The intelligence community has used BrightPlanet's DQM (deep query manager) for years to identify, retrieve, cla.s.sify and organize both deep and surface content. Its information store was five hundred times larger than that of the world wide web, according to the expert on late-night cable TV 500 billion individual doc.u.ments compared to the one billion of the surface web. There are more than two hundred thousand deep-web sites. Sixty of the largest contain more than forty times the information of the entire surface web.

Even search engines with the largest number of web pages indexed, such as Google or Northern Light, each index no more than sixteen per cent of the surface web. Most internet searchers are therefore only scanning one of the three thousand pages available. Or, to put it another way, once I'd logged on to brightplanet.com I had a long night ahead.

Three hours later, after exploring databases that, among other things, catalogued all of Jerry's published work, I checked my new Hotmail box. Both sets of results were in. I printed them and cross-checked each result against the other.

It seemed that Jeral Abdul al-Hadi had moved round quite a bit in the last ten years. I had eleven addresses in front of me, complete with telephone numbers, as well as the names and telephone numbers of his previous neighbours. If the address was an apartment, I'd been given names and numbers for most of the block.

Marriage records showed that Jerry had married Renee in Buffalo in July 2002. The bride's maiden name was Metter.

I phoned a couple of the numbers at random. After apologizing for calling so late, I told them I was trying to get Jerry but his phone seemed to be out of order. It was an emergency, could they go get him? Very p.i.s.sed off ex-neighbours told me Jerry had moved away. I did my idiot bit, which came very naturally, and moved on.

Jerry checked out. I wasn't too sure if it was good or bad news; I supposed I'd decide when I got to Baghdad.

What about Nuhanovic? Google threw up only a few links. I picked one which took me to a site that published translations of pieces from Pakistani newspapers, talking about the c.o.ke boycott.

It seemed the journalist liked thirty-five-year-old Hasan Nuhanovic, proudly endorsing him as one of the Muslim world's most progressive and revolutionary thinkers. The Pakistani rumour mill had it that Nuhanovic was in the country, wanting to teach them a little US history. In 1766, the Americans had discovered a political weapon without which the revolution might not have been successful: the consumer boycott.

Even before America was a nation, I was told, it was already a society of consumers, two and a half million strong, scattered along eighteen hundred miles of eastern coastline. But the colonists had little in common besides a weakness for what Samuel Adams called the baubles of Britain.

In 1765, the Stamp Act had imposed a duty on papers used in everyday business and legal transactions. In retaliation, merchants in at least nine towns voted to refuse all British imports. Benjamin Franklin was summoned to London, where Parliament demanded that his people paid the taxes. Franklin reminded the House that his people were huge consumers of British goods, but this lucrative spending habit should not be taken for granted: the Americans could either produce anything of necessity themselves, or quite simply do without. A month later, the Stamp Act was repealed, and trade in British goods continued to thrive.

Just two years later, the British had forgotten their lesson. Parliament imposed the Townsend Revenue Act, taxing tea, gla.s.s, paper, anything essential. 'Franklin's threat became a reality,' the piece said. 'The boycott became a public movement. Just as important, it allowed women, small-town dwellers and the poor to become political activists. In Boston in 1770, hundreds of women signed pet.i.tions saying that they wouldn't use tea, and of course they eventually had a big party with a few boxes of the stuff out in the harbour.'

Cities issued detailed lists of all items that were taboo. Voluntary a.s.sociations formed in citizens' support groups to make sure n.o.body was buying the boycotted goods, and attacking those who did. The Brits were being attacked where it hurt, in their pockets. America was becoming united against the mother country, and it very soon became the fashion not to buy British. It didn't matter if American goods were inferior; it didn't even matter if they didn't exist. It was a change of mindset.

And this, apparently, was exactly what Hasan Nuhanovic was trying to achieve: to encourage people to retake control of their own destinies from those who thought they had the right to dictate to other cultures.

