by Andy McNab
We twisted the caps off the bottles. Jerry had gone quiet again: maybe he didn’t like me talking about killing. It was time to get off the subject.
‘If we get lifted by the flat tops tonight we’re going to have to think on our feet, big-time. There’s no way out of here except by jumping on to the coffee-bar canopy, just like in those Jackie Chan movies.’
Jerry gave a nervous laugh. He didn’t fancy plummeting straight through the canvas and ending up bent round the cappuccino machine any more than I did. But if the wrong guys came calling, it might be the only option. ‘If we do get away and have to split, we’ll meet in the car park by the Romeo and Juliet bridge, OK? Wait there for two hours. If I don’t turn up, you’re on your own. I’ll do the same if I’m there first. You got that?’
Jerry nodded calmly enough, but I knew he was flapping. I patted his shoulder. ‘Listen, I doubt that’ll happen. If it’s Nuhanovic the flat tops want, they’ll wait and see if we lead them to him.’
I got up and went over to the window. It was now dark and headlights pierced the rain along Snipers’ Alley. ‘Well, I think the condemned men deserve to have their last meal, don’t you?’
Jerry smiled and reached for the bedside phone. He ordered us both the house special, Sarajevo burger and chips, and loads of extra bread and red sauce for the butties.
‘Tell them to call us when they bring the food up. Say we’re both going to be in the bath, and you want to make sure one of us is able to get the door.’
The last thing I wanted was to open up for what we thought was room service, and get a trolleyload of flat top-with-Goatee instead.
Jerry rang Reception, found out the time of first prayers, and booked a five thirty call. I imagined we’d be the only ones there. Salkic hadn’t looked the sort who’d be in the mosque before daybreak, but I could be wrong and we had to be prepared.
Both of us stayed as we were, fully dressed, boots on, kit packed and ready to go. I lay on the bed with my hands behind my head, staring at the ceiling. Jerry got up, grabbed the remote from the top of the TV and started to channel-hop. I watched the screen, not thinking about much, just picking at the scabs on my hand. I’d known I wouldn’t be able to resist it for long.
Jerry rested the remote on his stomach as he pressed the buttons and the screen flickered from station to station. We finally settled for Law and Order, just the way we liked it: dubbed into German, with Serbo-Croat subtitles. We didn’t have a clue what was going on. Everybody nodded a lot, pointed at dead bodies lying on the floor, and jumped in and out of cars by hot-dog stalls.
The phone rang and Jerry answered. The food was on its way.
I checked the spyhole and saw the waiter leaning over the trolley. No Goatee. I opened up. He came and laid everything out on the table, took the two-euro tip I offered him, and left.
We tucked into our Sarajevo burgers and chip butties, downed the Cokes, and went back to watching TV. Our favourite channel ran out of steam after midnight, and we lay on our beds reading. Jerry had a Herald Tribune he’d bought at the airport in Vienna. I just scanned the label on the back of my Coke can a few hundred times.
We put the lights out at about one in the morning but Jerry carried on channel-surfing. We watched Baghdad and Fallujah getting the good news from a few RPGs and a handful of suicide bombers on BBC World, then moved on to a German news quiz. I scored one point for recognizing David Hasselhoff in the picture round.
There was a gentle knock on the door. In the glow of the TV screen, Jerry and I exchanged a glance. Too late for room service to be collecting the dirties.
He turned the sound down with the remote, we both sat up and I hit the bedside light. His eyes were bouncing between me and the door, trying to see through it. He bit his lip. There was another knock, a little louder this time.
I got to my feet, checking my bumbag to make sure it was secure round my waist. Jerry started to get his on as well.
Through the spyhole, I could see a couple of new, serious-looking faces dressed by World of Leather. Their heads were close enough to kiss the lens.
I glanced back at Jerry. He stood there, checking the zip on his bumbag one last time before nodding a ‘ready’.
I hoped he was right: I suddenly had the feeling that he’d be better off strapping on some body armour and making ready a decent-sized assault rifle. Just because these were new faces, it didn’t mean they belonged to Nuhanovic.
