Crossfire

by Andy McNab

  The first cell held an Arab in an orange jumpsuit. He'd only been given a blanket and a plastic bucket to piss in. A fluorescent light burned brightly in the ceiling. He sat cross-legged, reading the Koran.

  In the cell opposite was a Pakistani lad. He was naked. Burn marks on his back had turned to weeping sores. His beard was long and ragged. He sobbed as he crouched on his haunches in a pool of his own shit.

  The next few cells told much the same story. Some prisoners were naked, some clothed. Some had blankets, some lay shivering. One was chained to the wall by his ankles. Most were cut, swollen and scarred. Different strokes for different folks. The Serbs knew exactly what they were doing.

  I didn't feel anything for any of the prisoners. They might have been caught planning to bomb the shit out of London, or have killed and maimed young squaddies out here or in Iraq. If some were innocent, that was tough. I couldn't save the world. I wasn't doing that well trying to save one man.

  I carried on past the waterboarding room to where the corridor went off to the right. There were five or six doorways each side. I could hear voices coming from the second cell on the left. The door was ajar. A power lead ran through it from a socket in the corridor. A phone cable headed the other way towards another starship lying outside the last door on the right.

  I moved very slowly, my shoulder skimming the wall. I'd come to the right place. As I got closer, the smell of lemon became more powerful. I lowered myself to my knees, then flat on my stomach. I inched my head towards the gap between door and frame.

  It looked like the crew room. Two empty sleeping-bags lay on US Army cots. A TV and DVD combo sat on a chair in the corner. The voices came from badly dubbed porn. Beside it, against the wall, was a trestle table upon which two pistols lay in leather holsters, the kind you clipped under the waistband of your trousers. They were Sigs; I could tell by the grips. There was a pile of spare mags. Two mobile phones were plugged into rechargers connected to the extension lead. Brew kit and US Army MREs (meals ready to eat) sat next to a kettle and a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniel's.

  I ran in, grabbed one of the Sigs and stuffed two spare mags into Sundance's jeans. I pulled back the top slide to see a brass casing already in the chamber. I pressed the mag-release catch. It dropped into my hand. The mag was full.

  I tucked the bottom of the fleece into my waistband, threw the other weapon, spare mags and the two phones down the front of it, then moved back into the corridor.

  88

  I stepped over the starship and looked through the spyhole.

  Dom was plasticuffed naked to a chair, just like I'd been. His face was drenched with blood. I couldn't hear what he was saying, but I knew it wasn't making Mr Sheen at all happy. He raised an arm and gave him a hard, open-handed slap across the face. Flecks of blood flew like sweat from a boxer's face.

  It looked like word hadn't reached them yet that the game was over. Or maybe they couldn't resist dishing out a little bit more punishment.

  Behind me, in the crew room, the porn had progressed to the heavy-breathing stage. The air was filled with 'Yeah, baby, yeah' as Mr Sheen gave Dom some more. The force of his next punch tipped the chair on to its side. Top Lip leant down to haul Dom up. Mr Sheen's back was turned momentarily to the door.

  I checked the mag was on tight, took a deep breath, and barged straight through.

  Mr Sheen spun round. The Sig's foresight was focused on the centre mass of his blurred body. I lowered it and kicked off three rounds.

  Top Lip launched himself across the two-metre gap between us. He cannoned into me and smashed me back against the wall. We dropped to the floor together and I kept firing.

  The room fell quiet. Dom turned his head. His eyes struggled to focus.

  'We're getting out. Can you walk yet?'

  'I'll crawl, if that's what it takes.'

  I tipped him on to his side and pulled the chair legs away from his plasticuffs. He pushed his aching body into a semi-stoop.

  'Come on, let's go!'

  I grabbed his hand and dragged him towards the door.

  As we passed Mr Sheen, Dom raised a blood-encrusted foot to kick him in the face.

  I stopped him short. A plan was taking shape in my head. 'No, mate. We need to keep him looking his best.'

  I bent down and hoisted the body into a fireman's lift. I staggered for a moment under its weight.

  When we got to the crew room the screen was a blur of writhing flesh.

  'Grab the whisky off the table!' I leant against the wall. 'And a sleeping-bag.'

  Dom wobbled out of the crew room with the bag round his shoulders. I grabbed his spare hand and hustled him towards the exit.

  89

  We stumbled as far as the double doors.