That was it. Never any recent picture of him, never any interviews. No wonder he was camera-shy. As well as being a target for every religious fundamentalist and political extremist going, it seemed he hadn't exactly endeared himself to the powerful multinationals either. In a piece in Newsweek Newsweek, one reporter who'd spent several months failing to get an interview had written: 'You could say it was like getting blood out of a stone if only you could get past the legions of gatekeepers and through the impenetrable smokescreen of security. Compared with Hasan Nuhanovic, Osama bin Laden's a media tart.'

I clicked another link that sang the praises of new cola brands, owned by Muslims, and offering a real alternative for people concerned about the practices of some major Western multinationals who directly or indirectly supported Muslim oppression. Once again, street talk was that Nuhanovic had slipped into Pakistan last year, to explain that Coca-Cola represented American capitalism and that by boycotting it consumers were sending a powerful signal: that the exploitation of Muslims could not continue unchecked. But the Pakistan government wasn't too impressed. Their population was about half that of the United States a huge market. Two per cent of the country's revenue came from tax on Coca-Cola sales.

A spokeswoman for the London-based Islamic Human Rights a.s.sociation said the war on terrorism had made all American brands a focus for resentment, and buying alternative brands made the Muslim community feel better. 'It makes us feel like we can do something,' she said. 'Coca-Cola has become a big symbol of America. It's a tangible symbol at a time when there is increasing unhappiness about US foreign policy.'

In response, Coca-Cola said that an unofficial boycott of US products in retaliation for Washington's support of Israel had really f.u.c.ked with its bottom line in the region. Zam Zam Cola, the Iranian drink introduced after that country's Islamic revolution, had huge sales growth a few years ago when a prominent Muslim cleric ruled that c.o.ke and Pepsi were 'unIslamic '.

Zam Zam was now exporting to Saudi Arabia and other Persian Gulf countries, shipping more than ten million bottles in the last four months of 2002.

Qibla Cola named after the direction the faithful face when praying had plans to expand into the Middle East, Africa, southern Asia and the Far East. I couldn't help smiling at the prospect of adverts asking us to take the Zam Zam taste test.

23.Thursday, 9 October The forty-seater Royal Jordanian turboprop had hit turbulence several times during the hour-and-a-half flight. I had my head against the window, watching the blur of the prop. It was no surprise that most of the world's major religions were born in the desert. There was f.u.c.k-all else to do.

Each time the aircraft bucked, it drew gasps from pa.s.sengers who were new to the game. They probably thought we were being downed by a SAM 7. The not-so-funny thing was that they might soon be right.

I glanced over at Jerry in the aisle seat. He was busy sorting out his camera bits and pieces, so I turned back and stared out of the window again. Below me, in the emptiness of the Western Desert, I saw the strip of tarmac that connected Jordan to Baghdad. It looked as remote as a motorway across Mars.

Jerry had met me off the plane at Heathrow. After a three-hour wait, we were on our way to Jordan. The Sunday Telegraph Sunday Telegraph wanted not just the picture but six thousand words on how Nuhanovic had been found, and what he had to say for himself. wanted not just the picture but six thousand words on how Nuhanovic had been found, and what he had to say for himself.

We'd had to hang around in the Jordanian capital since Monday evening. There was only one flight into Baghdad each morning and every man and his dog wanted to be on it.

The only way of getting in earlier was chancing it on the h.e.l.l-for-leather roads. There were three routes in: from Kuwait to the south, Jordan to the west, or Turkey to the north. At the moment, myth had it that Turkey was best, but it was still a nightmare. They'd been nicknamed the Ali Baba roads for a reason. Every gangster in the region knew that journalists carried big wads of US dollars. They held them up, then hosed them down. And if the hijackers didn't get you, the nervous young American soldiers would. They didn't like people overtaking their convoys.

Even if we had been robbed, it would still have been cheaper than flying. It was costing us over a thousand dollars each, but even pre-booking didn't guarantee a seat. We'd paid for our Tuesday flight, but still had to turn up every day and try to blag our way on board. There was a list of pa.s.sengers for each departure, but that really didn't matter. You just had to line up and take your chances with the women on the desk. Each morning, I would point to our names on the manifest, and each time she would say something like, 'Yes, you are on the flight, but you can't go today.' Jerry did the translating, but it always just sounded like 'f.u.c.k off' to me.

