Читать книгу Last Light - Alex Scarrow - Страница 17

9.21 p.m. local time Road leading to Al-Bayji, Iraq

Andy squeezed the last of the meal around in its flexible foil pouch. After a dozen or so mouthfuls of tepid chicken and mushroom pasta he decided his hunger had been more than sated. In the same way of the all-too-common roadside burger van, the smell of the field rations stewing in boiling water over their small hexamine field stoves had been about a hundred times more appetising than the actual taste.

In the dark interior of their Land Cruiser, Andy, Mike and the French engineer, Erich, ate in silence; the only noise the rustling of their foil food pouches. Outside, the full moon cast a worryingly bright light down on the quiet road and the surrounding flat terrain. In the last three hours they had seen no more than a dozen vehicles pass by. Each one had been stopped by the hastily established vehicle control point, and then waved on after a cursory inspection by flashlight. All of the vehicles passing were heavily laden with possessions and people on the move, presumably away from the growing unrest in the larger towns. Out here, with only the moon and the stars and the gentle hiss of a light breeze for company, Andy conceded you could be excused for thinking it was a quiet and uneventful night for all of the country. Except for the distant and disturbing orange glow of Al-Bayji on the horizon, you could think that.

From the snippets they were picking up from the BBC World Service and the more detailed reports coming from local stations, and translated for them by Farid, it seemed as if the unrest that had started first thing this morning in Riyadh had spread right across the Arabian peninsula like a tidal wave.

‘They’ve gone insane,’ said Mike, breaking the silence.

In the darkness Andy nodded in agreement, although the American wouldn’t have been able to see the gesture. ‘I just can’t believe how quickly this seems to be spreading,’ he replied after a moment.

‘There’s no working these crazy assholes out. First they’re turning on us because we kicked out their tinpot dictator, now all of a sudden they’re turning on each other. Do you think they just got bored with blowing up foreigners?’

Andy sucked in a breath and let it go. He had sat through so many conversations that started like this back in London, around the dinner table in the company of Jenny’s friends and their husbands. Invariably the hubbies rarely strayed beyond talking about Top Gear, football, property prices and very occasionally, politics, and even then only in a superficial ‘that’s how I’d sort things’ kind of way.

Erich sat in silence for a moment before murmuring something in French that suggested he agreed with the Texan. He ended his sentence with a solitary English word, ‘savages’.

The driver-side door opened and a cool flurry of wind blew in a cloud of grit and dust. Farid climbed in, his shemagh fluttering around his face. He quickly pulled the door closed.

‘The others okay?’ asked Andy.

Farid nodded. ‘Amal and Salim sleeping. The other engineer, U-u . . .’

‘Ustov,’ said Erich.

Farid nodded politely, ‘Ustov sleeping too.’

The silence was uncomfortable until Mike decided to break it in his own blundering way.

‘So why are all you people fucking well ripping the crap out of each other?’

The old Iraqi man turned to Mike, ‘Is not all of us. Many, like me, we want just peace.’

‘Yeah? Well every time another roadside mine blows a hole in one of our convoys, there’s one hell of a lot of you out there celebrating on the streets jumping up and down and firing your guns in the air.’

‘That is not everyone.’

‘And now you’re doing it to each other,’ Mike said, almost laughing with exasperation, ‘I mean . . . I don’t get it . . . why?’

‘I do not expect you to understand.’

‘But you’re all brothers aren’t you? . . . All Muslims? We’re supposed to be the big bad guys aren’t we?’

‘Would you ask me to try understand why so many Christian brothers died in your American Civil War?’

There was a lull in the car that Andy suspected might precede an enraged outburst from Mike. But to his credit he replied in a measured manner. ‘No, I suppose you wouldn’t understand if you’re not from a southern state. Shit, of course you wouldn’t.’

Andy turned in his seat to face both Mike and Farid. ‘Why don’t we leave off politics for now, huh?’

