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.
PART TWO
23
Guy's Hospital, London
Monday, 5 March
1538 hrs
My arse was numb. I'd been parked on a hard plastic chair in A and E for the best part of four hours and still hadn't been called to see a doctor. Maybe I shouldn't have told the triage nurse I'd gouged my arm at work with a chisel. I should have been more upfront about being brassed up by a 7.62 short. At least it was getting a rest in the foam sling they'd given me in the land of Pizza Hut delivery.
The only entertainment left after London Lite and a couple of Sunday supplements people had dropped under the chairs was the flat-screen TV on the wall above the reception desk. It played without sound, and there's only so much BBC 24 tickertape reading you can take. Besides, I didn't like what I'd been seeing.
Two Polish builders were sitting next to me, one with half a finger hanging off and the other making more noise than if it was his injury and he'd lost a whole hand. Two teenage girls with huge earrings and their hair scraped back went on much too loudly about who was having who on their estate, and who'd had whose kid.
I stared down at the Bergen between my feet, getting even more angry with Dom as I thought about Pete's few possessions stuffed into my side pouch. It hadn't been an attack while filming, and it couldn't have been an ND (negligent discharge). The rumour mill would have exposed it by now.
But I'd find out who had done it and why, and Dom was going to tell me the truth if it was the last thing he did. But the fucker had evaporated.
The Big Mac and fries I'd blocked my arteries with at the on-site McDonald's an hour ago were making me thirsty. A kid came in with a bloodstained T-shirt wrapped round his hand. Within minutes, he was called to the only free cubicle. There was time to go and get a drink.
I checked the dressing wasn't leaking as I'd ripped the wound open on the way back to the UK. My