"So, you're on your way to . . ." "Yep. Iraq, just like you."
"The last time we saw each other was in . . ." Miranda rubbed her chin. "Bosnia."
"The first and last, if I recall."
"And you told me you were driving trucks for an NGO, taking food in to the poor Bosnians, right? That was the last I heard from Lion." "Come on, Miranda, let's let bygones be bygones." "You don't think I'm upset with you, Lion?"
"Look, I had to leave Sarajevo in a hurry. There just wasn't any time to say good-bye."
Miranda burst out laughing, then came over and stood on tiptoe so she could reach high enough to give him a couple of quick pecks on the cheek. Then she introduced another man, who had been standing in the background, looking on in bemusement.
"This is Daniel, my partner in crime and the best cameraman in the business. And this is Lion. Lion ... I don't know what."
Lion shook Daniel's hand without bothering to finish Miranda's sentence. The cameraman couldn't have been over thirty and was wearing a ponytail held carefully in place by a rubber band. Lion liked him instinctively: He wasn't in camouflage like some of the reporters, deluding themselves into thinking they were part of the action. Daniel, like Lion, was simply dressed appropriately for fieldwork: jeans, desert boots, a thick pullover, and a parka.
"So who're you going to save this time?" Miranda asked.
"Nobody—this time I'm going to be the competition."
"What! Since when are you a reporter?"
"Didn't I mention it? I freelance as a photographer when I can get the work."
Miranda eyed him suspiciously. She knew practically every war correspondent on earth, no matter what country they were from. They constantly ran into one another in conflict zones, in Lagos, in Sarajevo, in Palestine, in Chechnya. . . . Lion wasn't one of them—that she was sure of.
"I've never done press photography before," Lion added. "I shoot for catalogues and . . . well, when things get tough I do weddings. You know, the happy couples stuffing cake in each other's faces."
"And ..." Miranda was clearly still dubious.
"And when things get even tougher I do other things. Like driving trucks. The agency I work through has contacts with the press, and the owner told me that Iraq sells big now. They're willing to pay for anything passable I send in. So here I am, looking for that big payday."
"And what's the name of this agency?" Daniel wanted to know.
"Photomundi."
"Oh, I know them," Daniel said. "They hire freelancers by the job—they throw you something, but there's no guarantee they'll even buy your stuff. I hope Iraq goes well for you, because if it doesn't, you're screwed—it'll dig you a pretty deep hole."
"Well, to tell you the truth, it's already costing me," Lion said.
"If we can give you a hand ..." Daniel offered.
"Thanks, I'd appreciate it—I'm no journalist, I know. Any tips would be great. Taking pictures of a war isn't the same as shooting a can of asparagus."
"No, it definitely ain't," said Miranda, her voice still mistrustful.
Daniel invited Lion to join the group of reporters at the other end of the bar. Lion hesitated. He didn't want to get any friendlier with the reporters than he had to, but he didn't want to arouse suspicion either. So he joined them and was introduced to a dozen or so war correspondents from around the world who were getting ready to parachute, figuratively speaking, into Iraq.
They didn't pay him much mind, which suited Lion just fine. They didn't know him, and the fact that Miranda introduced him as a commercial photographer trying his hand at snapping war pictures brought out their sense of superiority. They looked down on him, there was no doubt about it—they were battle-hardened veterans, tossing down their whiskey and trading war stories, without much time for a newcomer.
Early the next day they would be heading out for Baghdad in rental cars. They invited Lion to join them, as long as he paid his share.
The next morning they all drifted down sleepily to the lobby, looking nothing like the merry gang of the night before. The booze and lack of sleep had left their marks.
Daniel was the first to see him, and he waved, while Miranda frowned.
"What's with you and your friend?" Daniel asked her. "He's not my friend. I just met him outside Sarajevo in the middle of a firelight. You could say, though, that he pretty much saved my life." "What happened?"
"A Serbian paramilitary unit was attacking a village near Sarajevo. I was there with several guys from other networks. The gunfire had us pinned down in the middle. I'm not sure how it happened, but suddenly I was all by myself out in the middle of the street, hiding between two cars with bullets whizzing past me. And then Lion appeared, practically out of nowhere, don't ask me how. He pushed my head down and got me out.
"The Serbs could have decided to kill us all, but that day they decided it was better publicity to make their case on television screens all over the world, so we were allowed to escape. Lion put me in a truck and spirited me away to Sarajevo. I've got to say I was impressed by the way he managed the situation. He seemed like ... he seemed like a soldier, not a truck driver. When he dropped me off, we made a date to see each other later. And he disappeared. I never saw him again. Until last night." "But you didn't forget him." "No. I didn't forget him."
"And now you have mixed feelings—you don't know what to think, and you especially don't know if you want to get close to him. Am I right?"
"What are you, a psychoanalyst?"
"I know you, Miranda." Daniel laughed.
"Too well. You and I have been in this shit for what? Three years? I spend more time with you than I do with my friends."
"Work is work. Esther complains about the same thing—I'm with you more than her, and then when I get home I'm exhausted."
"You got lucky with Esther."