  'Wait here!' I swung the right one open, blinked in the sunlight and staggered across to the nearest wagon. I dumped Mr Sheen in the front passenger seat and belted him up. I tipped some Jack Daniel's down his front, then laid the bottle on the dash tray.

  I moved round and opened the rear doors, then ran back and dragged Dom across the compound. 'Lie down and shut the fuck up.'

  He pulled the bag over his head as I slammed the door.

  I sat in the driver's seat and changed mags on the used Sig, checked the other was made ready, then slid one under each thigh. Mr Sheen slumped next to me. He looked like he'd pissed himself.

  I brushed back my hair with my fingers and zipped up the fleece, hoping the ISAF boys on the other side of the gates wouldn't look at me too closely. I made sure I had a fresh mag handy and hit the ignition.

  I stopped two or three metres short of the gates. There were no quarter-circle scrape marks in the dirt this side. They must open outwards.

  I jumped down from the cab and put my ear to the steel but heard nothing close by; no voices, no radio traffic, no guards complaining to each other or listening to Radio Kabul.

  I pulled back the bolts and eased it open an inch or two. All I could see was HESCOs, tents and flagpoles. They were about two hundred metres away, the other side of the runway. I pushed the gate some more. It opened directly on to a dirt road. There were no guards.

  I pushed it all the way, then did the same with the other and ran back to the GMC.

  'Good news, mate – I'm pretty sure this joint isn't official. The ISAF set-up is the other side of the airfield. Keep down and keep quiet – I'll confirm in a second.'

  Mr Sheen lolled next to me. I reached inside his coat pocket for his wallet. I pulled out a fistful of dollars and stowed them in my lap.

  I drove through the open gates and turned left. The checkpoint was a hundred metres or so down the road. It was manned by a couple of old guys in suits, polo-neck jumpers and pancake hats. The drop-bar was two branches roped together and painted red and white.

  We drew level. I grabbed a dollar bill from my lap. The old guy accepted the bribe with a nod.

  The other guy began to lift the barrier.

  He glanced up as he waved the GMC through, and frowned. He stopped the barrier halfway. There was no point putting my foot down. I lowered the window, tilted my head at Mr Sheen and the bottle on the dash, jiggled my wrist and rolled my eyes.

  He looked in and immediately smelt the whisky. He shook his head with disapproval and waved the infidels through.

  We drove out past the burnt-out shells of buildings. Wrecked Russian vehicles rusted at the roadside. The MiG in the middle of the roundabout still gleamed in the early-morning light.

  90

  We turned south on to a dead-straight road. Mr Sheen's head bobbed about beside me like it was on a spring. Dom was lying on the back seat. He'd sparked out straight away.

  The dash clock said 10:28.

  'Dom, get up here!' I fished in the front of the fleece and pulled out one of the mobile phones. 'Up here, mate. I need your help.'

  I flicked open the lid. As it sparked up, a picture of Mr Sheen appeared, with his arm round a woman and two little boys making faces in front of t
hem.

  'Dom, for fuck's sake, get up! You've got to call Siobhan! Tell her to get out of the house!'

  I saw his head jerk up in the rear-view mirror. 'Up here, mate, I need your help.'

  He clambered painfully over to the seats behind me, then leant his head forward until it was more or less level with mine. His wounds were open and weeping.

  'Listen, the mobile in your front room, in the drawer. You know the number?'

  He looked puzzled. 'Finbar's old one. But why does—'

  I passed him a phone. 'Siobhan must go somewhere safe. Where? A place you both know . . .'

  He thought for a few moments. 'We had our honeymoon in a little B and B up in Donegal.'

  'Think proof of life – tell me something just you two know about the place. Did something happen – unusual, funny, romantic – something you talk about even today?'

  A smile flashed across his damaged face. 'The hot water always ran out after one bath. We had to share.'

  'Dial whatever number you'd normally use for her, then give me the phone. I need to talk to her first.'

  TV Hill appeared in the distance, dead centre of the windscreen. Bleached-out buildings lined both sides of the boulevard. We came to a run of stalls and shops.

  He handed the phone to me. It rang three or four times before I got a very sleepy 'Hello?'

  'Siobhan? It's Nick.'

  'Nick?'

  'You saw me Tuesday. I just need you to know Dom is safe.'

  'Oh, my God—'

  'Listen. This call's being monitored. You're in danger. Do you understand?'

  There was silence.

