Deep Black

by Andy McNab

  Short of me pulling a knife on him, there was no way he was going to let me just walk away. ‘I make great coffee too.’ We set off through the door. ‘None of that Arabic crap.’

  16

  We headed out of DC towards Chevy Chase, along the main drag. Massachusetts Avenue took us past all the embassy buildings and eventually to row upon row of nondescript apartment buildings. By then he had finished telling me that Renee came from Buffalo, not far from Lackawanna, she was a freelance picture editor, and up until recently she’d stayed in her small apartment because he was always away. But soon after they married, Chloë came along and it was time to move. Why they were here in DC, he didn’t get to say.

  His last job had been covering the anti-government violence in Venezuela. ‘I got some great shots of protesters going toe to toe with National Guard. You see them in Newsweek?’

  We turned left alongside one of the apartment buildings, then down a ramp and into the underground lot. He closed down the engine, and turned to face me.

  ‘Don’t you want to stay at home now, Jerry? I mean, if I had a child right now I think it would stop me bouncing along to wherever the shit’s hitting the fan.’

  Rather than answering, he fiddled with a set of keys as we walked to the elevator. ‘Security,’ he said. ‘You need to unlock a lock just to get to the lock in this place.’ He had a little trouble with what key went into the elevator, but at last we were on our way up.

  ‘Just one floor.’ Jerry was beaming like a Jehovah’s Witness who’d just added a brand new member to his congregation. ‘Hope she’s in. We normally take Chloë to the park about now.’ He turned towards me. ‘Nick . . .’ His voice dropped. ‘I never really got round to thanking you once we got back to Sarajevo. I’ve replayed it in my head so many times. I just want to say—’

  I put my hand up to stop him. ‘Whoa, it’s OK. It was a long time ago. Don’t worry about it.’ I didn’t want to go into all that stuff right now. Better to let it stay in its box.

  He was a little disappointed, but nodded all the same. ‘Thanks anyway. I just wanted to tell you, that’s all.’

  The elevator stopped and Jerry played with his keys as we headed towards the apartment.

  The white-walled corridor was lined with good grey carpet. The place was spotless. Most of the inhabitants probably worked in the embassies we’d driven past.

  The moment he pushed the key into the door of 107, I was hit by the smell of fresh paint. He pointed along the passage. ‘No stroller. Coffee? We’ll go in the lounge. Too many fumes everywhere else. Sorry about the mess. You know how it is with moving.’

  I didn’t really. I hadn’t been lying to George: my whole life fitted into two carry-ons.

  The doors to two bedrooms were open on the right. Each had just a mattress on the floor, and piles of boxes and clothes.

  The lounge was stark white. No curtains yet, but a TV, VCR and music centre with red illuminated LEDs. It didn’t look as if they were planning to keep the old carpet: it was covered with fresh paint stains. Everything else was baby stuff, changing mats, nappy bags and the smell of talcum powder. In the corner stood a blue carrycot on a stand, a plastic mobile with stars and teddy bears above it.

  I could see a parade of pictures of all three of them along the mantelpiece. There were even a couple of Polaroids of Chloë on her own, looking very blue and wrinkly. The normal thing proud parents did, I supposed. The pictures were probably the first thing they’d unpacked.

  He opened a box containing reams of contact sheets and photographs, all carefully protected in plastic sleeves.

  ‘You’ve been busy.’

  ‘And then some. See what you think.’

  He went into the kitchen, leaving me to it.

  Jerry really had come a long way since the days he carried his mum’s birthday present round his neck. He’d covered everything from the wars in Ethiopia and the refugee camps in Gaza to the Pope weeping in what looked like a South American slum.

  Jerry clattered away in the kitchen as I held contact sheet after contact sheet up to the light.

  When the serving hatch opened and a tray of percolated coffee and mugs appeared, I held up a laminated front page of the New York Times. ‘This Sudan picture one of yours?’

  A tiny starving girl, no more than a bag of bones really, hunched naked in the dirt. Behind her, watching her every move, stood a vulture. It wasn’t just the picture that was fucked up. Beside it was an ad for a multi-thousand-dollar Cartier watch.

  Jerry leaned through the hatch. ‘I wish. It’s one of Kevin Carter’s. He’s dead now. He won a Pulitzer for it.’

