Crossfire

by Andy McNab

  'No. That who you gonna kill with one of these fucking things?'

  I picked out an old MP5 and fished about for some mags. There were two. 'You got any nine-millimetre for this?'

  He slapped the freezer beneath him but kept his eyes on the girls. One was towelling herself and the one I'd seen upstairs was giving her makeup a bit of a retouch, ready for the next round. 'I've got to keep the fucking lot locked up. Fucking thieving bastards.'

  The MP5 was knackered and rusty. I needed to look inside to check it had the basics – like a firing pin. These Heckler & Kochs were very quick to disassemble. I pushed back on the two pins at the rear, which opened up the backplate and one end of the pistol grip.

  He was taking an interest in me now that he saw I knew what I was doing.

  I pulled out the working parts. There was nothing but rust around the chamber, and so much corrosion in the barrel I could only just about see light through it.

  'What about Noah James?'

  The Jock's eyes jerked away from the girls. He went ballistic. 'Fucking animal! You anything to do with him?'

  'No, just heard he was about. You know where?'

  I started to reassemble the weapon.

  His finger came up to my face. As long as his breath stayed away that was fine. 'I don't fucking know and don't care. If they come here again I'll do Kabul a favour and kill the shites myself.'

  'He come in with the Brit?'

  'Joey fucking Wallings. Arsehole used to work here. He was a good lad until the gear got him.' The Jock mimed injecting his arm. 'Fucked him up and he started running with James. They tried to sell me Afghan whores. So smacked up, some of them, they could hardly stand.' He pointed at the legs and heads of the girls at the sink. 'Fucking burns all over them, whip-marks, cuts . . . They stole them from villages, sick fucks.'

  He sat on the freezer and lit a Chesterfield with a Zippo. He sucked deeply to calm himself. His eyes flicked down towards the MP5. 'You not interested?'

  I shook my head and put the weapon back in the freezer.

  'Well, maybe you're not some bank clerk.' He nodded at the weapons. 'They're all shite.'

  I spotted a mini Uzi, like the regular Uzi only a lot shorter. It was stuck under a pile of rusty old .303 Lee Enfields, probably left over from the Second World War.

  I pulled it out to discover it was a Mini-Ero, a shameless copy. This one was the older version, with pistol grip safety and mag housing, and big chunky working parts that operated on the blowback system. The only difference I could see was that the safety-catch markings were in Serbo-Croat.

  The girls left and Stu helped himself to a handful of arse from both on their way out.

  The Mini-Ero wasn't in bad nick. A bit rusty, but at least it had a firing pin.

  I'd always thought the Uzi overrated. After the Six Day War it got rave reviews it didn't deserve. Both the Uzi and the mini Uzi were heavy for their size. Almost every comparable weapon did the same job more efficiently. It was just marketing that made the weapon so popular in the eyes of people who didn't use them. Bank clerks and south London drug-dealers would be the only people ignorant enough to part with good money for one.

  There were three mags taped round the barrel. 'I'll take this and two hundred nine-millimetre. How much is that going to set me back?'

  Whatever the figure should have been, he probably doubled it. 'Three hundred.'

  No point haggling. 'Done.'

  He unlocked the freezer as I put the weapon back together. I took off my Bergen, bunged in the bottle of water, and waited to add the weapon, mags and rounds.

  'You going south for long?' He handed me four cardboard boxes of fifty 9mm and I ripped one open. I'd always found it easy to speed-load, even as a boy soldier. Many guys try to position the rounds in their hands so that the percussion cap is going to be fed in first, but the easiest thing is to pick the things up and turn them between your thumb and forefinger as you press them into the magazine.

  'Don't know.'

  'Well, son' – he locked up the ammo freezer– 'you come back with that thing and I'll buy it back. But I don't give money, we just trade with honey.'

  He locked up the first freezer and came over to do the same to the second. I moved the magazines and kit. 'That's how half of these shites pay. Some, they come in, they've got fuck-all left but their weapons.'

  I shrugged. 'Maybe I'll bring it back.'

  'I'm not sticking my nose in your business, son, but that James shite and his like – stay away from them. They're fucking acid.'

  I finished the first mag.

  'You liked my chessboard, didn't you?'

  'Yeah, nice.'

  'My boy.' He was grinning. 'He carved them. He's good at that sort of thing. It's a special edition, black Taliban, white ISAF. I'm going to try and get it marketed.'

  He took a last drag and flicked the butt on to the floor. 'You see, son, you got the Taliban pawns in turbans, but the ISAF pawns, none of them match. That's because we spend so much time out here wondering if they're on the same fucking side.'

