by Andy McNab
A parade of small shops at the end of the square had a scary number of Sarajevo roses sprinkled across the pavement in front of them. A different pop or rap tune blared from each doorway and all sold either cellphones or hair-dryers. ‘About half an hour left till Asr. What do you reckon?’
He had the correct answer. ‘Coffee.’
We went back to the place we’d had to abandon our cappuccinos, and got a table. I couldn’t see the flat tops through the windows, but I was sure they’d be out there.
I took one of the paper napkins and borrowed a pen from the waiter as Jerry delivered a sit rep. ‘They’re outside, still together. Standing in a doorway.’ He turned back to me with a grin. ‘Don’t they know they should be watching our reflection in a big silver samovar? They obviously didn’t see Spy Game.’ He looked down at the napkin. ‘What are you writing?’
‘I want to make sure Salkic at least knows where to find us.’
74
Adhan sounded round the streets once more. A few people got up, but not as many as before. We lined up at the till with them and filtered out into the courtyard.
This time we didn’t mingle with the crowd, but leaned against the courtyard wall behind the washrooms. We watched everyone coming in, waiting to get a glimpse of Salkic. I wasn’t feeling hopeful. It was mainly an older crowd this time. The women grouped themselves together and moved under the portico. Several men were already praying at the drive-through.
This session had a sort of market-day feel about it. Everyone seemed to know each other. The Qurŕān seller appeared in his doorway and had an even bigger scout round than the last time.
Jerry scanned heads as people went into the male washroom. ‘Flat tops – they’re staying outside.’
I looked to my right. They weren’t in the courtyard, but out on the street, chatting and smoking.
Moments later, the man I’d pegged as Salkic entered the courtyard via the shrine gates. He seemed to be glancing warily around him as he walked.
‘You gonna approach him again? Want me to do it?’
I shook my head. ‘We’ll go inside. We’re going to pray with him.’
‘Fuck me – you know what to do?’
Salkic disappeared into the washroom this time. He would be out within a few minutes: Taharah didn’t take long. The routine is hands, mouth, nose, face, forearms, wet hands over head to the back of your neck, ears. Then, once your feet get the good news, you’re ready to roll. It doesn’t always have to be water, either. In deserts, Allah lets you use sand.
‘Of course I know what to do – I just don’t know what to say. You hum it, I’ll play it.’
Salkic emerged with his shoes in his hands and a pair of flip-flops on his feet, and headed towards the carpetloads of kneeling men.
I checked my watch. It was exactly four thirty.
We waited for Salkic to rack his shoes and walk up the stone steps. Jerry drew a few odd looks as we followed and took our boots off, but at least he knew what he was doing once we were through the door.
The hushed tones around the drive-through had been replaced by the low, all-pervading rumble of people talking to God. There’s no middle man when Muslims pray, no vicar or priest with exclusive access to God’s cell number. Islam offers the worshipper a hotline to his creator.
Salkic had settled himself on one of the rugs off to the right, about half-way along a row of worshippers offering Salah.
Some stood with their palms upraised; some were already bowing; others were on their knees with their foreheads and noses pressed to the floor. Some were addressing Allah aloud; others mumbled quietly to themselves.
Salkic had his back to us and was standing with his hands open each side of his head. This was the first stage of Salah, I knew that much. Most of the guys around him were well into it.
I scrunched up the napkin in my hand and knelt on Salkic’s right; Jerry did so on his left. He eyed us both but didn’t look concerned: he just carried on with his devotions. He was very well dressed. The shirt looked Italian and expensive, and so did the silk tie and jacket.
Jerry’s palms went up by his head. Salkic had finished that bit and lowered his arms to his sides. I followed suit and began to speak to him, keeping my voice low. ‘We tried to make contact with Hasan Nuhanovic in Baghdad.’ I checked to see if this was registering. ‘I was with the Jew, Benzil, when he got killed. Nuhanovic knew he was in the city – does he know he’s dead?’
Salkic bowed and muttered a few more things to Allah. His green eyes closed a little; he was trying to look as if what I had said meant nothing to him. But my words had struck home. He knew Benzil: we had the right man.