It had still been dark when we left our minging hotel every morning to start the day's bribery. We'd even tried to bluff our way on to the daily UN flight. It didn't seem very full. They'd pulled out of Baghdad after a bomb had killed their representative, Sergio Vieira de Mello, and a shedful of others.

Jerry had been going apes.h.i.t because he wanted time to sort himself out on the ground before Nuhanovic arrived, but now he was coming in on the same day. I leaned over to him, and nodded surrept.i.tiously towards a bunch of heavily bearded characters at the back of the cabin. 'You sure he isn't on this flight?' That got a smile out of him. He'd been contacting his DC source every day, but there was still no int.

Most of our other fellow travellers seemed to be overweight businessmen, sweating buckets in their compulsory Middle East business suits khaki fishing waistcoats, pockets stuffed with digital cameras so they could snap away and tell war stories afterwards. I'd heard a few German and French voices among them, but mostly they were American. Whatever the nationality, they all carried their laptops and other business stuff in macho, brand new daysacks.

A few rows in front of us was a guy called Rob Newman. At least, I thought it was him. I hadn't seen him since the early nineties, when we were both in B squadron of the SAS. I'd got out and worked for the Firm. It was only later that I'd heard he'd commanded the patrol that dug in the LTD caches for me in Bosnia. Rob wasn't a new boy to the Middle East either, or Baghdad for that matter. We'd both been into the city during the first Gulf War, f.u.c.king about trying to cut communication lines. He'd spent what felt like a lifetime sitting on a sand dune, just like me. If it wasn't training some Arab special-forces group, it was trying to kill them. 'Maintaining the UK's interests overseas', it used to be called, but it had probably had a shiny and very cuddly PR makeover under New Labour. I shouldn't have been surprised to see him. After all, every man and his dog with a mortgage to pay off would have headed straight to Iraq.

I'd seen Rob at Amman airport every day, doing the same as us, getting f.u.c.ked off the flight. But while Jerry was foaming at the mouth, Rob never lost it. He was deep and consistent: he always thought about things before gobbing off. His was always the voice of reason, and it was directly linked to a brain the size of the Rock of Gibraltar.

The other constant with him was his dress sense. His uniform was blue b.u.t.ton-down shirt, straining a little round the gut these days, chinos, Caterpillar boots, and a f.u.c.k-off Seiko diver's watch the size of a Big Mac.

I didn't know if he'd seen me; we certainly hadn't had eye to eye. It was one of the unwritten rules. Even if you recognized each other, you wouldn't go up and say h.e.l.lo. One or both of you might be on a job; you might be putting him in the s.h.i.t if his name wasn't Rob Newman today.

It would have been good to say h.e.l.lo, though.

24.The back of Rob's head was still covered by a mop of wavy brown hair that stuck out in all directions. I was happy to see a bit of grey at the sides, and that he'd put on a bit of lard not that I could talk after a few months on the toasted cheese and Branston diet. He was taller than me, maybe six one or two, but I didn't mind because he also had the world's biggest nose. By the time he was sixty it was going to be bulbous and red, with pores the size of craters. He came from the Midlands somewhere and had a voice like a midnight radio DJ.

He was with a guy in his mid-thirties, with thick black hair and very pale skin whose slight build reminded me of the younger Nuhanovic. He hadn't been hanging around in the Middle East for long, that was for sure. In the aisle seat of the row behind them was the sky marshal, a tall Jordanian with severely lacquered hair and a big bulge under his cream cotton jacket. Next row back were two Iraqi women who hadn't stopped gobbing off at each other, and their two mates across the aisle, at a hundred miles an hour since checking in. Then there was us: both bored, knackered and gagging for something to drink.