There was only one way to find out. I slipped off the chain and turned the handle.
I took a couple of quick steps back into the room, then turned and tensed, ready to take the hit. The horror on Jerry’s face was plain to see. He fell back on to the bed and curled up in a ball.
I closed my eyes, clenched my teeth, and waited.
76
Nothing happened. I sensed rather than heard somebody walking into the room.
Then I heard a voice like a 1950s BBC newsreader. ‘It’s all right, Nick, it’s me.’
I spun round and opened my eyes. The leather boys had stayed outside in the corridor, but Benzil was right there in front of me. His face was badly scabbed. It looked as if the slightest glimmer of a smile would crack the scabs and restart the bleeding.
He was wearing a black overcoat over a white shirt that was undone at the collar, and a white crew-neck vest. ‘It is not the first time enemies of Mr Nuhanovic have tried to kill me, and I hope it will not be the last time they fail to do so. Robert’s death, however, is a terrible price to pay.’
‘I heard them firing into the wagon.’
He lifted his hands to the sky. ‘That might have been them shooting at a very fast-moving target. By the grace of God, I got out of the car quickly and into a house. The people were very kind. It was so sudden – our security is always so tight. I believed you were our only link with the outside world, but Robert vouched for you – and, of course, you would hardly have wanted to ambush yourself.’
‘No, no idea.’
I heard Jerry rolling off the bed behind me. Benzil’s eyes moved over my shoulder. Jerry muttered, ‘Hi.’
Benzil nodded. ‘Jerry?’
‘Yes.’
Benzil had more urgent things on his mind. ‘We have to move quickly. Mr Nuhanovic wants to meet us both. The gentlemen outside are going to take us.’
‘They with Salkic?’
‘Yes. I just missed you at the mosque, but I know you attracted a lot of attention towards Mr Salkic today. As a result, I suspect that the Serb slavers have made the link between him and Nuhanovic. The situation here is dangerous now. If you could get your things together, I’ll meet you downstairs.’
Jerry stepped alongside me. ‘What about our passports? We coming back here?’
‘I’m told that’s all taken care of.’ He paused and managed just a hint of a smile. ‘Maybe you will get to take your photograph after all.’
The leather boys were anxiously scanning the landing as we came out with our kit. Their jackets were undone, pistol grips within easy reach.
Nothing was said as we walked to the lift. Jerry stared straight ahead, his hands on his bumbag, checking its contents as if he expected the camera gypsies to strike at any moment.
Down at Reception, there was another familiar face. Salkic presented us with our passports without ceremony or emotion. ‘Follow me.’
Two midnight-blue Audis with smoked glass and alloy wheels were waiting outside, engines running. Benzil was sitting in the back of the lead vehicle, his window down. His fresh-faced driver indicated, with a wave of the small radio in his hand, that we were to get into the one behind. Its boot clicked open.
The leather boys also peeled away from us to go with Benzil, one in the back beside him, the other beside the driver. Salkic climbed into the front seat of ours as we threw our bags into the boot and got into the back. A driver in his forties was at the wheel. His crewcut was just cropping out to show the grey on the sides, and his face was peppered with small scars. His stubble only grew where t
he skin wasn’t marked. As he ran his right hand over the wheel I could see that his index and ring finger were missing.
Jerry had recognized him too. But he didn’t look round to acknowledge us, or make eye contact in the rear-view, so we did the same.
The rain had stopped, but the heating was on. The interior smelt of new leather. Salkic and the driver were gobbing off to each other at warp speed. There was a burst of radio mush, then a voice in Serbo-Croat. Salkic pulled a Motorola two-way communicator from his pocket, the sort skiers use to keep in touch with each other on the slopes. He mumbled into it as Benzil’s vehicle pulled away and we followed.
The wet pavements glistened in the streetlights. Sarajevo was bright with neon and illuminated billboards, but appeared deserted. I couldn’t help feeling the place was all dressed up with nowhere to go. I saw a tram, but there was no other sign of life as we splashed our way out of the city.
