by Andy McNab
Jerry had ripped all his kit off and was busy drawing cold water from a barrel into a second jug. He obviously knew his way around nineteenth-century plumbing. He unhooked the chain that held the ornate brass bucket above the stone shower tray to the left of the fire. Letting it run through his hands until the bucket hit the shower tray, he poured in water from each jug until he was satisfied with the temperature.
I eased open the blue-glass door to check outside. The terracotta rooftops were covered with frost. Above them, a million stars glistened in a pitch-black sky.
The other side of the compound was in total darkness. The guys on stag must have been freezing. I could make out the shape of another building beyond the one-storey one, which was where the family would have lived. It was the usual Muslim set-up. Visitors would be kept this side. If they were here for business, they’d be confined to the ground floor. The first floor would be reserved for family guests, as they would be able to see into the private courtyard that separated the two areas. Weren’t we the lucky ones?
These places were completely surrounded by thick walls, and were a nightmare to get into or out of. They’d even made sure the treeline was a fair distance from the walls to prevent any climbers.
I saw movement in the guest courtyard. A couple of bodies were standing under the veranda. Fair one; I’d have had eyes on us two full-time as well. They’d probably been there when we came in.
We needed to get ourselves sorted out if we were going to be running around in the forest once we’d dropped Nuhanovic. We needed to get warm, dry and fed.
Jerry gasped. I couldn’t tell whether that meant the water was too hot, too cold, or he just didn’t like it hitting the bits I’d split open. I closed the door, went over to the shower and stood right next to him. Some of his hot water splashed over my face and soaked into my clothes. It felt great.
I murmured into his ear. ‘Even if there’s no electricity, the room could still be bugged, OK?’
He nodded.
I moved away to the fire as he cut the water before soaping himself down. I finished mixing my own as the water splashed in the shower once more with Jerry on rinse cycle, and got my kit off.
Less than twenty minutes later we were both dressed in baggy cotton trousers, white T-shirts, thin padded jackets and Turkish slippers. We finished off the brews as our kit steamed gently in front of the fire.
The smell now reminded me of the drying rooms in training camp. You’d come off exercise after days in the wet, and nine times out of ten the heaters didn’t work and you’d have to wear the same wet gear until it dried out on you. When they did, we’d all be like pigs in shit, but no amount of lavender oil could have shifted the stench our kit left behind.
As I sat there in front of the flames, the stubble on my cheek rasping against my hand, my eyes started to droop. The drying rooms made me think of the Regiment, then Danny Connor, and Rob. I jerked them open and checked Baby-G. It was just after ten. Baby-G made me think about Kelly, which also made me think about Zina.
I tried watching Jerry patting his scabby nose with a towel, but my eyelids had a will of their own. Maybe I dozed.
There was a knock on the door, I didn’t know how much later. Jerry jumped up and opened it. Nuhanovic remained outside this time, his lamp throwing shadows across the landing. Maybe he didn’t like the smell. ‘You will require your coats.’
I started to put on my kit, now just damp rather than completely soaking, over the clothes we’d been given. I’d decided to take everything except the sacks and my PVC special. Who knew how this eat-and-talk fest would end?
Nuhanovic said nothing as Jerry followed my example, just watched in mild amusement. We finished with our parkas, zipped up as tight as they would go. As we followed him back down the stairs, he explained the layout of the place as if we’d just arrived for a dinner party. ‘It was built by a very wealthy Turkish trader in your sixteenth century. It hasn’t changed that much.’
I couldn’t see anyone under the veranda as we headed across the visitors’ courtyard to a doorway where the two buildings met, but I knew they were out there somewhere in the darkness.
Inside, his oil lamp bathed the wide stone passageway with light, and his voice echoed as he carried on his pre-dinner-party waffle. ‘The story is that the trader’s wife was so beautiful he didn’t want anyone to see her, so he built this house in the middle of nowhere. He was a jealous man, you see. But it still wasn’t enough, so he also planted the forest to prevent even the house being seen.’
