Deep Black

by Andy McNab

  Rob came and dropped his keys and AK on the worktop, then pulled the pistol from his jeans and placed it alongside them. ‘Brew?’

  We both asked for coffee and watched as he filled the kettle with bottled water. There was a little balcony, no more than a metre wide, the other side of french windows. Only one floor up, there wouldn’t be much to look at anyway.

  Rob messed with mugs and spoons and stuff, waiting for me to get explaining.

  ‘Listen, mate, we need your help. We got ourselves lifted by the military this morning. They wanted to know why we’ve been asking about the Bosnians. They’re flapping in case it turns out to be a bad story for them.’

  Rob leaned against the kitchen unit, watching us silently as he unscrewed a small jar of Nescafé.

  ‘They want us out of town – like, yesterday. I said we’d go north to Turkey. But we want to stay. Cards on the table, mate. We need a place to hide, maybe five days max, while we try to find this guy. It’s putting you at risk, but we can’t check in anywhere, and it’s not as if we can doss on a bench. Even if I put on a bit of boot polish I’m not going to last long out there, am I?’

  Rob over-concentrated on spooning Nescafé into multi-patterned mugs. ‘Why are they pissed off? You mention Nuhanovic?’

  ‘Nah, Jerry reckons they think we’re trying to dig some dirt on reconstruction contracts.’

  The kettle clicked and he poured boiling water into the mugs. ‘I’m just going to ditch this.’ He started unbuttoning his sweaty shirt as he headed for the bedroom.

  Jerry wasn’t happy with my intro. ‘Why are you telling him all that? He might say no. Then what?’

  I got closer, almost in his ear. ‘If he’s going to hide us he deserves to know what’s going on. He’s OK. Let me do the talking – I know him.’

  Rob came back, pulling a faded blue T-shirt over his head. An armoured vehicle rumbled out on the main. A helicopter flew past, quite high. He said nothing as he tipped condensed milk into the coffees, gave them a stir, and brought the mugs over with a bowl of sugar. Then he sat down opposite us and took a deep breath. ‘Nuhanovic is quite an elusive fucker, isn’t he?’

  54

  Rob took a sip of his brew. ‘Fixing an audience with Saddam might be easier.’ He took a bigger one, then rested the mug on his thigh. His eyes were fixed on mine. ‘We’re looking for Nuhanovic as well.’

  Jerry jumped in without an invitation. ‘You know where he is?’

  Rob glared. ‘If we did, we wouldn’t be looking, would we?’

  It wasn’t love at first sight.

  ‘Let him finish, Jerry.’ I got back to Rob. ‘Why’s he so hard to find, if all he’s doing is spreading the good news?’

  He put his mug down on the ring-stained table. ‘Because every man and his dog wants to stop him. Unity is strength. Strength is trouble for everyone. He knows he’s a target.’

  Jerry was nodding eagerly, trying to join the club. ‘That’s why no one’s managed to get to him in Bosnia. Baghdad’s our best chance.’

  Rob ignored him.

  ‘Unity?’ I kept Rob’s attention. ‘He must be quite a guy.’

  Rob nodded. ‘He’s showing the people that you don’t need missiles to win battles: you can use the coins in your pockets. If you do it together, you can have every government and corporation on their knees.’

  Rob’s eyes stayed fixed on mine, completely blanking Jerry. ‘You hear about the Coke boycott in Pakistan? He showed the locals how they could wage cola wars instead of real ones.’

  Jerry opened his mouth to speak, but I got in quicker. ‘How did he do it?’

  ‘First, he convinced businesses to sell Zam Zam, Mecca, all the Muslim brands. Then he preached his message.’ He lifted a finger. ‘To fight back against American imperialism, they didn’t have to load their weapons, just their fridges. And it’s working. Whenever a kid buys a bottle of Muslim-owned cola he knows a percentage of the profits goes to Islamic charities, not to some fat stockholder in New York.’ He smiled. ‘There are some great slogans. “Liberate Your Taste.” “Don’t drink stupid, drink committed.” Every bottle’s a protest – two fingers to the US.’

  The windows rattled as some helis came in low and fucked about just above the building. The pilots were probably eyeing up the women on the sun-loungers. Rob waited for them to leave, then got back to the story.