‘Tell him we need to see him as soon as possible.’ I turned to face him as he straightened up. ‘Tell him I was at the cement factory. I saw it all, even what happened to the girls once he left. Does he know they kept some back? I saw what happened.’
Jerry leaned forward and shot me a quizzical look as I slipped the ball of napkin into Salkic’s pocket.
‘This is where we are. There’s no time to test commitment – we’re being followed by slavers. We might have to leave the city quickly.’
Salkic remained silent as he went down on his knees, then mumbled into the rug, ‘Go back to your hotel and wait.’
There was no point staying: I’d said what I’d come to say. A few people glared at me as I eased my way out, but most were too bound up in what they were doing to pay much attention.
The flat tops were in here as well, over by the side entrance we’d used earlier in the day. They must have seen everything. Fuck it, so what? I had more than enough to worry about. Regardless of what he’d said, Salkic, the gatekeeper, would either pass on the message or not. It wasn’t something I could control. And if Nuhanovic received my message, he’d either say yes, or he’d say no. I had no control over that either.
I’d find out soon enough. If Salkic didn’t do the job, or he did and Nuhanovic didn’t want to play, it was going to be a long, boring business trying to follow, cheat or threaten Salkic to find out where his boss was. Fuck it, I hadn’t come all the way here for nothing.
Jerry was at my shoulder as we walked back towards the river. There were no flat tops in sight yet.
A couple of German SFOR 4x4s had pulled up on the pavement. The troops were haggling with a stallholder over some pirate DVDs.
We sat on a bench in a kids’ play area, which butted up to a squat and ugly concrete block of flats thrown up in the seventies. If we were still being followed, we’d find out soon enough.
I could see two Sarajevo roses from where we were sitting, one near a set of swings, another near a curly slide. The Serbs always said that the children killed during the siege were the unintended victims of shellfire, but the Sarajevans knew better. Around two hundred and fifty kids were killed by sniper fire alone and there’s never anything unintentional or uncalculated about what a sniper does.
The concrete facings were still scabbed up and covered in graffiti. Beyond the slide and seesaw was a mosque about the size of a two-bedroomed house, with a stone minaret.
Jerry put on his happy face. ‘What was that about Mladic? Were you really there? The factory? Shit, I told you that story, but you knew all along?’
I nodded, checking again for company. I didn’t need to tell Jerry to do the same. His eyes roamed left and right.
‘Is it true, you know, he saved all those people?’
‘Something like that.’
‘You get any film – shit, that would be amazing if—’
‘No, no pictures. I’d had my kit stolen. I was trying to get back to the city and hid near the factory when I heard the wagons heading my way.’
It started to rain.
‘No good sitting here now, we’ll look right dickheads.’ It would be obvious to the flat tops what we were doing. We got up and followed the river back to the hotel.
75
Jerry put the Thuraya and camera on charge while I looked in all
the drawers for a Yellow Pages or directory, but there wasn’t one. The Gideons hadn’t been to visit, either.
The room was freezing so I kept my plastic coat on and pulled a couple of small bottles of Italian pear juice from the minibar. I looked through the rain-streaked window. Two Blackhawks hovered above the city, disappearing now and again into the grey clouds.
‘Here’s the score.’ I lobbed a bottle at him and he gave it a shake. ‘There are three things that might happen to us. One, we get a visit from Salkic, which hopefully will be with a smile. Two, we get a visit from the flat tops, and I imagine that won’t be. Three, we get fuck-all visits, in which case we go and find Salkic at the mosque again tomorrow, and we follow him. If he doesn’t turn to, we’ll have to check phone books, ask around, try to track him down. Then we find out how he makes contact with Nuhanovic, and hopefully we find out where Nuhanovic is – then you get your picture and maybe I get to find out who killed Rob. After that, well, I’m going back to Baghdad. Maybe kill whoever killed Rob, then get a job on the circuit. Why not? Got fuck-all else to do.’
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 sca
nning 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 the 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.