dialled. 'I'm going to AM Net. I'll phone you when I get there. Be ready for the call.'
I threw the phone back into the Bergen and got out the Gunga Din gear. I wasn't going to use Magreb. I didn't want him hurt. He also needed to keep his job, and if things got noisy I didn't want to be worrying about him.
I had a long walk ahead.
65
Emergency Surgical Centre for War
Victims
0758 hrs
The old guy who'd joined me on the left-hand bench under the corrugated-iron canopy pointed at the manic traffic and waved his arm with disgust. I agreed. Then he said something else and clearly expected an answer. I pointed at my ear and made a strangled sound. He nodded knowingly and looked to the other bench for someone to chat to just as the Yes Man's phone vibrated in my hand. I pushed my head down under my shemag. Now I was mad as well as deaf and dumb.
'No sign?' He sounded edgy. 'You still have eyes on?'
I cupped my hand over the phone to make doubly sure this stayed local. 'Don't call unless he's online. I'm trying to do my fucking job. You just stand by and do yours.'
I cut the call. It wasn't the time to worry about him being a bit sensitive about profanity.
One of the young lads who'd been fanning the fire in the metal trough last night came out of the kebab shop carrying a tray. He went into AM Net.
I was facing the end of Flower Street, on the other side of Jadayi Sulh. Further down the main to my left, on the next junction, was the Iranian embassy. My new mates outside were probably having a hot brew as they sat and watched the traffic. I was almost becoming a local.
The only thing that mattered right now was finding whoever was sending Siobhan the emails and follow him – or her. The target might be on foot or might have a vehicle. A vehicle would be nice. I could just go back to the fixer and he'd find out the registered keeper. Even in places like Baghdad it was simple to trace a driver by his plate. US patrols were tasked to hunt specifically for unlicensed or unplated vehicles. It's one of the first things that had to be done to show some semblance of order. Every self-respecting terrorist or kidnapper operating in a city knows to keep his paperwork up to date. In the early days, too many got pulled over with a truckload of explosives or bodies wrapped in gaffer-tape in the boot.
An explosion rumbled up from the south, the direction of TV Hill. Nobody paid a blind bit of attention. Even the sparrows stayed chirping in the trees. The old guys on the bench had a bit of a tut to each other and waved their arms, but that was about it. They left me out of their gang this time.
It had been a long night's walk from the Jock's place. After changing into the Gunga Din gear, I'd used the bottle of water to mix scoops of Marmite into a lumpy cream that I worked into my face and hands. It stained me up a treat, but I smelt like a toasted sandwich.
I'd got here three hours ago. The shop had opened just before seven. Only four people had gone in – and one of those had been the old man who'd opened the shutters and now sat sipping his tea. The other three had been smartly dressed, Western-style, and in and out within ten minutes.
Soon afterwards the old men started filling up the benches. Nobody gave my Marmite tan a second glance. Some took a second or two to give me the once-over, same as they would with any stranger, but then they got on with their lives. They'd been there the best part of an hour. It couldn't be a bus stop. Maybe they were queuing up to ask where I got my aftershave.
The plan was simple. I sat there and kept the trigger on AM Net, while the Yes Man stagged on in London, waiting for the next email to be sent. There would be a fifteen-second delay between Siobhan receiving it and it popping up on his screen.
This wasn't an ideal spot to be keeping the trigger from because of the main in between. Vehicles cut my view and the target became unsighted for seconds at a time. But it was the best