Crossfire ns-10

by Andy McNab

  'American?'

  'Yeah, well, one of them, anyways…'

  He pointed over at the two guys flexing, eating and chatting up the two women, all at the same time. 'Some of those contract guys? They had to run to their wagons and draw down to get them outta here.'

  'You know who they were? You seen them before?'

  'No, man, no one knew them. The American, big guy – and a Brit. They were like just fucked-up and crazy.' His eyes lit up and he pointed his cigarette at me. 'You know what? He talked like you.'

  'What did he look like, the American? You said he was tall.'

  'Yeah, like six six, fucking huge ginger guy, fucked-up skin. But, hey, they'd really gone local, know what I'm saying?'

  'What about the Brit? He's smaller, right?'

  'Yeah, your size. His hair and face, man, it was like matted and fucked-up.' He turned to his mates and grinned. 'We're like fucking dinner-party guests compared to those guys.'

  All three got into their cans and drank to that. I said my goodbyes, good luck down south and all that shit, and headed back upstairs. The only sound was the crunch of my boots on the gravel.

  American spelling… American looking for Dom…

  The fixer was waiting by the rifle rack. 'The phone is in Khushal Mena. Well, it was when it was located. It might have been in parked car, or maybe the owner was in friend's house.'

  'Where's this Khushal?' I dumped my Bergen and took out the map. I grabbed another pen and let him show me.

  'On Ghazni Street, where it meets Sarak Street.' He circled the map. 'There.'

  It was on the west side of the city, near the polytechnic. If it was still standing.

  He got his other two hundred and left without a thank-you. Fair enough. He hadn't got one either.

  It was just before seven as I sat on the steps and watched him climb into his Honda 4x4 and head out of the gates.

  I put a new Thierry Henry into my mobile. Just like a soldier's weapon and Pete's camera battery, it also needed to be fully loaded.

  Magreb's phone was soon ringing in my ear. He answered quickly.

  'Hello, mate, it's Nick.'

  He was a very happy bunny. Maybe there would be some work. 'You found the Gandamack OK, Mr Nick?'

  'No drama, thanks to you. Can you pick me up? You'll be finished by about three in the morning. That OK?'

  'Of course, Mr Nick. I sleep in kitchen.'

  'Listen, I need you to bring some stuff. I want a set of local clothes. You know, hat, waistcoat, shemag, like the SIM-card seller but without the overcoats, yeah? I want to look like him.'

  'Not be clean, maybe.'

  'No problem, mate. I'll pay you for them. I'll wait for you inside.'

  'Good idea, Mr Nick.'

  I closed down and went into the deserted dining room. I took my Nick Stone passport from my boot and slipped ten hundred-dollar bills inside. When I left again a few seconds later, the side-table was minus one of its jars of Marmite.

  Then I became the world's greatest admirer of Martini-Henry rifles. I went over to the rack and almost caressed them. Each one had been lovingly restored; there wasn't a speck of rust to be seen.

  I checked the corridor for bodies and CCTV before realizing my bootlaces needed retying. I bent down, and quickly shoved the slim bundle behind the rifle rack, right at the bottom where it met the floor. I wedged it in deep, but all it would take to retrieve it was a bent coat-hanger.

  Sitting on the steps again, I watched as wagons rolled into the compound, their occupants looking forward to a good night out.

  56

  Magreb took just one glance at the map and we were off. He knew exactly where he was going, even if he didn't know what was there. I left him to it and sifted through the bundle of Gunga Din gear he'd left on the back seat. It was perfect. I wondered if a certain SIM-card salesman had gone home tonight a few dollars richer but bollock naked under his three overcoats.

  We passed Flower Street. It was all lit up and packed with people.

  'Thanks for these, mate. I think I'll go local from now on.'

  He turned his head and gave me a big, long smile. The Hiace swerved. I'd have preferred him to keep his eyes on the road.

  There was no street-lighting as we drove through the embassy area. Vehicle headlights and the security lights on the walls and inside the compounds were doing that job.

  'How much do you get paid a day?'

  'Eleven dollars, maybe.'