In the driver’s footwell, tucked against the seat so it didn’t get in the way of the pedals, was an AK Para version, the same as Rob’s. A spare thirty-round magazine was taped upside down to the one loaded in the weapon. I just hoped it was there for comfort rather than necessity. There was nothing armoured about this Audi and I didn’t fancy the idea of repeating my Baghdad experience as brass-coated lead rounds ripped the tin can to bits.
‘It is a long journey.’ Salkic spoke without turning round. He didn’t sound happy with life. His eyes were glued to the road ahead, as if he was expecting an attack from a side junction at any minute.
I leaned forward between the two seats. ‘Where we going?’
‘It would mean nothing to you, and even if it did, I would not tell you. It’s better that way. Everybody either wants to kiss Hasan or kill him. I protect him from both. Those men who followed you, they do not want to kiss Hasan.’
There was more mumbling on the net and he held up his right hand in case I was about to speak. Those little Motorolas were perfect for close-up comms. They had a range of a couple of Ks, beyond which they couldn’t be listened in to, and because they didn’t produce that big a footprint it was difficult to keep track of them.
He pressed the send button and gave his answer. The front car immediately took a sharp right, but we carried on past the junction and took the next left. Salkic saw Jerry’s concern in the rear-view as the streetlights flashed by, strobing the interior. ‘For our own protection.’
I leaned forward again. ‘How long have you known Nuhanovic?’
Salkic stared ahead at the empty road. It took a while before I got an answer. ‘Hasan is a truly remarkable man.’
‘So I hear. Thank you for passing on our message.’
He stared through the perfectly cleaned windscreen, not a bug splash in sight. The Motorola crackled and he concentrated on what was being said before responding. ‘I gave him your message. He was interested to hear about you being at the cement factory.’
‘How did you come to work for him?’
He turned round very slowly and deliberately, and in the strobed light I could see that his face was set like stone. ‘I do not work for him,’ he said simply. ‘I serve him. He saved me and my sister from the aggressor when the British, the French – everyone – were just standing by and wringing their hands.’
He tapped the driver on the shoulder, waffled off to him, and he nodded and waffled back. It looked like they all felt a similar obligation.
‘Nasir says it was a shock in Baghdad when you asked about Hasan. Nasir begged him to leave the city within the hour. He, too, is always worried about security.’
Salkic faced the front again.
I took the hint and sat back. Before long we were heading out of the city and up on to the high ground. Apart from our headlights, the only light was what spilled now and again from the houses dotting the road.
We were on a metalled single carriageway that snaked its way across the ridge and down into the valley the other side.
Acouple of Ks later, I spotted tail-lights in the distance. They were static, and off to the right. Salkic got on the net and the lights began to move and rejoined the road. We soon closed up behind them.
I leaned forward. ‘Benzil?’
Salkic nodded. ‘I’m the only link to Hasan in Sarajevo. Nasir will take us only part of the way, then I alone will take you on to him.’
Nasir’s seat creaked softly as his weight shifted. There was nothing out there but inky darkness, the headlights catching the odd tree-trunk and house at the roadside as we drove past. A couple of times a scabby dog rushed out from behind one to take us on.
Jerry was doing the same as me, peering out into the night. His hands rested on the camera in his bumbag, as if he was still worried the camera gypsies were about to pounce.
77
Tuesday, 14 October
We had been following the Audi’s tail-lights at a distance for about an hour and forty when Salkic sparked up. ‘We are nearly at the transfer point.’
I guessed the next stage of the journey wasn’t going to be as comfortable. He dug down round his neck and pulled out two keys on a chain, the sort ID tags are attached to. With luck, they belonged to a nice warm vehicle. I didn’t fancy tabbing through the cuds in this kind of weather.
‘Everything you have with you will stay with Nasir.’
Jerry leaned into the space between the front seats. ‘What about my camera? If he lets me take some shots, I’ll—’
Salkic turned to him, his face steely. ‘Nothing must be brought with us. Certainly no electrical devices. We will also search you. Don’t worry, everything will be returned after you have seen Hasan.’