Apart from the bouts of turbulence, it had been a pretty uneventful trip. No flight attendants running up and down with coffee and biscuits. Nothing below us but mile after mile of the Mars expedition training area. Our inflight entertainment came from the row behind. A Canadian woman was going to Baghdad to write a book on women's rights. Her mother was Iraqi, but she'd never been there herself. She was sitting next to an American who'd been working on her almost since take-off, and deserved an A for effort because at last he was getting some feedback. He looked like he'd stepped straight out of a Gap store window, in khaki cargoes, polo shirt and a diving watch even bigger than Rob's. If he didn't get a s.h.a.g I was going to suggest he could always go forward a few rows and compare functions.

She was going to change the world, and he was sitting there agreeing with everything she said. He made sure he kept his voice down, which was a shame for the rest of the cabin: when it came to bulls.h.i.t, this boy was first cla.s.s. It was very strange, almost fate, them meeting. He was also interested in women's rights. He worked for the CPA [Coalition Provisional Authority] now as a civilian, but he'd been in special forces. Not that he was really allowed to talk about it.

Jerry leaned across to me. 'Yeah, right. He can't tell her because it's a secret!'

The Canadian woman seemed to be warming to Mr Gap. 'You know, being in Jordan was so, so like 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 s.h.i.t 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 airs.p.a.ce, 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 a.s.sorted s.h.i.t back in his b.u.mbag. First and foremost he was a f.u.c.king 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 Malaga 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.

'f.u.c.k 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 b.o.l.l.o.c.ks.

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 sungla.s.ses. The stench of aviation fuel was overpowering and the noise was deafening. It felt like the entire US military was on the move. Helicopters took off and landed less than a hundred metres away. Heavy trucks hauled containers and water bowsers. American voices yelled orders at each other.

As the businessmen got out their cameras, a voice barked and a young T-shirted soldier sprinted up, M16 in hand and Beretta strapped to his leg. 'No pictures on base. Cameras away.' He was enjoying this, and he didn't care who knew it.

I stood with Jerry in the shade of a wing, watching the macho men slip their Olympuses obediently back into their waistcoats.

A military truck arrived. The American driver and a couple of Iraqis started to pull our bags from the luggage hold and throw them into the back.

Another soldier headed across the tarmac towards an enormous freight hangar, shouting, 'Follow me, folks,' and, like a bunch of sheep, we did.

Rob and whoever he was with were out in front, followed closely by the still jabbering Iraqi women. Jerry and I stayed in the shade as long as we could, then fell in behind. A couple more US squaddies brought up the rear.

Inside the grey steel building, a black guy in T-shirt and sungla.s.ses appeared, the obligatory Beretta strapped to his leg. 'Listen up, people.' He waved a clipboard. 'When that transport arrives, I want you to grab all your bags and bring them to the table. They'll be checked before you move on to Immigration. Did you all get that?'

He got a few mumbles of a.s.sent, perhaps in recognition of the fact that he was the first soldier we'd seen who wasn't still looking forward to his sixteenth birthday.

The truck arrived and our bags were dumped on the concrete floor. People started retrieving them and filing over to the table. I hung back until Rob and his guy had collected theirs, then picked up my daysack. Jerry had scoffed at how small it was, but why carry a whole suitcase of stuff if you can buy everything when you get there? One change of clothes and a toothbrush, that's all you need. Everything else is excess baggage.

Rob turned and must have seen me, but we still didn't have eye to eye. In fact n.o.body was talking much, apart from the four Iraqi women. Everyone looked apprehensive as the soldiers dug about in their bags, made them spark up their laptops and tried to look like they knew what they were doing.

I reckoned they were poking around just for the fun of it. If you were going to bring anything illegal into this country, you'd go the Ali Baba route. There were hundreds of miles of unpatrolled desert that everyone, from drug traffickers to armed militants, was pouring across.

After the checks were complete we had to move round to the other side of the table and collect our bags before being led through the hangar. Logistics people sat at tables, tapping busily on their laptops. This being the US military, the bulk of the hangar was stuffed with racks and racks of shiny new equipment. The kit would be rushed to whoever needed it. In the British Army, there'd have been six quartermasters guarding one ration pack, and even that couldn't be claimed without a requisition order signed by the chief of the General Staff.

