by Andy McNab
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 be
yond 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.
‘Most in my country are Muslim, but they are oppressed. We all are.’ Benzil turned back to me and lowered his gigs. ‘And, as always in these matters, it is the ordinary people who suffer. Ask Robert, he knows it to be true.’
He caught my eye in the rear-view again. ‘For now, it’s just the militants who’re pissed off and doing something about it.’
Benzil gave a rueful little smile. ‘Last week we experienced the worst violence in our short history as an independent country. There were gun battles lasting hours between the police and the militants. More than forty people were killed in bomb attacks.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘Miserable poverty combined with a total lack of solidarity is producing a social vacuum,’ he said, ‘and it’s this vacuum that militant Islam is filling. If it goes on like this, one fine day ordinary people will simply pick up their weapons and go crazy. That’s where Mr Nuhanovic fits into our story. He will stop that happening.’
‘You’re hoping he can repeat what I hear he’s achieved in Bosnia?’
Benzil opened his hands. ‘Why not? After that war, the political parties still tried to play the same old hate cards but, thanks largely to Mr Nuhanovic, men of all faiths have learned that the only stable future for the country lies in unity. Many powerful people hate him for it, but they have been forced to adapt. We have been there and seen it with our own eyes, haven’t we, Robert?’
‘Yep, now he’s here and in Pakistan. That’s all good news for them. But we need him in Uzbekistan.’ He was too busy trying to edge the car forwards to look back at me.
Benzil nodded in agreement. ‘The truth is that because Mr Nuhanovic has helped build Bosnia into a functional state, it has been able to join the outside world. Unity among former enemies for the greater good. Quite an appealing concept, don’t you think?’
‘And he’s hoping to do the same in Iraq?’
‘In the entire Muslim world, Nick. His biggest problem, the biggest block to progress, is there’s so much vested interest in dysfunctionality. It suits the outside world to see divisions. Divide and rule, one of history’s major lessons.’ Benzil smiled wryly as he tapped on his window. ‘That little girl knows more than all the Iraqi faction leaders put together.’
59
Rob powered down his window and gave her two 250-dinar notes, about a dollar twenty. Light streamed into the car through the haze of the bug-stained windscreen. The sun was getting lower and would be dropping behind the building any minute. The air-conditioner worked overtime as we all started to get sticky.
‘What Mr Nuhanovic is trying to encourage people to do, Nick, is to retake control of their own destinies from those who think they have the right to dictate to other cultures.’
People were getting really pissed off now. The noise was almost deafening. At last the traffic crawled forward. ‘You mean America?’
He turned back to the girl and waved gently at her as we inched past. ‘In my country’s case, not only the US. All the countries of former Soviet Central Asia and the Caspian have to sleep with the elephant.’
It was a good way of describing the Russian Federation. I’d try to remember that one.
The girl disappeared behind us as Rob cut up a few vehicles to keep moving.
‘Already the elephant’s dislike for unity lies behind Moscow’s threats to launch bombing raids into northern Georgia, they say to pursue Islamic rebels.’
We took a sharp right down a side street, then started to take continuous right-hand turns. It was nearly dark, but Rob didn’t have his lights on. I looked at him in the rear-view. ‘Anything to be worried about?’
His eyes flicked rapidly from screen to mirror. ‘Nah. Just seeing if anyone’s on our arse. The guys we’re on our way to see are a bit jumpy about having a meeting with whites in Sadr.’
‘Sadr?’
‘Yep. The Americans don’t go there much – too risky. Makes it safer for us. But no one knows Benzil is Jewish, so keep it low, OK?’
We were heading for Shia world. Sadr City was its real name, but for years it’s been called Saddam City.
Benzil wasn’t worried at all. ‘By 2050 our region will be the biggest oil-producer on the planet. And because of that we will feel American influence even more acutely. It’s not just the military bases: it’s the cultural intrusion.
‘At the moment, our Muslim militancy is being stoked up deliberately so that the West has a reason to be there to protect what they consider to be their oil and gas resources. Maybe Mr Nuhanovic can work his magic, and then everybody will benefit from the oil wealth. Not just the Americans and the West, but everybody.