  As I stood to collect the tray, a key turned in the lock.

  ‘They’re back.’ For the first time, he sounded just a little bit anxious.

  I let him get on with family stuff and went over to the sofa, dumping the brew on a packing case. I could see into the corridor.

  Renee wore jeans and a long, thick, hairy nylon coat, a sort of bluey-green colour. She shushed him as he went to kiss her. Chloë was asleep. As Jerry started to unstrap the baby from the stroller, she shrugged off the coat and came towards me. Her smile broadened but she kept her voice low. ‘Well, hello!’ She had a happy, homely face on a small skinny body. Her brown hair was gathered at the neck, and she wasn’t wearing makeup. ‘I’m Renee.’ She held out her hand. It was soft and stained with paint.

  I hoped the fumes cancelled out the stench of margarine I carried around with me, and put on a big smile of my own. ‘I know, he’s told me all about you.’ It was a corny thing to say, but I didn’t know what else you did in these situations. ‘I’m Nick.’

  ‘I know all about you, too. The guy who saved Jerry’s life in Bosnia.’

  She led me proudly over to the carrycot as Jerry gently placed the baby in it and disappeared back into the kitchen. ‘And this is Chloë.’ I looked down but couldn’t see much. She had a woolly hat on and was up to her ears in duvet.

  The pain in my chest had disappeared as we drove here. Now it was replaced by a different feeling. Maybe it was jealousy. They had everything I thought I wanted.

  It seemed time to whisper a few of the right noises. ‘Aww – she’s beautiful, isn’t she?’

  Renee leaned into the carrycot, her eyes fixed on the sleeping face. ‘Isn’t she just?’

  We settled down with the coffee and she apologized for the mess. ‘We keep meaning to get a table.’

  I thought I’d better make an effort before I took the first opportunity to get through that front door and out of there. I gestured towards the packing case and smiled. ‘Last place I moved into, I had one of those. I got to rather like it.’

  Jerry joined us with another mug.

  ‘So what do you think of DC?’ I said. ‘A bit different from Buffalo . . .’

  ‘It’s fine.’ She didn’t sound too convinced. ‘Maybe in another month or two we’ll get sorted out, and Jerry will get the job he’s after at the Post.’

  She passed me a black coffee. Her lip had started to quiver. I sensed there was tension in the air. ‘But he’s going off on one more crazy trip before that . . .’

  Jerry was doing his best not to look her in the eye.

  Whatever was going on here, I wanted nothing to do with it. This was my opportunity. ‘I’m sorry.’ I tried a sip and put the mug down. The coffee was too hot. ‘I really should be going. I was a bit tight for time anyway when I bumped into Jerry.’

  He had other ideas. ‘Come on, Nick, stay a little longer. Chloë will be awake soon and maybe we could all go for something to eat.’

  ‘No, really, I—’

  Renee looked up at me. ‘We’ve made you feel uncomfortable.’

  ‘No, no. Not at all.’ I hoped I sounded more convincing to them than I did to myself. ‘But I do have to go. I was only popping into the gallery for five minutes. I’ll get the Metro, it’s fine.’ I didn’t have a clue where the Metro was, but it didn’t really matter.

  Jerry tapped me on
the arm. ‘Least I can do is walk you to the station.’

  There was no avoiding it: I didn’t want to stand there all day arguing. I said my goodbyes to Renee and we left the flat.

  Jerry was all apologetic in the lift. ‘I’m so sorry about that. Things have been pretty vexed with the move . . .’

  I nodded, not wanting to get involved. Their domestic stuff didn’t interest me.

  ‘Renee is right,’ he carried on. ‘I’ve got responsibilities now. I will go and work for the Post.’ He paused, looking slightly sheepish. ‘It’s just that I haven’t quite got around to applying for the job yet. There’s one last thing I’ve got to do before I shoot beauty pageants for the rest of my life.’

  I smiled at the thought of him bobbing around at a beauty pageant trying to project a message through the image.