"Yeah. Anybody else would have thrown me out on my ass years ago." Daniel laughed again.
Lion joined Miranda, Daniel, and two German cameramen in an SUV parked outside the hotel.
Miranda hardly spoke for most of the way. Lion didn't kid himself about her: Despite her fragile appearance, she was a woman hardened by war coverage. And perhaps also by the battles of life. Although she was small—she couldn't have been over five-three or weighed more than a hundred pounds, with very short black hair and honey-colored eyes— Lion sensed she was a force of nature. She had a temper, and she knew how to get her way, even push people around; she seemed fearless. When he'd met her that day near Sarajevo, he had been surprised and impressed by how she kept her cool despite the situation; any other woman, or man for that matter, would have been in hysterics.
The highway to Baghdad was as crowded as it was dusty: The NGOs had decided to haul in their supplies on the ground from Amman rather than airlifting them. The SUV passed two convoys of trucks, and there were dozens of buses headed in both directions. At the Jordanian border, a bus full of Iraqis was trying to convince the border police to let them through. Some of the passengers were lucky; others, when their papers were examined, were detained—and roughly.
The reporters got out of their vehicles to photograph the scene and interview those in authority. They got no answers, only threats, so they decided to keep going. They'd have enough problems when they reached their destination.
The Hotel Palestina had seen better days. Even so, Lion had a hard time getting a room. There was nothing available without a reservation, he was told by a pleasant desk clerk, who seemed overwhelmed by
the avalanche of reporters crowding the desk, impatiently waiting for their room keys. Lion decided to try the short way. A hundred-dollar tip bought him a room on the eighth floor. The faucet in the bathroom sink dripped, the blinds couldn't be lowered, and the bedspread needed a trip to the laundry, but at least Lion had a roof over his head.
He knew he'd find the reporters in the bar as soon as they dropped their bags in their rooms. Nobody would start working until the next day, although everybody was already bu
sy hiring guides and interpreters. The Ministry of Information press center provided foreign reporters with interpreters, but some tried to find their own, since they knew that the official interpreters would be briefing the authorities on every move they made.
"You'll need a guide. A local who knows the city," Daniel told him when they ran into each other in the bar.
"Yeah, but I don't have any money for that; I'm going to try to make it on my own. It's cost me plenty just to get here—" Lion said.
"No, you don't understand. The government will require you to have a guide. They won't allow a British photographer to wander around on his own."
"I'll try not to attract any unwanted attention. See, my idea is to do a photo-essay on daily life in Baghdad. Don't you think newspapers will be interested in that?"
"It depends on the quality of the photos. You'd have to have something pretty damned good," Daniel warned him.
"I'll do my best. I'll be leaving the hotel early tomorrow—I want to shoot Baghdad waking up, so I'm going to hit the sack early. Besides, I'm beat from the trip in."
"Have dinner with us," Daniel invited him.
"No, thanks. You guys party too hard for me! I just came down for a cup of tea—I'm going straight back up to bed."
Lion was asleep by the time his head hit the pillow. He woke up before dawn and, after a quick shower, picked up his camera bag and headed out into the street. He had to cover his appearances, so he spent the better part of the morning in the bazaar and wandering through the streets of Baghdad. He photographed everything that attracted his attention, trying to capture the pulse of the city. But under blockade, Baghdad didn't have much to offer. Meanwhile, he tried to come up with a good cover for getting to Safran.
When he got back to the hotel sometime after noon, none of the reporters was around. He decided to go over to the Ministry of Information to see what they had to say about traveling to Safran.
Like almost all Iraqi men, Ali Sidqui wore a thick black mustache. He was a stocky man whose height and proud bearing made him look fitter, perhaps, than he was. As the second-in-charge of the press center in the Ministry of Information, he always tried to give his best smile to the reporters who were flocking to Baghdad in greater numbers every day.
"How may I help you?" he asked Lion.
Lion explained that he was a freelance photographer, and he showed him his press card from Photomundi. Ali took down all of Lion's information and asked about his first impressions of Baghdad. After about a half hour of friendly conversation, Lion got to the point.
"I'd like to do a special report. I heard that there's a high-profile archaeological excavation, made up of archaeologists and experts from all over Europe, going on near Tell Muqayyar, in a village called Safran. I'd like to go there and report on the excavation, show the world that ancient Mesopotamia is still yielding its secrets. I thought it'd be interesting to show that in spite of the blockade, there are academics and other professionals still working in Iraq."
AH himself hadn't heard about any archaeological expedition in Safran, but he was careful not to say so. As he listened, it struck him that the reporter's project might make for good propaganda. He promised to call Lion at the Hotel Palestina if he was able to persuade his superiors to grant permission to shoot there.
Lion returned to the hotel just at nightfall. Miranda was in the lobby with Daniel. They'd just come in too.
"We wondered what happened to you!" Miranda greeted him.
"I've been working all day. What about you guys?"
"We haven't stopped. These people are going through a really hard time—we visited a hospital that made you want to cry. They don't have anything," Daniel lamented.
"Yeah, I've seen the effects of the blockade. But I'm surprised at how friendly the people are, in spite of what they're going through."
