More Than You Can Say by Paul Torday

bare land, and the smoke of dozens of small fires rose into the sky as half-hearted attempts were made to burn some of the rubbish. The air was full of dust, from traffic or from running repairs going on to damaged buildings or, occasionally, holes in the road. No doubt these had been made by IEDs.
    We passed a huge white building. The upper floors were in a state of some disrepair with gaping holes in the masonry. I leaned forward and tapped the American driver on the shoulder.
    ‘What’s that place?’ I asked him.
    ‘We call it Camp Prosperity,’ he replied. ‘It used to be the As-Salaam palace, one of Saddam’s. It’s where they store his heads now.’
    ‘His heads?’
    ‘Yeah, big stone heads, the ones that were chopped off his statues all around the city.’
    This struck me as odd.
    ‘Why are they keeping them? Do they think they’ll need to put them back on again at some point?’
    The driver shook his head.
    ‘In this place, you never know. Now if you don’t mind, I need to watch the road.’
    We were driving in convoy – not too close together, in case of problems – and keeping up the best speed we could in the traffic.
    I shut up, and stared out of the window. It was so strange to be in this city, so often talked about, read about, seen on television: an ancient place, the cradle of civilisation. Now it looked remarkably unimpressive – like a shanty town on the outskirts, under a white-hot sky. The signs of war were everywhere: charred vehicles that had not yet been towed away, damaged buildings lining the roadside. The convoy slowed down as we approached the centre of the city and the buildings became larger and the streets a little busier; not too much traffic, apart from the military and police and a few very old cars or pick-ups that had managed to find petrol. On every street corner there were men with guns: Iraqi police and army, US army, private security. Looking up I could see half a dozen helicopters circling overhead. Above the helicopters and out of sight I knew a Nimrod or E-8 Joint Stars surveillance flight would be circling above the city.
    We had to pass through several different checkpoints before we could enter the Green Zone, at Checkpoint Twelve, weaving around concrete chicanes and through anti-crash barriers that were raised and lowered to let us through. Finally we turned into a white-walled compound. As we arrived in the central courtyard I saw a man in jeans and an old khaki shirt standing at the top of the steps that led to the main entrance of the building.
    ‘That’s Mr Harris,’ said my driver, pointing him out. He switched the engine off. ‘He’ll take care of you.’
    All of us climbed out of our vehicles and clustered together, waiting for Mr Harris to come down the steps. But he just stood and watched us. Around us other men, all in civilian dress, either Arab or European, moved across the courtyard in one direction or the other. The place smelled of strong coffee, cigarettes, sweat and petrol fumes. Underlyingit all was the bitter scent of blood. The roof of the building was a forest of radio antennae and satellite dishes. In another corner of the courtyard were several dusty Toyota pick-up trucks. I saw that one of them had bullet holes stitched along one side, and an Iraqi was sluicing out the tailgate with buckets of water. The sun was well up in the sky and the heat was unbearable. I mopped my brow. Finally Mr Harris came down the steps towards us.
    ‘Captain Gaunt?’ he asked.
    ‘I’m Captain Gaunt,’ I replied. ‘Sir.’
    ‘Green Park is a company, not the army. So I’m Mr Harris.’
    He looked as old as Methuselah. His face was deep brown, grizzled with beard, and lined in every way it is possible for a face to be lined, as if it had been etched by sand and cracked by drought. His eyes were pale blue, the whites slightly yellow. His jawline sagged slightly, and there were pouches under his eyes. His mouth was thin, like the slit in a letterbox. It