‘That why you live here?’
He looked at me with that strange half-smile. ‘I live for my work, Nick. I am not blessed with a beautiful wife . . .’
The door at the end of the passageway opened on to the family courtyard. The building facing us was flanked left and right by the exterior walls. Set in the centre of the one to the right were the coach doors. We followed him over the cobblestones, past another set of heavy doors. Ahead of us, a light glowed behind a window.
‘But I am a nomad, Nick. I do not live anywhere. I move from place to place. Concealment is my greatest weapon, just as it is for the aggressors who avoid justice for their war crimes. It seems I have something in common with my old enemy, no?’
My eyes were fixed on the glow from the window. We stepped up on to the wooden veranda and he opened the door; this time he motioned for us to leave our boots outside. The threshold was two feet high. ‘Mind your toes.’ He lowered the lamp a little. ‘These are designed to keep little children in the rooms, but they claim a lot of flesh from adult feet.’
We were in a large square room. Fragrant perfume wafted from a pair of oil lamps in each of the far corners. Here, too, low seating ran the entire length of two walls. A fire raged in the centre of the third.
Waiting for us in the centre of the rug-covered floor were three large cushions set round a big brass tray, on which were a coffee pot, glasses, and a medium-sized brown-paper bag.
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We all took our coats off and hung them on the wall hooks to the left of the door. He was dressed in a simple black dishdash, black trousers and socks. My socks had dried like cardboard; it wouldn’t be long before they warmed up and started stinking the place out.
This room was also very plain, decorated only with some framed verses from the Qurŕān. The light from the two oil lamps was enough to show that although Nuhanovic’s skin wasn’t translucent like Benzil’s it was almost unnaturally clear and wrinkle-free.
The top panel of the door to our left was a decorative carved grille. We could hear the clanking of pans and the good-humoured murmur of people at work coming from the other side of it; even better, we could smell food.
Nuhanovic held out a bony hand to Jerry. ‘Welcome.’
Then he took another step forward and shook my hand too. His grip wasn’t firm, but it was quite obvious that, like Benzil, his strength was in his head; he didn’t need it anywhere else. In this light, and up close, his dark brown eyes were even more piercing. They didn’t roam, they looked where they wanted to look and stayed there until they’d seen enough.
‘Nick, Jerry, please . . .’ He gestured towards the cushions. ‘Welcome.’ He had his own teeth, but no teeth were that naturally white.
Jerry and I sat cross-legged with our backs to the door. He took the cushion opposite, the paper bag to his left, the coffee to his right, and started pouring the heavily perfumed brew, holding the spout right near the glass then lifting it away steeply. It was like watching some kind of ceremonial ritual.
I accepted a glass. His hands were still as perfectly manicured as they were in the ‘Chetnik Mama’ picture.
The coffee tasted just the way it smelt, so I added a couple more lumps of crystallized brown sugar.
Nuhanovic passed a glass to Jerry and once again glanced sympathetically at his damaged face. ‘This has been an eventful time for you both. My people will discover what has happened to Ramzi and Benzil. I’m sure Nasir has taken care of everyth
ing; he normally does.’
He fixed us each in turn with his steady gaze, his eyes giving nothing away. ‘But please explain to me again, in greater detail, the events that have beset you.’
For the next ten minutes his gaze only shifted once from my face, to pour more coffee for himself and Jerry. I gave him the edited version of why we’d gone to Baghdad, how we’d come to meet Benzil, seen Goatee, and what had subsequently led us here – Jerry for his picture, me because Nuhanovic found it interesting that I was at the cement factory.
He shook his head gently and listened while pouring again for Jerry. I left my glass a third full. Once you’ve emptied it, the host’s duty is to offer a refill, and I’d had enough. I’d managed to avoid the perfumed shit for the whole of this job, and I wasn’t about to get hit by it now.
I didn’t want to waste any more time talking about things that didn’t matter. I didn’t know how much of it we had. ‘Our passports, phone, money . . . Will we get them back?’ I smiled. ‘One of the curses of the West. We feel naked without them.’
