by Andy McNab
'The Hare and Hound? Downstairs, sir. I'll show you.'
He led me out of the restaurant, past the weapon racks and back outside towards a flight of steps down to the basement.
'Is my mate staying here? Tall Polish guy, irritatingly good-looking? His name's Dom, Dominik Condratowicz. Might have left a couple of days ago, I'm not sure.'
He thought for a while. It couldn't be that hard. The card had said there were only fifteen rooms. 'I do not think so, sir.'
'Could you find out, mate? Maybe at the desk?'
He nodded and gave a smile as five dollars found their way into his hand.
I carried on down a couple of stone steps to a large wooden door. I took off my Bergen as I went through. It was like walking into an olde-worlde pub, right down to the low-beamed ceiling. The only giveaway that we were still in Kabul was the two hundred years of rifle and machine-gun history stuck on the wall.
It wasn't busy. There were a couple of guys at one of the tables in a corner, and a couple of women at another. An overly Western-dressed local nursed a Coke at the bar. Bob Marley was on the speakers. Was it the anniversary of his death or something?
The young barman wore jeans, a tight T-shirt and had long, centre-parted hair. I asked for a Coke. All the drink was in bottles or cans. Löwenbräu was the only stuff on tap.
I took my cold can and glass and headed past the dartboard to one of the vacant tables.
The two huddled in the corner were big lads, maybe in their late twenties. They'd obviously been hitting the weights before slapping on the hair gel and heading out for the night. They hadn't been working on their lower bodies, though. They'd just been hitting the chest and arms so they looked good in their spray-on T-shirts.
Sundance and Trainers wouldn't have approved.
54
They had holsters and mag-carriers on their belts but nothing inside them. Maybe it was different rules downstairs: not even side-arms allowed in case things got out of hand after a few Löwenbräus.
They cracked into their cans of Guinness and cast an eye over the other table. The girls sounded as though they were from London. Both were wearing red and white Arab shemags, slung fashionably round their shoulders. Not only wrong country but wrong ethnic group. They checked their Thuriya sat phones for messages. I doubted they'd have many: Thuriyas are the dog's bollocks of the mobile world, but even they aren't too clever in basements.
It was the local guy at the bar I was interested in. Maybe mid-thirties and clean-shaven, he was trying too hard to do the Western thing. His shirt had the little polo-player motif; his jeans had a sharp crease down the middle. His navy ball cap had KBR embossed across the front. Kellogg, Brown and Root were a military contractor and Halliburton subsidiary. He wanted everyone to know he was in with the in-crowd. He just had to be a fixer.
He finished his Coke and started to say his goodbyes to the barman. I powered up the mobile, left some cash from my sock on the table, and followed, dragging my Bergen by one of its straps.
He'd got to the top of the stairs.
'Hello, mate – I was told you're the fixer. You working for anyone this week?'
He adjusted his baseball cap so it covered his eyes. 'I have work, but maybe if you need someone I could . . .'
His English was good.
I held up a hand as I climbed the stairs. 'It's you I need. I want you to track a mobile phone for me. It's in the city somewhere.'
'I'm sorry, I wouldn't know how to do that.' He headed on up, but I held his arm. 'Look, mate. You're a fixer. The only reason you can do the job is you know the Taliban – you might even have been one. Otherwise you'd get fuck-all fixed, wouldn't you?'
'I have to go—'
I held up the cash so it was level with his eyes and close enough to smell. 'I got two hundred for you now and two hundred more when you tell me where the number is. Get one of your Tali mates to do the same for me as they do for the guys in the mountains.'
He didn't think too much about it before the wad disappeared into his jeans.
'Do you want the name?'
'No. I know his fucking name. He owes me money and I want it back. How long will it take?'
I kept a grip on the fixer's arm to make sure he came with me. I guided him up the gravel and towards the glass entrance.
'Maybe half an hour.'
As we started up the steps the guy with the brown teeth swung the gates open and a wagon rolled into the compound.
