It was embarrassing putting my flak jacket on backwards and sideways, but in the darkness of the Baghdad airport car park I couldn't see anything. "Peterik, put the flak jacket on," the South African security contractor was saying politely, impatiently. "You know the procedure if we are attacked."
I didn't. He explained. One of the chase vehicles would pull up beside us and someone would drag me out of the armoured car, away from the firing. If both drivers were unconscious--nice euphemism--he said I should try to run to the nearest army checkpoint. If the checkpoint was American, things might work out if they didn't shoot first. If it was Iraqi . . . he didn't elaborate.