  ‘A couple of provinces in Pakistan have now even banned Coca-Cola altogether. Imagine where this could lead – if Nuhanovic does the same with electrical goods, cars, food, clothes. It’s got people flapping. Not just corporations, but governments. Our man is a cancer that needs to be cut out before it can spread.’

  ‘And what do you want with him?’

  Rob picked up his keys. ‘Look, I need to go down and get some cold ones. You coming, Nick?’

  I got to my feet. Jerry stayed where he was. He was learning, slowly.

  55

  We took the stairs again. At the bottom, we went through the glass doors and on to the terrace. Within seconds, Rob was ordering some water from a crumpled shirt who’d appeared from nowhere. I watched two others trying to fish out a parasol the helis had blown into the pool.

  We moved out of earshot of the Aussie as the crumpled shirts resorted to brooms and a lot of Arabic curses.

  ‘I don’t mind you both staying, but I’ll have to get the OK from my man and tell him what’s going on with you two. He’s too good a guy to be kept in the dark.’

  ‘We’ll keep out of the way, whatever.’

  The Aussies swapped positions, probably to relieve the boredom.

  ‘You could be still out on your arse. I’ll vouch for you, but if my man says no, there’s nothing I can do about it. ‘

  ‘Fair one.’ The heat was unbearable. ‘There’s something I want to tell you.’ I nodded over to a patch of shade near the building. ‘Jerry doesn’t realize this, but I know Nuhanovic – well, sort of. You remember the Mladic Paveway job? It was me you put the cache in for. Nuhanovic was there.’

  Rob listened intently as I told him about that day, how Nuhanovic had fronted up to Mladic and saved so many people. Then I told him about Zina, and about the general surviving because Sarajevo had called off the strike. ‘I don’t give a fuck about Jerry’s picture any more – never did.’ I had just discovered something, and it had taken me by surprise. ‘I want to meet him for myself.’

  The waiter reappeared. Rob took a bottle for himself and handed me the tray. He liked the idea. ‘I’ve got to go and talk to my man.’ He headed for the glass doors.

  ‘If you find him, I wouldn’t mind being there.’

  He turned, the bottle at his lips. ‘Things might work out a lot better than just meeting him – if you’re up for it.’

  That was the second time he’d talked as if he was some game-show host. ‘What the fuck are you on about? Start tree-hugging and stop drinking Coke?’

  ‘You’ll find out soon enough. We’re leaving in about thirty, meeting someone who might know where he is. Maybe my man will let you tag along so he can explain exactly what I’m talking about. I’m just going to grab some kit, and have a word with him. See you here in a bit?’

  He disappeared into the lobby.

  56

  Rather than bake outside I waited in Reception, sipping occasionally from the not-so-cold symbol of American imperialism I’d bought. Canned in Belgium, with information in French and what looked like Greek, it promoted the 2002 World Cup in Japan.

  It was quiet; there was no one around apart from the two behind the desk. They exchanged the odd sentence in Arabic, and there was a clink now and again of tea-glasses on saucers as the serving staff made themselves sound busy at the back.

  I sat there thinking about these Muslim colas. There were nearly a billion and a half Muslims, and it was the world’s fastest-growing religion. No wonder the corporations were getting jumpy.

  Fifteen minutes went by. Finally Rob came downstairs. He had a pistol on his belt, and the
AK in his hands had a mag on.

  ‘Jerry OK?’ I asked. I put the Coke down on the floor by my foot, not too sure how Rob would react to the red can.

  ‘He was on the phone – but shut down when I came in. Big secret?’

  ‘He’s got a source in Washington who thinks he knows where Nuhanovic might be.’

  Rob sat down next to me. ‘I’ve got some good news. You’re staying. And my man wants to talk.’

  ‘About Nuhanovic?’

  ‘About work. Listen, I vouched for you, explained your connection with Nuhanovic. He liked that. If my man’s plan works, people like us are going to be needed back in Uzbekistan. If he likes you, there could be a job going. I’m not talking about this circuit crap. We don’t need knuckle-draggers with no commitment. This will be doing something good. Don’t you want to do that?’

  ‘Sort of. Depends on your view of good, I suppose.’