"And in spite of what they know is coming—Bush and his friends are going to see to that," Miranda said angrily.
"Well, Saddam is not exactly a saint either," Lion replied.
"No, no, but Bush isn't doing this to rid the Iraqis of Saddam—all he cares about is the oil."
Miranda's tone made it clear that she was spoiling for a fight, but Lion had no interest in this particular controversy. He couldn't have cared less about Bush or Saddam. He was in Iraq to do a job, after which he'd return to his farm and Marian. He let Miranda's remark pass, but Daniel couldn't let the conversation go.
"It's the Iraqis who have to throw Saddam out, not us."
"Sure, but they'd have a hard time doing that," Lion said. "Anybody who tries, Saddam throws in prison, and if he's lucky they kill him quickly. You can't ask for miracles; people live under dictators because it's hard to topple them. They either get outside help or they stay the way they are."
"But usually what they get from the outside is worthless. Saddam was an American puppet, like Pinochet or bin Laden. Once they've served their purpose, it's time to get rid of them. Okay, get rid of them—I've got no problem with that. My problem is that in order to do that, they're going to kill thousands of innocent people and destroy the country. When the war is over, Iraq won't exist anymore," Miranda declared furiously.
"Let's not do this. There's no need to argue—we've all had a hard day. How about something to eat? Dinner, you guys?" asked Lion.
Daniel begged off and headed for his room, but Miranda took Lion up on his invitation. They headed toward the hotel restaurant, which was filled with reporters, and sat at a long table with a mix of journalists from across Europe. Fortunately, they all made themselves understood in English. As they all recounted what they had seen in Baghdad that day, each one knew that the others were withholding the juiciest bits for their reports home. Despite the solidarity among them, they never forgot they were competitors.
After dinner, they proceeded to the bar, where there were yet more reporters. Birds of a feather, thought Lion as he listened to the conversations that crisscrossed the tables, raised his eyebrows at the extravagant stories, and took in the personalities of the most colorful of the crowd.
"Have you sent anything in yet?" Miranda asked him.
"I will tomorrow morning. I hope something gets picked up. If I can sell some things quickly, I can stay; otherwise I have to go back."
"You give up fast," Miranda said sarcastically.
"I'd call myself a realist, thanks—I can take certain risks, but bankruptcy isn't one of them. By the way, I've wanted to ask you since Bosnia—where are you from?"
"Huh? Why do you ask that?"
"You work for an independent TV producer. You speak perfect English, but there's an accent there somewhere that I can't place. I've heard you speak French flawlessly, but then you get into an argument about Mexican television and, from the heat of it—and the fact that you hardly let the other guy get a word in edgewise—I'd have to say you're from some Spanish-speaking country. So what is it?"
"I'm not from anywhere," Miranda said, smiling slightly and shrugging. "I hate flags and national anthems and all the shit that divides people."
"But you must have been born somewhere."
"Yeah, Lion, I was born somewhere, but I'm not from there or from anywhere. I'm a woman without a country."
"Is that what it says on your passport?" Lion wasn't giving up.
"I have a passport from one of the EU countries so I can travel. You've got to be from somewhere when you want to cross borders."
"I heard something about that."
"Okay. If you must know, my father was born in Poland, but his parents were German. My mother was born in Ireland, but her father was Greek and her mother was Spanish. I was born in France. So where do you think I'm from?"
"What did your parents do?"
"My father was a painter, my mother was a designer. They were from nowhere and they lived everywhere. They hated national borders." "And taught you to hate them."
"I learned that on my own, thank you. I didn't need anybody to teach me."
At that, M
iranda turned away and joined the general conversation.
Lion overheard someone say that the Spanish reporters were organizing a trip to Basra and that the Swedes wanted to go to Tikrit, the birthplace of Saddam.
"What about you, Lion? Are you staying on in Baghdad?" a French journalist asked.
Lion hesitated a few seconds before answering. He decided to tell the truth.
"I want to go to Ur—what's now Safran." "To do what?" the Frenchman pursued.
"There's an archaeological expedition in the works near there, and I'm hoping that if I can get a good photo-essay out of the excavation I'll be able to sell it."
"Where is this expedition?" asked a German reporter. "It's Picot's, right?"
"Yeah, I think that's right. The truth is, I don't know too much about it, but it sounds interesting."
"I heard they'd found the remains of a palace or temple or something. That there might be tablets containing a version of Genesis. I read something about it in the Frankfurter" the German reporter mused. "I think there are a couple of German professors and archaeologists on the expedition. But it hadn't occurred to me that there'd be anything important to get out of it. As a reporter, that is."
"For you guys maybe not. But if I can get a good photo-essay out of it that the agency can sell, I might be able to stay on here for a while," Lion explained.
"It's not a bad idea, I'll tell you—there may be a good story there," said an Italian reporter.
"Yeah, 'til the bombing starts we've got to fill space with something," mused one of the Swedish guys.
"Whoa—it's my story, guys; no poaching! I'm not on an expense account here!" Lion protested, although the more decoys that accompanied him, the better, as far as he was concerned.