‘I just want to understand what makes these people tick,’ said Mike. ‘We came in and kicked out Saddam, we’ve tried rebuilding this country, fixing the power stations, the sewage systems, the water supplies, the hospitals. Rebuilding the schools so all the little boys and girls—’

‘You rebuild our country, yes . . . but in your image!’ Farid replied, his soft voice raised ever so slightly in pitch. It was the first time Andy had seen the normally placid old man raise his voice in anger. Under the stress, his very good English began to fracture a little.

‘We not wanting our girls go to school, to learn how to become business lady, to dance around undressed in exercise gym before other men, to do power lunch, make big business deals. We do not want to buy McDonald burgers, or Coke, or Pepsi, or cowboy boots.’

Farid came to an abrupt halt, ground his teeth in silence and stared out of the window at the moonlit desert. ‘It still our country. Only Iraqi people can know how to make fixed again, like a puzzle. We know what all the pieces is . . . are, and how they going together. You Americans don’t even know what picture is on the jigsaw!’

Mike laughed. ‘Oh Jesus, what a load of crap. I tell you this - I know you ain’t got your goddamned pieces right when you have women and children blown to bloody shreds in the marketplaces every day. The best chance you had of rebuilding this shit-pit piece of desert you call a country, was when we rolled in and knocked over Saddam’s statue. And you threw that chance right back in our faces. And frankly all we’ve ever wanted to do since, is get the fuck out again.’

Farid shook his head. ‘Everyone know why America comes here.’

‘Let’s just leave it there,’ said Andy addressing both men. ‘We don’t need—’

‘Shit! Who are you? My mom?’ snapped Mike.

‘I’m just saying we can do without this right now.’

‘Yeah right, this is bullshit,’ his deep voice rumbled. He opened the back door and stepped out, slamming the door behind him.

They watched his large frame, a dark silhouette against the glowing, pale blue moonlit ground, fade quickly into the night. A moment later they saw the flare of a match, and then a glowing orange tip move up and down every so often.

‘He just like every American,’ Farid muttered.

‘Farid, enough of this for one night, okay?’ said Andy quietly looking sternly at the old man. ‘They,’ he said nodding towards Mike, ‘want to get out of here just as much as you want them out. It’s not your oil they’re here for.’

The translator looked less than convinced by that assurance, but he offered no reply. After a moment’s silence listening to the gritty dust tinkle against the windows, blown across by a lively breeze, he stirred.

‘I get rest now,’ he said before bidding goodnight to Andy and Erich and leaving their Land Cruiser for the other one.

Andy shook his head at those words.

It’s not your oil they’re here for.

If only it were that simple. Anyone who had a fair understanding of Iraq’s complete incapacity to pump and export oil knew that. Anyone who’d taken the time to look at the much bigger picture knew that. Anyone who took the time to research the long-term game-plan knew that. If Andy was asked why the Americans were over here and was only allowed to give one straight and clear reason, just to make this complex scenario simple and digestible, he knew what answer he would give.

They’re here to keep the Saudis in line.

The Gulf War, the second one at least, wasn’t about hunting down Al-Qaeda, it hadn’t been about finding weapons of mass destruction, nor about removing a dictator. It had been about placing a permanent and very visible military presence right in the middle of all of these oil-producing nations. A crystal clear warning to all of them, particularly the Saudis, that they better just keep on playing ball with America.

And now it looked like things had all gone wrong.

He suspected the focus for US forces would be damage limitation, a desperate attempt to guard and preserve the oil facilities in Saudi, and for that matter in Kuwait, Oman and the other big producers. He wondered, however, if they’d be able to put a lid on this thing before every other refinery and pump station in this part of the world ended up looking like IT-1B, the burned-out shell they’d been picking over this morning.

Christ, if all of the Arabian oil producers head that way . . .?

This was a scenario, one of many, he had imagined could happen. And that’s all it would take to start things tumbling down, a few months, shit . . . a few weeks, maybe even a single week without a regular flow of the stuff, would do it.

He had imagined something like this might eventually happen. In fact he had actually predicted it.

Andy pulled out his mobile phone once again, checked for a signal and cursed.