  'Listen carefully, Siobhan. I want you to leave the house right away. Get dressed, but don't waste time packing or doing anything else. Just grab that grey mobile from the drawer in the living room and any cash you have in the house. Then go and draw as much money as you can from an ATM. After that, don't use the card any more or pay for anything on credit. Don't phone, don't make contact with anyone. You understand?'

  'Yes.'

  'Don't say the name, but I want you to go to the place you and Dom had to share a bath every day because the hot water always ran out. Do you understand?'

  'Yes.'

  'Go there, wait, and keep the grey mobile on. Dom will make contact later. It could be an hour, it could be a few days. Do you understand?'

  'Yes, but how is he? Where is he?'

  'He's with me, and he's alive. I'm going to pass you over. Don't talk about where you're going and don't call this number afterwards.'

  I passed it behind me.

  High walls, razor wire and floodlights protected the buildings either side of us. Outside almost every one of them was a plywood guardhouse. The guards weren't interested in us. They just sat in the shade and stroked their beards.

  Dom sobbed bits of his story to her. There were long silences as he tried to pull himself together.

  'Dom, end the call. They could be triangulating. Our drama's not over yet.'

  Reluctantly, he said goodbye and closed down. He went to hand the mobile back.

  I shook my head. 'Chuck the fucking thing out!'

  I thrust my hand into the fleece and passed him the other. 'This too!'

  The window powered down and I watched them bounce along the road in the wing mirror.

  I took the first available left. If they'd been quick off the mark and were tracking the phones, they'd assume we were still heading south, maybe to the Serena.

  Where I really wanted to go was west, to Khushal Mena.

  91

  We drove down narrow residential streets with crumbling pavements, cars, donkeys and carts parked on each side. Dom bounced each time we hit a pothole.

  'Where are we going, Nick?'

  'Basma's.'

  'We can't put Baz in danger . . .'

  'Least of our problems. Predator could be up there now, breathing down our necks. We have to get off the streets. And listen, mate. Bad news.' I turned my head to get eye-to-eye. 'The guy who's tracking us? He has Finbar.' I looked back at the road. 'You've got to tell me everything. About this film, about Pete. Tell me what the fuck's going on.'

  He gripped my shoulder. 'You think he'll try to get Siobhan as well?'

  'Now he's lost us he'll cover his bases, believe me.'

  He slumped across the rear seats. I took a couple more turns until TV Hill was to our left and I knew where we were. The market popped up on our right and we drove past the twisted and burnt-out hulk of the suicide-bomber's wagon.

  I pushed past anything in the way, hitting the horn to fuck them off, just like this wagon would have done on a normal day.

  It wasn't long before I saw the peak of a wood-stack and the reinforcement rods sticking out of the unfinished buildings either side. There were no vehicles parked on the hard mud in front of the corrugated-iron shacks. Magreb would be on the missing list for another three days, until his brother got back.

  A handpainted sign at the roadside announced the polytechnic.

  'Nearly there. I need navigation, mate.'

  'Left here, Nick.' I could smell him at my right shoulder. A couple of open scabs glistened beneath his stubble.

  One more junction and we came to Basma's road. I stopped outside the blue wooden gate and honked the horn twice. When nothing happened I jumped out. I could hear women's voices inside.

  The gate opened an inch on the security chain. The mesh of a burqa pressed against the gap.

  'Basma – get Basma.'

  She didn't understand me, but I didn't have time to mess about. I shouldered the gate open. The woman ran shrieking towards the house, her burqa flapping behind her. Fuck it, we'd sort out the small print later.

  I jumped back into the wagon and drove through the entrance. There was a parking area to the right. A wriggly-tin roof kept off the sun and snow. Under it was a knackered rusty red estate. I drove towards it and stopped just short.

  'What is happening?' Basma was bearing down on me. 'You can't just barge in here like this!'

  I ignored her.

  I leant inside the estate and released the handbrake. With both feet out on the ground and just one hand on the wheel, I started pushing it out.

  'Get out of here! Leave at once!'

  The 1980s Datsun estate rolled out in a straight line because the wheel lock was on. It didn't matter. I only needed enough room to get the Suburban past it.

  'I've got Dom!' I jabbed a finger. 'Get that gate closed!'

  She started running, then stopped in her tracks. She ran back to the Suburban and looked inside. 'Oh, my God.'

  Mr Sheen's face was pressed against the window.

  'Fuck him. He's dead. Dom's in the back.'

  I jumped in and drove the GMC under the wriggly tin. 'I'll get him inside – you get that fucking gate closed!'

  92

  'Was it Noah James?'