  The lift stopped in the lobby. We walked out on to the street and turned left. Jerry seemed to know where he was going. He was looking a bit more relaxed. ‘Listen, Nick. I know you don’t want to hear this, but I really want to thank you for what you did for me in ’ninety-four. I was young, I didn’t have a clue what was going on, it was a total fuck-up. If those Serb fucks—’

  I chose my words more carefully this time, to make sure he drew a line under it. ‘I’m just glad that you’re alive and happy, you’ve got a great family and things have worked out all right.’

  ‘I know it, but still – I’ve got this one last thing to do.’ He had that Jehovah’s Witness look again. ‘In Iraq.’

  ‘Iraq?’

  ‘It’s just one final picture. The shot of my life. Remember the guy—’

  I found myself going into a rant. ‘How are they going to feel if you wind up with a bullet in the head? Or get it cut off, live online for Renee to watch? You’ve got to be there for them. Believe me, you never know what you’ve got until you lose it.’

  I took a deep breath and tried to calm myself down. ‘For fuck’s sake, Jerry, grow a brain. You’ve got everything. Why risk losing it?’

  Jerry looked away. ‘You’re right, man. But this isn’t Bang Bang. This is Korda’s picture of Che Guevara. Hou Bo’s picture of Chairman Mao. The guy bending over “Chetnik Mama” – I want my picture of him on the cover of Time.’

  17

  I had to speak up to be heard above the roar of the traffic. ‘What’s he doing in Iraq?’

  We started to cross at a junction. ‘He’s not there yet – gets into Baghdad this Thursday for about a week. He’s going to give the Iraqis a wake-up call. He’s saying that the Sunni and the Shia need to unite, start controlling their own destiny. Believe me, Nick, this guy’s on his way to being Islam’s answer to Mahatma Gandhi.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Hasan Nuhanovic. He’s a cleric. Even the Serbs were worried about him. He survived the whole Bosnia thing, and he’s still walking on water. But only just – a lot of the “give war a chance” brigade, on both sides, want him dead. He’s very bad for business.’

  I shrugged. ‘Still don’t know him.’

  ‘Exactly!’ Jerry beamed. ‘That’s the whole point. He shuns publicity. He’s not a personality-cult kinda guy. But his message is good, and I really believe that the right kind of picture will get it on to the world stage. You know he went to Pakistan and started a Coke boycott? Thing is, doing stuff like that, he ain’t gonna be breathing for much longer. I gotta be quick. I’ve been trying to track him down in Bosnia, but it would be easier to arrange tea with Karadic. In Baghdad he won’t have so many gatekeepers.’ He gripped my arm. ‘One last job, Nick, that’s all I want to do. Renee’s dead set against it, but it’s not a frontline shot. The picture of Chairman Mao was taken on a beach. Nuhanovic on the banks of the Tigris. No problem, no danger. A walk in the park.’

  I wanted to tell him that I knew he was talking bollocks to sell the idea. But I was interested in Nuhanovic. There are some things you don’t forget, no matter how often you try to cut away, and watching him front up to Mladic at the cement works was one of them. ‘So what did this guy get up to in Bosnia?’

  ‘Some of the stories are just, like, amazing. I heard that he managed to stop a massacre some place north of Sarajevo. He actually confronted Mladic. No one seems to know what he said, but it seemed to get Mladic spooked. He let a whole bunch of prisoners go free.’

  ‘What’s happened with Mladic?’ I tried not to sound too interested in the Muslim. ‘They ever capture him? I’ve lost track of what’s going on over there.’

  ‘Nope, he’s still out there. Last I heard he was maybe holed up in a monastery in Montenegro. It’s only a rumour, but I heard that the Brits were just this far away –’ he showed me the minutest of gaps between his thumb and his forefinger ‘– from killing him during the war. That would have been kinda neat, eh? But get this – the International Court was about to be set up in The Hague, and they needed some high-profile players to put in the dock. That way everyone could feel that justice was being done after the war. Everybody would be happy – apart from the Bosnian Muslims, of course.’

  I thought about Zina. I’d never forget the look on her face as she posed for me, just fifteen and daring to dream for a microsecond of being Kate Moss. Then I thought about her and thousands like her getting killed so justice could be seen to be done. Well, it wasn’t my kind of justice, but this wasn’t the time or the place . . . Fuck it, so what? That was over ten years ago. It’s all history now.

