IN A matter of hours yesterday, the cost of hiring a car to escape from Baghdad to Jordan leapt from $350 to $500 — the equivalent of six months’ salary for most.

The price of a Kalashnikov has risen from around $20 to $500 in the past week as people rushed to arm themselves. Ammunition has sold out.

For months, the citizens of Baghdad have known that this moment would arrive; now it is upon them. Diplomacy died yesterday. President Bush delivered his final ultimatum. Baghdad is now the bulls-eye for some of the deadliest weapons mankind has created.

Elsewhere in Iraq the fighting may be over within days, but in the capital it is likely to last to the bitter end. Saddam Hussein’s second son Qusay, is in charge of defending the city and he has filled it with his father’s Republican Guard.

Convoys of diplomats, inspectors, aid workers and journalists pulled out of Baghdad. But among ordinary Iraqis, panic reigned as most people realised that it was probably too late to leave, even if they had the money to do so.

Petrol queues snaked around blocks. Rumours spread that there was no fuel between Baghdad and Jordan. People hung out of their cars, cursing the traffic jams leading out of town. “The only thing to do is to find a relative who has a house in a safe district and stay there,” said a woman who was busy moving her beloved books from her flat — near a communications aerial which she believes will be hit — to her brother’s.

The price of food, while still plentiful, skyrocketed overnight. Generators, rechargeable lamps, duct tape and other war provisions were being sought like chunks of gold.

“This is my last day selling tea,” said Ahmed, the tea vendor in Karrada Maryam Street. “There’s no point in selling tea on an empty street, and that’s what this will be in the next few days.” Fellow street vendors hauled their goods to their houses for safe-keeping. They also rushed to arm themselves, saying the only way to protect themselves after the war will be with guns. They fear looting more than bombs.

Fatalism has been replaced by open fear. Suad sobbed at her small hairdresser’s shop in the Mansour district, an area that will certainly be targeted, as she wished her clients farewell. “Will I ever see you again?” she asked one. “Will any of us survive?” And yet Baghdad still had a surreal air. Even as people worked the phones non-stop on Sunday night, warning friends and relatives that the bombing could begin within 24 hours, a semblance of normality persisted. The horse races outside Baghdad resumed; friends met in cafés; restaurants were still full.

And outside the Palestine Hotel on the banks of the Tigris, Don Quixote, a long-haired Turkish human shield wearing tie-dyed clothes, mounted an ageing brown mare, placed a silver pith helmet on his head and wielded a varnished silver shield.

“This is a statement of peace,” he mumbled, handing out leaflets as a small group of Iraqis watched in amazement.

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