  I was treated to another flash of his black stumps. 'If it was going to be true to life, obviously the Taliban king would be missing – there'd just be a video of him in a cave. And no Taliban knights, no Taliban castles. They'd all be bishops, see – mad mullahs.

  'And once the ISAF pieces were set up, most of them would refuse to move from their own squares. The bishops, well, they'd have to be paid regularly or they'd move over to the Taliban side. Are you getting this, son?'

  I sort of was and sort of wasn't, but I nodded anyway to make him feel a bit better. I finished loading the last mag and counted out three hundred-dollar bills.

  'Sorry for being a bit of a shite with you in the beginning, son. But when they called they said you were one of those cowboys. People like that, they come here and fuck it up for everybody else who's trying to make a living.'

  'No worries, mate.'

  The money went into his jeans pocket.

  I shoved the mags and spare ammunition into my Bergen and he fired up another Chesterfield.

  The other side of the door, somebody loosed off a double-tap in the bar. The music kept playing, but the background noise changed. Girls screamed. Men shouted, more pissed off than afraid.

  I threw everything except the weapon and a mag on top of the Gunga Din outfit and hoisted the Bergen on to my back.

  Somebody out there yelled for calm, but the monkeys weren't having any of it. They screeched their heads off.

  There was another shot, then a burst of .53 on automatic drowned them out.

  64

  The cocking handle was sited on the top of the weapon. I shoved a mag into the housing in the pistol grip and listened for it to click home, then pulled back.

  The Jock was off the Richter scale. 'I'm trying to run a fucking business here!'

  He stormed out and I went straight to the back door. I'd got what I'd come for. Time to fuck off. But everything round the back was more than just locked: nails had been punched through the door into the frame. I decided to wait for things to calm down in the bar. It wasn't my fight.

  I went to the part-open door. Stu was trying to make himself heard over the music. The two Serbs were up on their feet and carrying. Mr Sheen had rammed his pistol into the fifteen-year-old's mouth. She was on the sofa, her head pushed hard against the backrest. Her chest heaved with fright and tears streamed down her face.

  One of the Americans he'd been yelling at before lay motionless on the floor behind her. He had a hole in the side of his head that leaked on to the wood.

  The old wizard lay in a pool of blood this side of the bar. His .53 lay next to him, the empty cases scattered about.

  Everybody else had faded to the edges, but Stu was as close to the Serb as he could get. 'Fuck off, and don't come back. I don't want no more of your shite. Go!'

  They weren't impressed. Top Lip pointed his weapon at Stu's head. Like Mr Sheen's, it looked to be a PPK, a small weapon, eas
y to hide down by your bollocks. 'No. We're staying.'

  Mr Sheen nodded back to the body and his three mates hovering round it. 'That fuck started this. They should be kicked out. Kick them out now, or we will kill your whore.'

  Stu was coming to the boil. 'I don't think you heard me right, son. I'm not having no more of your shite—'

  Mr Sheen pulled the trigger.

  Settee stuffing exploded behind her head, then got soaked with blood and brain. The monkeys' screeches filled the air once more.

  Fuck this. Stu was about to get it and I might be stuck here all night.

  Gripping the Mini-Ero like it was a pistol, arm straight out, right hand on the pistol grip, left hand over right and pushing back with a bent arm to make a stable platform for the weapon, I kicked the door wide open and charged into the room.

  The two of them were straight ahead of me, maybe eight or nine metres away.

  I stood ready to fire, the web of my hand hard against the pistol grip to release the safety, both eyes open, legs shoulder-width apart, left foot forward, left toe pointing where I was intending to shoot. Almost the classic shooting-range stance, so there could be no doubt that I knew what I was doing.

  They swung to face me. There was fuck-all to say. They knew what was required. But Stu didn't want them to be in any doubt. 'I told you – fuck off, don't come back. Fucking animals.'

  He was just noise to them. It was me they stared at.

  Would I? Would I open up?

  My eyes broadcast I would. They were clear – and the weapon stayed rock steady.

  They exchanged a glance. Very slowly, their PPKs came down. Without saying a word, they walked to the door. Mr Sheen wiped the girl's blood off his hands on a seat cover on his way out.

  Stu bellowed for his son. He came running downstairs. Then, as the Serbs' wagon sparked up, he called for the guards. They stumbled in and he barked commands. They shouldered their AKs and started dragging the bodies away.

  Stu looked from them to his boy, and then to me. He stretched out a hand. In it was my three hundred.

  'I owe you, lad. Fucking animals, they should leave that sort of shit out on the street.'

  The guards were getting very busy now the shooting had stopped. They grabbed hold of the wizard's feet and dragged him past. We both looked down.

  Stu spat on his face. 'He was also a shite. He gave two of the girls gonorrhoea last month.'