  We passed another compound. This one was protected by a sangar, and probably stuffed with Filipinos and CCTV. It didn't look military or diplomatic. Maybe it was one of the private security companies. The big lads might be back hitting the weights in there later if they didn't score.

  'OK, here's the deal, Magreb. One hundred a day.'

  We swerved again. His face lit up and he took a breath to say something but I raised a hand. 'But only if you concentrate on the fucking road, OK?'

  He grinned, but his brow creased as he turned back to the road. 'But what about my work?'

  'I'm only going to need you from time to time, and for a couple of days. We'll do it at night. I'll pay for each night whether I use you or not, OK?'

  An emphatic nod said fucking right it's OK. And not just maybe.

  'Make sure you have your phone with you all the time, so if I'm desperate I can call you.'

  He nodded again.

  A couple of police 4x4s screamed past, the kind of Toyota flatbeds the muj and later the Taliban had liked to cruise round in. These ones were straight from the showroom. They'd had seats installed on the back so four or five police could sit with their weapons pointing out.

  Magreb gestured to his left. 'British embassy, maybe.'

  As if I couldn't have guessed. High walls and razor wire weren't enough for the FCO. The set-up looked more like the Old State Building in Basra. HESCOs surrounded it, and a big sangar stuck out on both corners. The barrels of SA80s moved about above the sandbags. Fuck knows how bunkered down the US embassy must have looked.

  Magreb wove in and out of the traffic as if he'd receive a bonus if he got there quicker. Maybe he would. Fuck it, it wasn't my money.

  I looked behind us at the car seat. 'How old are your kids?'

  'Five years, four, three, and two, maybe.'

  I slapped him on the shoulder. 'I think you need to spend more time out of the house, mate.'

  He didn't really understand but grinned anyway.

  We hit a busy junction. Neon glowed. Strings of lightbulbs festooned the fronts of shops selling food, TVs and clothes. Hundreds of locals were out strolling, listening to the music blaring from bootleg music shops, or just sitting drinking tea.

  'Where do you live, Magreb? Near the hotel?'

  'No, no.' He tapped his window. 'Up there, maybe.'

  I looked past him to see headlights climbing steeply in the distance. The two peaks were floodlit, and a couple of mini-lighthouses flashed a warning for short-sighted pilots.

  A couple of minutes later, we were almost where we needed to be, maybe. That was what Magreb said, anyway.

  We'd driven into an area of dark, narrow residential streets formed from rocks compressed into the mud. Every house hid behind a concrete-block wall. The Hiace lurched in a pothole and we bounced in our seats. There was no street-lighting, and no one about. The only noise as our engine closed down came from a dog going apeshit and the drone of traffic on the main, two or three blocks away.

  I sparked up the phone and once more made sure my number would show. 'I'm going to jump out for a while, mate. It could be five minutes, it could be an hour – I'm not sure. You OK to wait here?'

  He looked at me wide-eyed. 'For hundred dollar? Maybe!'

  I closed the door behind me and stood against a wall. He might be my new mate, but he didn't need to know what was happening, for both our sakes.

  The phone rang. I hoped she'd answer. I didn't want to start jumping over walls to find her refuge.

  Within five or six
rings her voice was in my ear. 'I told you not to call again.'

  There was no time to beat about the bush. 'Basma, listen to me – Dominik's in the shit and I need your help. I was with him in Iraq. I was there to get him out of the shit, and that's why I'm here now. You're the only one who can help me do that. I'm outside your house right now. Come out and meet me. I don't want to have to come in.'

  There was hesitation. 'Where did you say you are?'

  'Right outside. On Ghazni where it meets Sarak.'

  More hesitation. 'OK, wait.'

  I listened for the rattle of a steel door or to see some light or movement. It took a few minutes, but at last I heard bolts being thrown. The sound came from further down on Ghazni. I ran the fifteen or so metres just to be there the moment she appeared. It was a set of wooden gates, wide enough for vehicles. They were blue, and the paint was peeling.

  The right one opened just a few inches. It was on a chain. I moved my face close to the gap. 'Basma, I'm Nick.'