  ‘Have you been to the hospitals here?’

  I bent down for the can, shaking my head. He saw it anyway.

  ‘We went this morning. There’s kids missing arms and legs. Some have watched their whole families being wiped out. My man is organizing medical supplies. Crazy, isn’t it? A poor relation like Uzbekistan sending supplies to an even poorer one. Do you know why he’s having to do that?’

  I could imagine, but let him carry on anyway.

  ‘Because there’s still nothing decent coming from the CPA, and most of what does gets stolen anyway.’ Rob was pretty worked up. He was having a pool-party flashback. ‘Look out there.’ He pointed through the door, towards the terrace. ‘Look at that poor fucker.’ The Aussie squaddie was taking off his helmet to wipe the sweat from his shaven head with a heavily tattooed forearm. ‘Like I said, rich kids don’t fight wars. There’s no rich kids in that hospital. It’s just the poor on both sides that get fucked over. My man wants Nuhanovic to stop all this shit happening in Uzbekistan.’

  ‘How’s he going to do that?’

  ‘He’ll tell you. If you guys like each other, you could come back with us. We’ll even take Jerry off your hands, drop him off in Turkey for you. Interested?’

  Of course I was: if something was good enough for Rob it was good enough for me. Besides, the grass is always greener; except there wasn’t any grass. I took a swig of black stuff. ‘Maybe.’

  He smiled. Perhaps he wanted someone he knew working alongside him. Perhaps he wanted to cure me of my Coke habit. ‘We’re leaving in about fifteen. I’m going to clear the vehicle, then pick up my man. Remember, Nick, I’ve vouched for you so don’t fuck up. Just listen to what he has to say.’

  Rob handed me the key and headed for the doors. I went back upstairs. The door to the balcony was open. Jerry was on the floor.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing down there?’

  ‘Just testing the camera, getting some low light shots.’

  I looked down. Rob was half underneath a battered, dust-covered blue BMW 3 Series with the bonnet up, checking for any devices.

  ‘What you call DC for?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I said not to use it again. You know what could happen.’

  ‘I know, sorry, but I thought I’d call one last time. See if he had anything.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Nah, not a thing.’ He got up and took a bottle from the tray. ‘Life here’s a constant cycle of hot drinks followed by cold ones, isn’t it?’

  ‘You tell him there’s no more calls from you now?’

  He nodded as I closed the balcony doors. His Adam’s apple moved up and down as he got the fluid into him.

  We sat and I took a couple of mouthfuls myself then brought Jerry up to speed. ‘Rob cleared it with his boss. We can stay.’

  ‘You get his name?’

  ‘Didn’t ask. Listen, I’m going to see Rob downstairs again in a few. I might be going with them to meet someone – sounds like a friend of a friend.’

  Jerry was up and heading towards his kit.

  ‘Just me, mate. That’s the way he wants it.’

  He held the bumbag in one hand and the camera in the other. ‘I should be there, Nick.’

  ‘Hey, we’re hiding from the fucking US Army, remember? We can’t call your source again, and we’re fucked without Rob. Let’s hold tight here and see if these guys can find him. If so, that’s when we talk to them about the picture.’

  ‘And if they don’t?’

  ‘Then you don’t get it and we all go home. Simple.’

  It wasn’t that simple for me any more, and I’d known it the moment I started telling Rob about that day at the cement factory. I really wanted to meet this guy. I didn’t know what I’d say if I met him, but that didn’t matter. I’d think of something.

  I picked my sun-gigs off the coffee-table and gave them a wipe with my shirt-tail. Jerry still looked pissed off. ‘Look, what does it matter?’ I said. ‘As long as we get the right result.’

  ‘What if you get to him tonight? I should be there.’

  I shrugged and slid the glass door shut. ‘Jerry, it’s not open for discussion. You stay here, don’t go outside, don’t get yourself seen. We’re supposed to have left for Turkey, remember?’

  ‘OK, OK.’ He wasn’t really listening.

  I left the room, made sure my bumbag was done up securely, and took the stairs. Baby-G said it was 17:46.

  57

  I’d only seen him briefly, but I recognized the Uzbek – I supposed that was what they were called – at once. He was sitting in the lobby reading the waffle on my empty Coke can. Maybe he was a football fan.