He replaced his glass delicately on the tray in front of him, and dropped his hands on to his knees. ‘Of course. When you leave. And of course you are free to go whenever you wish. I’m sure Ramzi explained that we do nothing here that might help our enemies to trace us. We use no electronics, no TV, no phones, no satellite technology. No devices of the kind that might bring a bomb down on my head.’ He paused, and seemed to be reserving his little half-smile for me personally. ‘You understand my concern, Nick, I am certain.’
I returned his smile as he picked up his glass.
‘My people are not pleased that I wanted to meet with you. They think you could be here to kill me.’ He took an appreciative sip and studied us both. ‘I’ve told them that if that is God’s will, then so be it. But the fact is, I wish to talk with you.’
He put his glass down, but his eyes never left mine. Was it true? Was I here to kill him? If I looked away, I knew his suspicions would be confirmed. ‘But let us eat and talk a while. I’m sure you’re hungry, after your long and eventful journey.’
His head tilted gently to one side. ‘And you, Jerry . . . Why is it that you wish to take my picture?’
Jerry looked straight at him as well. ‘To help me, and to help you. To help me win a Pulitzer, and help you get on the front cover of Time magazine. I thought maybe you’d like that.’ He sounded as if he was talking to royalty.
Nuhanovic arched an eyebrow. ‘In what way?’
Jerry smiled wearily. ‘I haven’t got my camera any more, so it’s academic.’
The side door opened and two men came in carrying a selection of bowls, which they laid out on the tray between us. I caught a glimpse of two others standing outside with AKs, paying a lot more attention to us than to what was happening in the kitchen. No way were we going to be able to hit-and-run this man.
The bowls contained hot rice, raisins, meat, chopped onions, and enough pitta bread for an invading army. Forks were offered, but we refused politely.
As the door closed again, Nuhanovic gestured for us to eat. I ripped off a piece of pitta with my right hand and used it as a scoop to get among the meat juices. No doubt the two AK boys were now standing with their faces against the grille, just in case I tried to jam it down his throat and choke him with it.
The door opened and the waiters were back with glasses of orange juice and a brass washing bowl, jug and hand towels for later on. The AK boys hadn’t budged an inch.
The door closed again.
‘Hasan?’
He looked up and smiled, and I hoped my chin wasn’t dripping gravy. ‘What concerns me is that we might be the ones getting killed, because we know where you are.’
He glanced at the door and treated us to the full smile this time.
‘They’re simply for my protection. I do not kill people.’ He took a sip of his coffee. ‘Besides, you knew how to get here, and yet you have made no attempt to compromise me. I am happy for us to trust each other.’
He smiled again, but held our gaze for that extra second before continuing. ‘When we have spoken about certain things, you will be taken back to Sarajevo.’
He put a piece of bread into his mouth and handed Jerry the paper bag. ‘Jerry, I agree with you. I think being on the cover of Time would help me in my work.’
Jerry glanced inside and pulled out two cardboard and plastic disposable cameras, the sort you see waved about on hen nights.
It was as if a switch had been thrown. Suddenly Jerry was in Pulitzer mode. ‘There’s not enough light in here. Can we improve it?’
Nuhanovic nodded slowly, looking towards the decorative grille. ‘I’m sure we can.’
Jerry ripped the cellophane wrapper from the first camera as he checked out the room for light angles or whatever photographers do.
Nuhanovic carried on eating, but I felt his eyes boring into me. The door opened and the two guys came in again, another oil lamp in each hand. Jerry showed them exactly where he wanted them, then adjusted them an inch or two for perfection as the boys chucked some more wood on the fire and left. The AK boys still stared at us from the other side of the door.
Jerry wound the first exposure into place. ‘Mind if I move around, try some angles?’
Nuhanovic didn’t look up, just nodded and finished chewing. Then, as Jerry began to fine-tune the lamp positions yet again and busy himself with even more photography stuff, he leaned towards me, his elbows on his thighs. ‘Nick, I, too, want to talk about what happened in the cement factory. But first, please tell me, why were you there? And what exactly did you see?’