  We stopped by the news-stand outside the Metro. ‘Good luck, mate. I hope you get to take your photograph, and when there’s world peace I’ll be blaming you for it.’ I put my hand out to shake his.

  He hesitated. ‘You know what? Why don’t you come with me?’ He did his best to make me think the idea had only just occurred to him.

  ‘No, mate. I don’t do that sort of—’

  ‘Ah, come on. We’ll be there for a week at the most.’

  I put my hand out again and this time he took it. ‘I’ve got to go, mate. I hope it all works out for you.’

  ‘I could do with a white guy out there, Nick.’ He looked me straight in the eye, and held my hand in both of his. ‘Think about it. Promise me that much. I’m going to London Saturday, got a deal going with the Sunday Telegraph. Then head for Baghdad Tuesday.’

  He finally let go of my hand and pulled out his business card and a pen. ‘Don’t get me wrong, Nick, I’m offering you a job. How does ten per cent plus expenses sound to you?’

  I didn’t want his money. I didn’t need anyone’s money. It wasn’t as if I had any more school fees to pay.

  He gave me the pen and a second card and I wrote down my mobile number.

  ‘Listen,’ I passed the pen and card back, ‘here’s my number, but only so we can have another beer when you get back.’ I turned to go into the subway, fishing in my pocket for some coins to buy a token.

  He called after me, ‘Think about it?’

  I gave him a wave as I went through the barrier.

  18

  The Metro rolled smoothly beneath Washington with me and twenty-odd other people in the carriage. It sounded like Beardilocks had come a long way since the concrete factory. He’d moved on, but had I? Zina and the other poor fuckers who’d been dropped by Mladic’s crew hadn’t, that was for sure.

  I’d never admitted this to Ezra, but I still felt guilty when I thought about that day. What if I’d called in the fast jets earlier? Maybe Sarajevo had only made the decision not to attack a minute or two before I eventually pressed the button. Maybe if I hadn’t delayed the Paveway would have been dropped. Some of the Muslims would have got killed, but more would have survived. Zina might have been one of them.

  Fuck it, as I kept telling Ezra, it was all history. And talking of history, Beardilocks might be spreading the good news for now, but he’d soon be dead as well. Look what happened to Gandhi. I hoped Jerry got the shot: it might be the last one anyone took of him.

  I got off at Georgetown and took the escalator to the heart of Fortres
s America. There seemed to be barriers and policemen whichever way you turned. The Brit shop near the mall was normally five minutes’ walk, but today it took at least ten. I stocked up on Yorkshire tea, a couple of party-size jars of Branston, bread and the last four bricks of Cracker Barrel Cheddar, then headed straight back to the station.

  I got out at Crystal City. The sinking feeling was back in the pit of my stomach. I knew what the rest of the day held, and the next. Long hours in front of the TV, cuddling a jar of Branston and a mug of monkey, working out when I was actually going to buy the bike and when to get on the thing and fuck off. George was going to let me use the apartment, but only until he had the wrong yoghurt for breakfast and decided to chuck me out. I needed to go soon.

  My cell rang. Only three people knew the number, and I wasn’t expecting a call from any of them. I put down the carrier and flapped about in my jacket pocket to drag it out and check the screen: number withheld.

  It might be George, changing his mind and telling me to get out of the building. Maybe Ezra wanted to change our next appointment. That would be an interesting call. No, he’d have been told by now that I’d binned George and, in turn, him. So maybe he was checking that I hadn’t swallowed the pharmacy and wasn’t about to jump off the Arlington Memorial Bridge. I just hoped it wasn’t Jerry.

  ‘Nick?’ It was a woman’s voice.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s Renee. Jerry’s wife?’

  This was much worse. ‘Hi – how have you been since an hour ago?’

  She laughed slightly awkwardly, then went serious on me. ‘Jerry doesn’t know I’m calling. He’s painting the kitchen. Can we meet? I need to talk.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘I’ll tell you when I see you. I’m going to Costco now, at Crystal City. You know where it is?’

  I could virtually spit at it from my apartment. ‘No, but I’ll take the Metro.’

  She gave me directions from the station but I wasn’t listening. The only thing I was thinking about was that I’d said yes without realizing it. ‘It’ll take me about forty minutes to get down there. So meet in an hour? I’ll wait outside for you. It’s really important to me.’