  The door closed, the chain rattled, then it opened properly. She came out on to the street and closed it hurriedly behind her, as if that was going to stop me. It wasn't locked.

  We stood there awkwardly, like a couple of teenagers on the doorstep after our first date. She came to about chest height, and was even better-looking in the flesh than she had been onscreen.

  'Who are you, Nick?'

  'I told you, a friend. I was in Basra with him.' Dom seemed to know all the beautiful women. She wasn't local but Arab. 'Dom's missing. He's probably here in the city. Has he made contact with you? Did he come and see you a few days ago? Don't fuck me about, I'm trying to save his life.'

  She put her hands to her mouth, but not very convincingly. What I was telling her wasn't news.

  She lowered them slowly. 'Do you know what's happened to him?'

  'He's been kidnapped. Did he come and see you?' I studied her face. 'He did, didn't he?'

  She nodded and sank back against the door.

  Now the chink in the armour was exposed, it was time to scream in. 'He came straight here from Basra. You know why? He tell you?'

  She tried to look blank. She wasn't very good at this stuff.

  I stabbed a finger towards her, stopping just short of her shoulder. 'I've got no fucking time to piss about. I'm here to get him out of the shit. Do you want to help me or not? Did he come and see you?'

  She nodded. 'Yes, he was staying here. He wanted somewhere he wouldn't be spotted.'

  'Glad we cleared that up. Now, why was he here?'

  No more evasion. She gave me eye to eye. 'He's investigating heroin-trafficking. He was trying to fix a meeting with someone from the Taliban. He said they're supplying heroin to the British.'

  My finger came up for another stab but she beat me to it. 'No, he didn't say who it was. He didn't want to tell me because he wanted to protect me. All I know is that it's to do with the British. People high up in the embassy, right here in the city. I told him it was madness trying to expose such things, but Dominik said he had a film as security.'

  'What did he say about the film? Did he mention Dublin?'

  She shook her head. 'I'm sorry, that was all he told me.'

  'Tell me about his movements. When did you last see him?'

  'He was in and out a lot, mainly at night. He didn't want to be recognized. He said he was seeing fixers, trying to find somebody who could get him a meeting with the main Taliban dealer. I don't think he did – he was getting quite frustrated. Then he went out on Monday night and never returned. I've been worried sick. I didn't know whether to report him missing… I didn't want to go to the embassy because of the connection…'

  Her voice trailed off and her hand came up to her mouth once more. This time the shock was genuine. 'Oh, Nick, do you think the British have him in one of their secret prisons? We hear about them… People never come out of those places.'

  'Stop there – no, they definitely don't have him. He's been kidnapped. I'm here to get him out.'

  A heli rattled high over the city, its navigation lights flashing like strobes. I waited for its noise to fade.

  'Basma, there's an American and a Brit been looking for him. They've gone totally local – beards, Afghan dress. The American's very tall, and has ginger hair. You know anything about them?'

  Her eyes widened. 'James. Noah James. An animal.' She looked away. She was no longer scared or sad, she was angry. 'They're the scum that sprang up after the Taliban. They use the city like some big anarchy theme park.'

  'Why would they be looking for Dom? Are they dealers?'

  'Of a kind.' She put both hands together and rested them on her chest. 'The documentary he did about the refuge… he exposed them for what they are. Dominik found some of the girls they'd been keeping high on heroin and brought them here to safety. They hate him, they hate me. We've had to move the safe-house twice because they tracked us down.'

  'Where do they hang out?'

  'I don't know. They closed down after the film came out, but they'd have started up again somewhere else. Bringing young girls off the hills, turning them into addicts, making them prostitute themselves or carry drugs round the city…'

  'How many of them?'

  'Sorry, I don't know. They find each other. They gravitate together like pack animals.'

  I risked a hand on her shoulder. 'Listen, Basma, it's going to be OK. Nobody knows I'm in the city. Nobody knows I've come to see you. Don't tell anyone. I'll contact you soon. I will get him back.'

  I ran back to the Hiace, climbed in next to Magreb and closed the door gently. 'Back to the hotel, mate. We've got a while before we go out again.'