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Flashlight bounced around the room as I told him everything, apart from the real reason I’d been there. Instead he got the camera-kit-stolen-and-had-to-hide-when-I-saw-the-trucks-coming version.
Jerry took shot after shot and the camera whined each time like a tiny jet engine.
I talked Nuhanovic along the whole timeline, from the moment I saw vehicles approaching to the moment he had his argument with Mladic. ‘There was a group of girls held back after you’d left . . .’
His eyes never left mine.
‘They were raped, systematically. One threw herself out of a third-floor window.’
What I was looking for was confirmation, but I wasn’t going to get it just yet. His eyes went down and fixed on the rice. He took a few grains in his fingers and rolled it into a ball. Jerry still buzzed around us like a worker-bee with a mission.
‘I found out much later that one of them was called Zina. She was only fifteen. After the other girl jumped, and they scraped her off Mladic’s wagon, Zina made a run for it, towards the treeline where I was hiding.’
He watched the ball of rice all the way to his mouth.
‘The Serbs just laughed. Some of them were laughing so much they found it hard to come into the aim. When she spotted me, she looked confused. She stopped, looked round at the Serbs, then turned again. I can still see the look on her face. That was when she took a round in the back.
‘She fell directly in front of me. So close I felt the mud splash. She crawled towards me, begging with her eyes. And I did nothing to help her as she died. I’ll never forget her eyes . . .’
I ripped some bread and picked up another chunk of meat. ‘For a long time, I used to lie awake at night, wondering what she’d be doing now if she was alive. Maybe she’d be a mother, maybe a model. She was a good-looking kid.’
Nuhanovic looked up slowly as he swallowed. Jerry pressed the shutter release and the flash made him blink. For a moment, he looked surprised.
‘That’s a very moving story, Nick, but one I find somewhat confusing. In fact, I was confused from the moment Ramzi told me about you.
‘I had to ask myself, why would a Westerner have been in that part of Bosnia on that particular day? He could only have been a newsman, a soldier, or a spy. I was intrigued. Hence, my invitation.
‘And I am still intrigued. You say you were a r
eporter, but I never saw a report about Mladic murdering Muslims that day. Why is that? No one in that line of business would have failed to exploit such a story. It would have grabbed world headlines.
‘But no . . . no story. I think that is because you are not a reporter, Nick. Which means you must have been there as a soldier, or a spy. But let us not beat about the bush: the distinction between the two is irrelevant.’ His eyes never left mine. ‘Satisfy my curiosity, Nick. Why were you really there?’
Fuck it, why not? In any case, if I wanted more from him, I had to expect to trade.
I told him why I was there, how I just lay in my hide, waiting for the Paveway to come down on Mladic. ‘I felt a lot of guilt for not calling it in sooner. I was haunted by the thought I could have stopped the killing. Lately, I’ve even been thinking that talking to you about it might help me. You were there, maybe you would have understood.’
Nuhanovic’s face was set in a frown. ‘Mladic?’ He nodded to himself, as if working out the answer to his own question. ‘Mladic . . . but they let him escape.’
I didn’t want to talk about fucking Mladic. ‘Someone explained to me I don’t need forgiveness. I did what I thought was right at the time . . .’
Nuhanovic stared deeply at me, his lips pursed. ‘I agree with your friend. He is very wise.’ Then he added, without a flicker of a smile, ‘He is obviously not a Serb.’
I lifted a glass of orange juice to my mouth and took a sip. Time to up the ante. ‘I’m confused about something, too. Why were all the girls kept behind after everyone else had left? And why were a few of those kept by Mladic after you yourself had gone? Did you know about that?’
‘Of course I did.’ He seemed angry, but with what or whom I couldn’t work out. ‘The argument with Mladic was because he wanted me to pay the agreed price for the young women, yet keep some back for his men. We were arguing about cost, not lives. He is an animal. And yet he was allowed to live.’