We reached a corridor and things got smarter. US soldiers sat drinking cans of c.o.ke on old, recently liberated, gilded settees. It looked like this area had been the front office for whatever the hangar had once been used for. Right now it was home to the all-new Iraqi immigration service. Several officials in friendly blue shirts sat at desks, each equipped with a PC and digital camera. Behind them sat a group of Americans, some in uniform, giving everyone the once-over as they went through.

Beyond the tables was a blur of people in uniforms and civvies. It was obviously the ad hoc ad hoc arrivals and departures zone, but it looked more like the reception area at the UN building. A bunch of Koreans in American BDUs stood around with a group of Italians. Every nationality had their flag st.i.tched on to a sleeve. The smartest-looking troops were the Germans, in crisply laundered black cargoes, T-shirts and matching body armour. Their flag was almost invisible, but with their brown boots, Mediterranean tans and blond hair, they won the best-dressed-for-war compet.i.tion hands down. arrivals and departures zone, but it looked more like the reception area at the UN building. A bunch of Koreans in American BDUs stood around with a group of Italians. Every nationality had their flag st.i.tched on to a sleeve. The smartest-looking troops were the Germans, in crisply laundered black cargoes, T-shirts and matching body armour. Their flag was almost invisible, but with their brown boots, Mediterranean tans and blond hair, they won the best-dressed-for-war compet.i.tion hands down.

I filed through, showing my Nick Stone pa.s.sport. I bulls.h.i.tted Jerry that Collins was my Irish mother's maiden name. I'd applied for an Irish pa.s.sport, but I lost it in a move and hadn't needed it for years. Not that he believed me, of course, but what did it matter? There'd probably be worse things to worry about once we got into the city. An Iraqi took my picture, stamped my pa.s.sport and waved me through.

Jerry wasn't so lucky. Either the Arab face on the American pa.s.sport threw them a bit, or they were just trying to show off to their new bosses who'd given them such nice shirts.

I waited for him in the general area. It was hot and noisy, and most of the noise was Italian. They put the four women to shame, and their hand gestures were much better as well.

It wasn't just the soldiers who were armed. The place was heaving with guys wearing body armour over their civvies and carrying AK47s, MP5s, M16s, pistols, you name it. It made me feel good. Even if I was just holding Jerry's hand, I was working, and I was back with my own kind.

This was where I felt comfortable; this was my world. Maybe I had done the right thing coming here.

26.Dazzling sunshine streamed through a dust-covered window. I peered through and wondered how we'd get into the city. There were no taxis because they couldn't get on to the base. We were in a fortified confine: all I could see were rows of unmarked 4x4s with darkened windows and a few guys standing around with body armour under the obligatory sand-coloured safari vest, sun-gigs hanging off their noses, shoulder-slung MP5s at the ready. To complete the effect they had boom mikes stuck to their mouths to help them look like they were on top of the job. They hardly needed to be: there were more soldiers on show here than there were in the entire British Army. I reckoned they were the official freelancers in town, probably protecting the American and Brit bureaucrats who ran the country, looking good so the CPA thought they were getting their money's worth.

In the midst of this chaos one thing was for sure: Rob wouldn't be queuing up for a bus. He'd have organized everything down to the last detail, and was probably already gliding towards Baghdad in an air-conditioned 4x4.

It looked like the Canadian had got herself sorted too. Gap Man was busy loading her bag into the boot of a white Suburban as she jumped into the back and the BG started the engine.

Jerry was still being questioned. I caught his eye and indicated that I was going outside. He nodded, then turned back to yabber some more to his new friend. Ever since we'd got into Jordan he'd been saying how strange it was speaking Arabic all the time. Apparently this was the first occasion he'd ever used it, apart from talking to his grandmother and his mum or going round to one of the corner shops in Lackawanna.