  He stood up as he saw me, and smiled. After seeing Nuhanovic close up in ‘Chetnik Mama’, and now looking at this man more closely than I had on the flight, I realized they’d been part of the same job lot. He was slightly built, maybe five six, and in need of a few fish-and-chip suppers. He was wearing a black linen suit, white shirt and blue Kevlar with a ceramic plate covering his chest. It was a wonder he could support the weight.

  I went straight over and shook a small, bony hand. ‘Hello, I’m Nick.’

  His teeth were perfect behind the big smile, his eyes green and clear. Close up his skin was almost translucent; there wasn’t a crease. It was difficult to work out how old he was. ‘I know.’ Still smiling, he motioned towards the main entrance. ‘Shall we?’ His accent was like a 1950s BBC newsreader’s.

  As we stepped into the heat I saw the Beemer, Rob at the wheel, wraparounds shielding his eyes. We both put our sun-gigs on. The windows were up; I hoped that meant the air was running.

  The Uzbek opened the rear door and ushered me inside. Coolish air hit me. I glanced up just before my head disappeared under the roof and I could see the balcony doors were open again. There was a brief flash of light. Jerry was on the balcony. He was a professional, he understood the dangers, and it pissed me off that he wasn’t doing as he was told.

  Rob’s boss got in beside me and closed the door. Rob’s semi-automatic was tucked under his right thigh. He wore no body armour. I could see it in front of me, tucked into the right passenger footwell along with the AK. Maybe he was trying to blend in a little with the outside world as we drove around – not that it was going to happen unless he acquired a serious suntan before we hit the main.

  I was going to have to grip Jerry when I got back. For all I knew, I might be in one of his pictures now and I didn’t like that. Never had done. I didn’t even like showing my passport at Immigration.

  58

  The scaffold bar acting as a barrier was lifted by the bored local on stag. Two Aussie infantry in the shade of a tree looked just as uninterested.

  Nothing was said until we got to the main, where we had to wait for a convoy of tanks and AFVs to pass. One of the tanks looked like it had been attacked very recently. The side facing us was scorched all the way up to the turret. The Bergens and other kit strapped to the outside were burnt to a crisp, and anything plastic had melted and stuck to the steel.

  ‘My name is Benzil.’
He spoke calmly and quietly.

  I smiled politely.

  ‘While we all waited for the flight from Amman – wasn’t that a wait? – Robert told me some quite amusing stories of your younger days in the army.’ He leaned forward and tapped his shoulder. ‘Isn’t that so, Robert?’

  Rob nodded and smiled in the rear-view mirror as we turned right to merge with the main. Even with all the dust covering the windows, a bunch of locals did double-takes. Three whites in a car wasn’t an everyday sight. Doesn’t matter if you’re white, black, brown or yellow, if you’re where you don’t belong, there’s always someone wanting to know what the fuck you’re up to.

  Benzil’s head was turned towards me, but I couldn’t make out where his eyes were behind his gigs. Pleasantries over, he was ready to get down to business. ‘Robert has explained the situation in our country to you, and that we are here, just like you, to find Mr Nuhanovic. What I would now like to tell you is the rest of our story, including where Mr Nuhanovic, and you, if you wish, fit into it. I hope you will find it illuminating, so please indulge me.’

  I made the right signs.

  ‘Thank you.’ He adjusted his jacket and body armour. ‘These are dangerous times, Nick. What is happening in Iraq today could be just the beginning of an epidemic that will spread far beyond the Middle East. Including my own country.’

  The car slowed, then came to a complete halt in snarled traffic. Horns blasted and drivers shouted. A girl of six or seven, covered in dust, walked the line of equally dust-covered cars, begging. Even in a country this fucked-up, people still managed to pass her a few pictures of Saddam pointing at whatever.

  Benzil had turned his head and watched the child walk the line of vehicles.

  ‘You’re a Muslim?’

  He smiled, eyes still fixed on the beggar. ‘In spirit.’ He sighed deeply as he looked out on the chaos around us. ‘I am Jewish.’ No wonder he was keeping a low profile round here. I binned the fleeting thought that he could have been Nuhanovic’s brother.