  The boy came over to his father and he slapped him affectionately round the back of his head. 'One of them's his mother.'

  I followed the body outside and stepped back into the shadows as the Serbs' 4x4 screamed out of the compound.

  I pulled out the mobile and dialled. 'I'm going to AM Net. I'll phone you when I get there. Be ready for the call.'

  I threw the phone back into the Bergen and got out the Gunga Din gear. I wasn't going to use Magreb. I didn't want him hurt. He also needed to keep his job, and if things got noisy I didn't want to be worrying about him.

  I had a long walk ahead.

  65

  Emergency Surgical Centre for War

  Victims

  0758 hrs

  The old guy who'd joined me on the left-hand bench under the corrugated-iron canopy pointed at the manic traffic and waved his arm with disgust. I agreed. Then he said something else and clearly expected an answer. I pointed at my ear and made a strangled sound. He nodded knowingly and looked to the other bench for someone to chat to just as the Yes Man's phone vibrated in my hand. I pushed my head down under my shemag. Now I was mad as well as deaf and dumb.

  'No sign?' He sounded edgy. 'You still have eyes on?'

  I cupped my hand over the phone to make doubly sure this stayed local. 'Don't call unless he's online. I'm trying to do my fucking job. You just stand by and do yours.'

  I cut the call. It wasn't the time to worry about him being a bit sensitive about profanity.

  One of the young lads who'd been fanning the fire in the metal trough last night came out of the kebab shop carrying a tray. He went into AM Net.

  I was facing the end of Flower Street, on the other side of Jadayi Sulh. Further down the main to my left, on the next junction, was the Iranian embassy. My new mates outside were probably having a hot brew as they sat and watched the traffic. I was almost becoming a local.

  The only thing that mattered right now was finding whoever was sending Siobhan the emails and follow him – or her. The target might be on foot or might have a vehicle. A vehicle would be nice. I could just go back to the fixer and he'd find out the registered keeper. Even in places like Baghdad it was simple to trace a driver by his plate. US patrols were tasked to hunt specifically for unlicensed or unplated vehicles. It's one of the first things that had to be done to show some semblance of order. Every self-respecting terrorist or kidnapper operating in a city knows to keep his paperwork up to date. In the early days, too many got pulled over with a truckload of explosives or bodies wrapped in gaffer-tape in the boot.

  An explosion rumbled up from the south, the direction of TV Hill. Nobody paid a blind bit of attention. Even the sparrows stayed chirping in the trees. The old guys on the bench had a bit of a tut to each other and waved their arms, but that was about it. They left me out of their gang this time.

  It had been a long night's walk from the Jock's place. After changing into the Gunga Din gear, I'd used the bottle of water to mix scoops of Marmite into a lumpy cream that I worked into my face and hands. It stained me up a treat, but I smelt like a toasted sandwich.

  I'd got here three hours ago. The shop had opened just before seven. Only four people had gone in – and one of those had been the old man who'd opened the shutters and now sat sipping his tea. The other three had been smartly dressed, Western-style, and in and out within ten minutes.

  Soon afterwards the old men started filling up the benches. Nobody gave my Marmite tan a second glance. Some took a second or two to give me the once-over, same as they would with any stranger, but then they got on with their lives. They'd been there the best part of an hour. It couldn't be a bus stop. Maybe they were queuing up to ask where I got my aftershave.

  The plan was simple. I sat there and kept the trigger on AM Net, while the Yes Man stagged on in London, waiting for the next email to be sent. There would be a fifteen-second delay between Siobhan receiving it and it popping up on his screen.

  This wasn't an ideal spot to be keeping the trigger from because of the main in between. Vehicles cut my view and the target became unsighted for seconds at a time. But it was the best I could do. Anywhere else, I'd stand out like a bulldog's bollocks.

  Flower Street was too narrow to hang about unobtrusively, and there were no options left or right close enough to the target where I could step back into the shadows. If the target came out of AM Net and headed my way, we'd have a head-on.

  I couldn't just walk up and down the street, waiting. This was the city of kidnappers and suicide-bombers. Their kids were running around delivering tea and cooking kebabs. So there I sat with the main drag between me and the target.

  Sirens warbled. The gates to my left swung open and two Merc ambulances screamed out, heading south. The traffic stopped briefly to let them through, then the trigger on the shop disappeared intermittently again as more vehicles drove between us.

  There were a lot of old jeeps that had been rebuilt to carry sixteen people on the tail-bed. They obviously kept these things on the road until they finally fell apart. There was plenty of old Russian gear still about as well: big trucks with bulbous noses that were made in the 1980s but might have been at the siege of Stalingrad. They laboured up and down blocking my view, overloaded with bricks and rubble.