  He turned his head. 'The lady – she is… special friend, maybe?'

  I laughed. 'No, mate, maybe not. I'm just trying to arrange a reunion, that's all.'

  57

  It was only nine, still too early to go and visit J's Bar. At least, that was what I thought the Serb had scribbled on my hand. I'd have to wait at least another couple of hours to find out for sure. After dropping me back at the hotel, Magreb had gone to see his family. He was picking me up again at 0215. Maybe.

  The plan was to get a weapon, then stake out AM Net until whoever was sending the emails showed up.

  I sparked up the laptop and searched for J's Bar on my map, Google and Google Earth. There was no reference to it anywhere – no blogs from journalists talking about the city, no mention of it in news articles, no nothing. I wasn't surprised. It was probably illegal, and that would have nothing to do with being able to obtain a weapon from the place. It would have to do with it selling alcohol.

  The address was in the Kartayi Seh district, a couple of Ks south of TV Hill, and a block or two the other side of the Kabul river. According to my map, the Russian embassy was down there too. I wondered why Putin's boys were so far away from the rest of them. Maybe there just wasn't much call for their services, these days. After all their years of liberating the country, they would hardly be flavour of the month. Only a matter of time before the Brits and Americans moved in next door, then.

  I'd done as much checking as I could. Finally I could eat, and room service was just snacks.

  The only restaurant open downstairs was the Silk Route. It served South East Asian food. I could see from the doorway that almost every table was packed with the elite. Afghan businessmen and diplomats were easy spots. And even in suits and ties instead of uniform, the senior military looked like senior military. This was where the country was being reinvented. This was where the aid, arms and oil clans gathered and had a chat over a couple of hundred dollars' worth of noodles and stir-fry to make sure the reinvention suited the West. I wondered how many multi-million-dollar contracts were changing hands, and how much of the proceeds was getting kicked back under the table.

  I was shown to a table for two. The spare white napkin and cutlery were whisked away, and they asked if I wanted the little flower to stay. I didn't, so they took that too. My Pepsi arrived very quickly with some
bread.

  Three middle-aged women were at the next table, talking to an Afghan man with a Donald Trump-style comb-over. He was dressed like he belonged to the MCC, in a blazer, striped tie and white shirt, and maybe he did. He spoke slowly and carefully in that I'm-foreign-but-I've-been-to-Oxford sort of accent.

  The three women wore neatly tailored trouser suits, and tackled their clear chestnut soup like woodpeckers. I knew that was what it was because they'd spent so long discussing it that my green curry had turned up before they'd even made their decision. I also couldn't help overhearing that they had another friend coming, who'd told them to carry on and order. He'd be there when he could.

  I concentrated on the table so I didn't have accidental eye-to-eye. In environments like this, everybody thinks they're all part of the same club and wants to draw you into their conversation – even if you're wearing a long-sleeved blue T-shirt and jeans. It can lead very soon to 'Who are you?' and 'What do you do?' and you can find you're digging yourself into a hole.

  Two of the women were American, the other a Brit. The Yank at one end of the table had a shock of white hair, more through stress than age by the sound of it. 'I still find the mere sight of a gun so… painful and so… upsetting.' She looked like she was going to burst into tears. Fucking hell, if she'd been here more than a week no wonder she'd ended up with Albert Einstein's barnet.

  I got among the curry as the waffle next door went off the pain-in-the-arse scale. They went on about the 'big building project', the 'big factory project' and then the 'big road project'. Mrs Einstein nodded earnestly. 'The sooner they learn our way of doing things, the sooner we can go home.'

  Donald sat there nodding and agreeing, but deep down all five of us knew no one was going anywhere in a hurry.

  The chat switched to ISAF and its success or failure in the war being waged just a couple of hours away in the mountains. I loved armchair generals. I could listen to them all day. The Brit one even threw in a mention of the Great Game. So many people loved to trot out that old line to illustrate the region's geographical significance and their suddenly acquired detailed knowledge of it. Whatever, there was no disputing Kabul had become one of war's latest boomtowns. Apart from the rebuilding contracts, the whole world knew they were already prospecting for oil up in the north.