I put my sungla.s.ses back on and walked outside. The midday sun drilled into me as I looked round for transport. I hadn't gone more than a dozen paces when a loud c.o.c.kney voice bellowed behind me, 'Oi, s.h.i.t-for-brains, how's it going?'

I recognized him at once, even with Aviators on. I hadn't seen him since leaving the squadron, but there was no mistaking Gary Mackie. No discreet stuff for Gaz: it had never been his style to obey the written rules, let alone unwritten ones.

He was still shorter than me, and was still hitting the weights. His arms and chest were huge.

I came out with the regular greeting you give people when you b.u.mp into them like this. 'f.u.c.king h.e.l.l, I heard you were dead!'

He didn't answer. He just advanced on me with his arms wide open and banged himself into me for a big bear-hug. Then he stood back, still holding me by the shoulders. His eyes were level with my nose. 'f.u.c.king h.e.l.l, mate, you look a bag of s.h.i.t!'

Fair one: I probably did. Gaz had to be in his early fifties now, but looked much younger. His black sweatshirt was soaking wet, front and back. It had started out with long sleeves but they'd been ripped off, leaving the threads hanging over the top of his big tanned Popeye arms. He'd been in the Light Infantry before the Regiment, and still had a faded tattoo of his old cap badge on his right biceps. Only now it looked more like an anchor.

'Thanks, Gaz, good to see you too. How long you been here?'

He was jumping up and down, speaking with his hands. 'Six months. It's f.u.c.king brilliant, know what I mean?' He pulled his jeans up by their thick leather belt. A 9mm sat in a pancake holder at his side. 'Who you working for, Nicky boy?'

'Newspaper guy, American. He's still in Immigration.'

He grabbed my arm. 'Come here come and see my crew.' All smiles, he dragged me towards the four guys lounging in the shade nearby, all dressed in his regulation jeans and T-shirt combo. I'd never seen Gaz firing on less than six cylinders: everything was always great with him. He'd been married more times than Liz Taylor and still loved every one of them. They probably felt the same about him.

He punched me in the arm. 'It's good to see you, mate. I didn't know you was on the circuit. I haven't heard about you since f.u.c.k knows when.'

Once I'd left the Regiment and started to work for the Firm, I dropped out of almost everything I'd known. That was just how it had to be.

The 'circuit' was the job market for the ex-military. Security companies snap up personnel for helping out in a war, VIP protection, guarding pipelines, training foreign armies, that sort of thing. There's a whole bunch of firms, British and American, some more reliable than others. The work is mostly freelance, payment always by the day. You're responsible for your own tax and insurance, which means that most blokes don't take care of either. It's called the circuit because you bounce from one company to another. If you hear of a better job, you drop the one you're doing and move on.

Gaz introduced me to a South African, a Russian and two Americans. I didn't bother taking their names I wouldn't be seeing them again. We shook hands anyway. 'Me and Nick used to be in the same troop,' Gary announced, with evident pleasure.

The guys nodded a h.e.l.lo, then fell back into their own conversation. It was no big deal: I wasn't expecting a group hug. It's not as if we're part of some brotherhood it's a business like any other. That's just how it is. This lot looked different from the guys working for the CPA. They were in it for the money, not the boom mikes.

It wasn't just transport out of here I wanted to know about. 'What's the score on getting a weapon you got any spare?'

'Got 'em coming out our f.u.c.king ears. Where you staying?'

'The Palestine.'

I spotted the four Iraqi women further along, struggling with their luggage, shouting and hollering at each other.

'Great place. f.u.c.king odd-looking wait till you see it. Good protection, though. Tell you what, you're better off just getting them from one of the fixers. They've got shedloads, but they're tearing the a.r.s.e out of the prices. Be a lot quicker than waiting for me to bring a couple round, know what I mean?'

I turned back to Gaz. 'I'll do that. So what you doing here, mate?'

'f.u.c.king brilliant. Money for old rope, mate. Training the police. They're using AKs, but we're showing them how to use the f.u.c.king things properly. I get my training in twice a day and then I head out on patrol with the boys.'