‘It’s a long-term plan, and to make it work we need to keep Nuhanovic alive. My plan is to persuade him to come to Uzbekistan, where he can be safe with me while he develops his message using my country. Once people understand they have power in unity and power in their pockets, it will not have to worry about its government, America, the elephant, or even our neighbours.’
The road led us to the outskirts of Sadr. A line of dead T52 tanks, their barrels drooping to the ground and being used as washing-lines, had become slum housing. The scorch-marked hulls had been painted red, yellow and pink, and flowers stuck out of pots where the fuel tanks had been. Women cooked from fires built over the engine grilles, and kids kicked footballs against what was left of the track wheels.
‘We can stop the tension in the regions as the oil cash flows in. The West will have no reason to station troops there, and we can get on with our lives. Does that make sense to you, Nick?’
It did, but I knew there was more to come. He hadn’t talked about how I fitted in yet.
‘Where are we going now? To see him?’
He gave a gentle laugh and pushed his gigs further up his nose. ‘Unfortunately not. I know people who have had contact with him, and have been trying to impress on them that I need to see him. He knows I’m here. I have had indirect contact with him in Bosnia for nearly two years, through one of his intermediaries in Sarajevo. Is that not so, Robert?’
‘Nuhanovic is testing Benzil’s commitment, Nick. In Bosnia, he only deals through a guy called Ramzi Salkic. You remember that big old mosque in the Turkish area? You know, Gazzer something?’
I nodded but, like him, I couldn’t remember the name.
‘Salkic almost lives in there. That’s where we meet him. But Benzil can’t go inside the mosque. They’d smell him. So I go. I’m really good at all the prayers now.’ He was quite proud of himself.
Benzil looked at me over the top of his dark glasses. ‘But now I fear Mr Nuhanovic may have already left for Sarajevo, earlier than expected.’
We worked our way through a market selling vehicle parts, American uniforms, weapons, and some of the drugs that should have been in the kids’ hospital they’d visited that morning. The skeletons of Iraqi military trucks were everywhere, along with the twisted remains of the odd Hummer and a burnt-out AFV.
‘I hope we can meet. I know I can convince him it’s the right thing to do. He’s a target for so many people. The West want him dead because he can unite Muslims, the corporations because of the boycotts, the fundamentalists because he’s preaching the wrong message.’ He nodded out towards the crush of people in the market. ‘Some of his enemies are here, just the other sid
e of this glass.’
He removed his gigs and leaned back against the door. ‘I have talked enough about our situation. But what about you, Nick, what is your place in the story? Would you like to be part of something different? Would you like to be part of keeping him alive?’
Soon the market was behind us. We bounced along pitch-black, deserted streets and Rob hit the lights.
Both of them were silent now. I didn’t know if it was because we were nearly there, or they were giving me time to think.
Benzil must have been reading my mind – or was it showing on my face? ‘No need to rush your decision, Nick. We have time.’
There was a heavy, dull thud. The front of the vehicle lifted. The windscreen shattered. The car rose up and over to the right, then bounced back down. Rounds rained into the bodywork, punching through the steel.
Rob lunged for the footwell, scrabbling for the AK. Two rounds thumped into his neck, spraying the interior with blood. His head lolled from his shoulders, held by just a few ligaments.
I shoved the door and rolled out on to the road. Glass showered down on me. Petrol spewed out of the vehicle as more heavy 7.62 AK rounds ripped through metal.
I turned back, trying to grab Benzil, but I was too late. He was slumped in the footwell. The rounds poured in. I kept low, sprinted back to the junction, turned right and leaped over a fence. I landed in a garden.
60
Kids screamed. Dogs barked. My legs weren’t moving as fast as my head wanted them to. It felt as if I was running in mud.
People peered from their windows and shouted when they spotted me. ‘American! American!’ A couple of women started the Red Indian warble.
There were a couple of long bursts from near the vehicle as I ran down a narrow alley between two tall breezeblock walls. Arab screams echoed behind me. A burst water main had left the ground slimy and I lost my footing. I stumbled over a pile of rotting garbage and fell face down. Scrambling on all fours to move forwards and get up, I saw headlights moving back and forth about seventy metres ahead. All I wanted to do was get there and turn, it didn’t matter which way – anything to get out of the line of sight and fire.