The front Audi’s tail-lights glowed red, and stayed on. As we closed, Salkic talked cautiously into his Motorola.
We were almost on top of them before we could see the problem. The way ahead was blocked by a dead cow, and her mates didn’t seem keen to let us through. We couldn’t drive round them because of the barbed-wire fences either side of us.
It looked as if the road ran past a farm. A collection of barns stood just off to the right, rough old things knocked up out of concrete blocks and corrugated iron.
Nasir braked to a complete halt, lifting his foot off the pedal when we’d stopped to kill the rear lights. Then he threw the gearshift into reverse and started backing up as the other driver and a leather boy got out to investigate.
Salkic held the radio near his mouth, his eyes fixed on where we’d just been. ‘This is where we leave Nasir and his people. They will go back to Sarajevo. I will take you to Hasan.’
We stopped about a hundred metres back, lights off, and waited. Nasir was cautious: he knew his drills. A frantic voice screamed over the net. Nasir went for the AK as a huge, dark mass roared out from one of the barns behind blazing lights, bouncing cows out of its way as it aimed for Benzil’s Audi. Jerry pushed back into his seat, transfixed by the mechanical monster’s headlights.
As the truck bore down on them, the leather boys ran back to their car. One of them managed to pull an AK and the muzzle flared in the darkness.
Salkic hollered into his radio, for all the good that was going to do. There was another burst from the AK, but it didn’t stop the Audi getting T-boned dead centre and being bounced back into the fence.
Nasir threw open his door and jumped out at the same time as I did, his AK at the ready, yelling at the other two. I grabbed at Jerry’s coat as rounds started to puncture the bodywork. ‘Out the fucking car!’
The barbed wire buckled as the wheels of Benzil’s Audi dug into the mud for a second or two before it toppled over on to its side. Automatic fire rattled among the barns as the truck ground to a halt, its headlights spilling across the wreckage and the sharply rising ground beyond it.
Rounds hammered into the side panel, inches away from me. Jerry twisted and tore away from my grip. He screamed once and dropped to the tarmac like liquid.
Shit. I fell with him.
His body was still wriggling.
‘I
’m OK, OK.’
Nasir was to my right, static and firing at the muzzle flashes that tore through the darkness from the direction of the farm buildings. He was calm and controlled, taking short bursts, making every round count. I didn’t look back, just got my head down and legged it towards what was left of Benzil’s Audi.
More bursts from the right. They were moving positions so they could get rounds into the heap of tangled metal wrapped round the front of the truck. Rounds zinged off the tarmac.
Shit, shit, shit. Don’t look, just keep going.
Another four, maybe five sustained bursts.
I was nearly at the wreckage. The Audi was lying on its left side, wedged against the truck’s radiator grille. The truck driver was slumped over his steering-wheel.
‘Benzil! Benzil!’
I peered through the Audi’s mud-splattered windscreen. There was nobody inside.
‘Benzil! Benzil!’
One of the leather boys had been crushed between the two vehicles. I felt about for his weapon among the mangled flesh and steel.
A semi-automatic opened up from the high ground behind me, punctuating the frenzied shouts in Serbo-Croat that echoed all around us. Who the fuck was who?
‘Benzil!’
No weapon found. I lay flat in the mud, using the Audi for cover, wishing I could dig myself into the ground. More rounds ripped into it from the barn, and again from the high ground. One of the leather boys was jumping up and down, yelling to me to move up. Then, as he gave me more covering fire, his muzzle flash illuminated Benzil kneeling by his side.
Fuck it, deep breath. I legged it up the hill towards him, only to be catapulted back down into the mud by the remains of the barbed-wire fence. The more I tried to untangle myself, the more it cut into my jeans and skin. The leather boy shouted something at me before returning fire, as if he thought I was deliberately taking my time.
I kicked free and kept well to the right of him as he squeezed off burst after burst. I saw Benzil again in the muzzle flash, lying at his feet now, waving me over.
