating fighting his way out of the station, one of the policemen went over to the driver and smacked him hard across the head. Others jumped up and dragged him from the building.

“Stupid twat,” Chris gri

The chief picked up his phone. He spelled out to somebody everything that Chris had written, letter by letter. Then he made another call, which Chris guessed to be internal by the number of digits dialed. One of the policemen appeared with a dish-dash and face veil and told Chris to put them on. He was hustled out to a vehicle, a policeman either side of him. Chris was left in no doubt that he was their prisoner, and he didn’t have a clue where they were taking him. For all he knew they could have been heading back to the border.

They drove for about an hour along a desert highway and eventually pulled up behind a couple of Meres that were parked at the roadside. Six heavies lounged against the black limos, all wearing sunglasses. One of them had a Makharov in his hand.

Chris was blindfolded and made to kneel on the tarmac. His head was pushed forward and he thought: Here we go, it’s topping time. He was severely pissed off with himself for falling into the trap.

For several seconds, nothing happened. Then they hauled him to his feet and pushed him into the back of one of the cars. They must just have been having a bit of fun. They ‘ drove for another two hours, and Chris saw a big sign with an arrow and the word Baghdad.

One of the men in sunglasses said, ‘”Yes, we are going to Baghdad. You are prisoner of war. We are Iraqi.”

It was coming to last light, and the sun was setting in front of them. Chris was so confused by this stage that he couldn’t remember whether the sun set in the west or the east. He thought back to his childhood in Tyneside and the times he’d watched the sun coming up over the coast in the morning. If it came up in the east, he reasoned, then they must be heading west.

He knew he was right when he started to see signs saying Damascus. It was dark when they hit the outskirts of the city. The heavies put out their cigarettes and started straightening their ties. They pulled up behind another car. A man got out and came and sat in the passenger seat of Chris’s vehicle. Middle-aged and smartly dressed, he spoke excellent English.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Yes thanks, I’m fine.”

“Good. Don’t worry, it won’t be long now.”

It was clear to Chris that the other two blokes in the car were practically shitting themselves with fear of this fellow. When they reached a compound and stopped, both men jumped out and opened the man’s door for him. Chris tried to get out and fell onto his knees. His feet had given up the struggle. The man snapped his fingers, and Chris was carried into the building.

He was shown into a large office and greeted by a man in a navy blazer, striped shirt, and tie. The man shook his hand and said something.

“Welcome,” an interpreter translated.

The office had all the mod cons: teak furniture from Har rods, gold-plated AK47 on the wall, the lot. He worked out that they were in the headquarters of the secret police.

Through the interpreter, the top man asked if Chris would like a bath. Chris nodded and was ushered through a door into a bedroom, with bathroom and gym en suite. The man put a new blade in his razor and unwrapped soap and shampoo and put them on the bath as he left.

Chris was just starting to strip off when a young lad came in with a tape measure. He put it around Chris’s chest, then took his other measurements. Chris hoped it was a suit he was being measured for, and not a coffin.

The bath water was black almost as soon as he got into it, so he ran another one. Yet another boy appeared. He presented Chris with a cup of coffee. It was good stuff. He started to feel more secure. If they were going to top him, they wouldn’t waste good coffee on him.

The interpreter came back and asked him questions. Chris responded with the cover story. The Arab looked dubious, but made no comment. Chris got out of the bath and looked at himself in the mirror. He couldn’t believe how much weight he’d lost. His biceps were the size of his wrists. Somebody else came in with clean clothes for him. It felt fantastic putting on fresh skivies then a white shirt and tie, socks, shoes, and-the piece de resistance-a brand new pin-stripe suit that must have been run up in the last half hour, when he was in the bath-in the middle of the night. The trousers were a little too big around the waist, and the chief gave the lad with the tape measure a fearsome bollocking. The boy gestured for Chris to take them off again and disappeared with them over his arm.