Next to the Martini-Henrys was a table with newspapers, postcards and pens. I copied Basma's number from the mobile on to a hotel business card.
'Talk to your mates. If they get a location, you'll get another two hundred.'
He took the card and disappeared into the dining area. His mobile was already to his ear.
I went to the desk at the other end of the hallway. My white-shirted mate was there, studying the computer. 'I'm sorry, sir. No Polish man. He hasn't been here for over one year.'
He got another ten dollars. 'Thanks anyway.'
A side-door took me out into the garden. The two big Serbs were still sitting and enjoying their cigarettes. Small bats darted about over a tiled veranda overhanging a set of rooms along the side of the lodge. The ducks rooted in the long shadows cast by the lights.
Serbs are to war as Jocks are to kilts and whisky. They'd finished their own in the 1990s, but had had a finger in everyone else's ever since. They weren't the type to lay down their arms and take up bookkeeping positions in a Belgrade bank.
As I walked across the grass towards them I gave a nod and a smile. 'Evening.'
They stared, waiting to find out what the fuck I wanted while they sucked away at their cigarettes and admired the red glows in front of their faces. They were ready for a night out by the smell of them. It was heavy cologne all the way.
'I need a weapon. I'm heading south. Do you know where I can get one, and quick? I'll pay.'
Top Lip couldn't have been less interested. Mr Sheen looked me up and down as if I shouldn't even be near them, let alone talking. 'Cowboy or newsman?'
'Cowboy.'
I hated that shit. They'd been watching far too many films. They waffled between themselves. It wasn't intense; it wasn't as if there was a law against having guns here. Top Lip was just telling Mr Sheen to fuck me off. But there seemed to be a good enough reason for helping me. Top Lip finally shrugged and Mr Sheen pulled out a pen. He beckoned for my hand. He gripped it with his rough and massive one and wrote straight on to the skin. If he'd pressed any harder it would have turned into a tattoo. 'Don't go until early hours. No one will let you in. Tell him I sent you.'
'What's your name?'
He blanked me. 'Just tell him. If you can't find it, you shouldn't be allowed to ride.'
I nodded my thanks and left. I could see the fixer in the dining area as I headed for the bar. He'd just finished his call.
55
Back in the pub a waiter walked past me with two heaped plates of steak, chips and peas, and a bottle of ketchup. An early dinner for the big lads, who were now flexing away at the girls' table.
More drinkers had arrived. All three of the thirty-something males propping up the bar looked like they'd gone native. Their faces had maybe three months' growth, and they wore all the local gear – baggy trousers, waistcoats, cowpats and shirts down to their knees. They weren't taking the whole thing to extremes, though: one was in the process of ordering them Guinnesses and shots of Famous Grouse. Until I heard them shooting the shit, I couldn't make up my mind whether they were serious players or members of a ZZ Top tribute band.
Cigarettes came out as they perched on stools and waffled on about being down south, and how they were coming up against the Taliban and getting some awesome film. Everything was fucking awesome, man – and I mean awesome.
They lifted their shot glasses and toasted each other, then tilted back their heads and wiped their beards with the back of a hand in true Afghan fashion. With their suntanned faces, they certa
inly looked the part. They would have passed as Taliban at a glance, and that was probably all they needed.
I wandered over. 'How long you guys been back from Helmand?'
'Five days, man.'
The one who'd ordered the drinks had the longest and bushiest beard of the three. Cigarette ash distributed itself generously across it as he bounced a Marlboro up and down on his lips. 'We go back in another two.'
'You seen a Polish journo about? Dominik Condratowicz?'
'Shit, man, I know who he is – he's like a fucking superhero. He here now?'
'You seen him?'
'No, but you know what? Two fucking guys came here last week, maybe Saturday, who knows? Anyways, they were high, man, up on H, and they were shouting for him. Pushing every fucker around saying they know he's in the city, wanting to kill the guy or something fucked-up like that.'
'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?'