by Andy McNab
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?’
94
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 reporter, 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.’
‘You bought the girls off Mladic?’
‘The attack on you last night was not about ideology, just money. The Serbs are competitors in the market we both service.’
‘Those girls were business?’
‘I make no apology for that. What you saw wasn’t just about buying those young women, it was also about saving the others. Their mothers, their brothers. That had always been part of every deal. The high prices I paid the Serbs reflected that. Does that disgust you?’
’Surprises me.’
‘Some find what will soon be my past a little . . . unsavoury. But I have saved many lives, including the very ones you could have saved. Mladic and his aggressors murdered many thousands. Five thousand at Srebrenica alone. Now, that disgusts me, Nick.
‘And yet the West chose not to kill Mladic that day. They still seem happy for him to be at large. Why would that be, I wonder? I have told them where he is. He’s in a monastery in Montenegro. But where are the bombs? Where are your special forces?’
I wanted to deflect his anger. We needed to stay best mates if Jerry and I were going to walk out of here. ‘Jerry, you tell him.’
Jerry lowered the camera and explained about the international court. ‘Simple as that. Looks like they decided to preserve a few big names to stick in the dock after the war.’ He ripped the cellophane off camera two and waited for its flash to get up to speed.
Nuhanovic looked ready to explode. ‘The criminals like Mladic and Karadic are still out there, yet I, not a murderer, am the target of so much hostility from the West . . . so much that I now have to move country to continue my work.’
Jerry took a chance and pressed the shutter release. The flash made Nuhanovic blink again. When he opened his eyes I could see the oil lamps reflected in their angry gaze.
‘I, too, saw the horror on their faces as I left them to that terrible fate. But God will understand. I have Him on my side. What you have heard from Benzil, and no doubt elsewhere, is true. I can, and will, bring Islam together.
‘The West and even Islam itself will try to stop me, but I have faith and commitment, the very qualities that make a mother become a suicide bomber, or a husband fly a 747 into a building. They also know that sometimes their own brothers and sisters have to die for greater things to come. It’s a faith you will never understand.
‘You look surprised again, Nick. You shouldn’t be. Today’s terrorist is tomorrow’s statesman. If Ariel Sharon and Nelson Mandela can be accepted as leaders, then why not Hasan Nuhanovic, a man whose motives are essentially pure? God understands what I have had to do in order to continue and finance His will. I have done more for my Muslim brothers and sisters against the tyrannies and imperialism of the West than any terrorist bomb will achieve – and my work has only just begun.’
Jerry moved the lamps about again, trying to catch his subject’s changing mood.
Nuhanovic nodded up at him. ‘Jerry, if my face is to appear on a billion Muslim T-shirts, I suggest you just keep shooting. They will be the last photographs for quite a while. I am going to accept Benzil’s offer of sanctuary and continue my work from his country.
‘I thank God that Benzil is alive. His commitment, and the fact that God has chosen to spare him, has confirmed to me that taking up his offer is the right thing to do.’
‘When are you going to Uzbekistan?’
‘Soon, once Benzil and I have talked. The last few days have been very fraught – as I know I don’t have to tell you.’
The door opened and the two AKs appeared. One stayed where he was; the other went over to Nuhanovic and spoke quietly in his ear.
Nuhanovic looked at the two of us, his brow creased. He nodded at the AK boy and waved him back to his mate, then got up with an expression of regret, and went over to the bowl to wash his hands.
‘Our meeting has come to end. It appears it is not only you two who are helping accelerate my schedule. There has been a lot of activity after the incident at the cave and Lord Ashdown seems to think that SFOR are closing in on Karadic or Mladic. I think he would be more delighted to discover I am in fact his target.’
The AK boys were making a show of checking their watches. Nuhanovic held out a clean hand. ‘All I now ask is that you escort Jerry back to safety and make sure he gets his photographs developed. And publish my story. Tell your Western friends, whoever they are, that I know they let Mladic go free. They have blood on their hands.’
We shook. He turned to do the same with Jerry.
There was still one more question.
‘Our bags, when do we get them?’
‘In Sarajevo.’
The AK boys were looking even more agitated. Time for us to go.
95
Four clouds of breath hung in the cold, still air. The AK boys lit an oil lamp each, then we followed them across the courtyard to the passageway. The sky was still completely clear, the frost now hard underfoot.
Jerry had pulled up the hood on his parka, but I kept mine down. I wanted to take in as much information as I could. A vehicle was ticking over somewhere on the other side of the visitors’ building.
Guided by the oil lamps, we went back along the passageway towards the guest courtyard. As we neared the door, Jerry quickened his pace to get level with me. His eyes stared out from inside the hood, shouting a silent question: ‘What the fuck are we going to do now?’
The AK boys held the door open and motioned us through. The engine was the other side of the wall. ‘Speak English?’
One nodded.
‘Our bags? We came with bags. Will we get them back?’
‘Of course. No problem.’
‘When?’
‘Later.’
We crossed the courtyard towards the archway. The vehicle the other side of the double doors wasn’t chugging. It wasn’t the VW.
They were pulled open and we were blinded by headlights. The wagon was buried in a cloud of exhaust fumes.
It appeared the AK boys weren’t coming with us. They stayed where they were and gestured for us to climb in. We stepped into the cloud and discovered a Suzuki Vitara hardtop. The choke was doing overtime to fight the cold.
It was two up, both in front. I opened the back door and let Jerry get in first. I got in behind the driver. The cloud of cigarette smoke was as dense as the exhaust fumes outside.
There was no interior light but I could see the driver in the glow from the dash. Short back and sides, moustache, maybe in his forties. The passenger was the long-haired one. Between his legs, its muzzle resting dangerously against his chest, was a G3. I looked down. The plastic butt was the full-size, not foldaway, version. Much more important was what lay next to it in the footwell: our bumbags.
These guys had changed into black-leather jackets and jeans for the trip. Maybe we really were going back to Sarajevo.
The wagon lurched from side to side as we drove down to the chicane, then the six hundred metres beyond it, before turning right on to the forest track. Neither of them said a word. The driver leaned across and flicked the radio on. It was local phone-in stuff.
&
nbsp; We worked our way through the trees. Jerry had dropped his hood, but his eyes were still quizzing me.
I ignored him. I needed time to think. I stared down at the pistol grip of the G3. The safety catch was on the left. First click down was single-shot, fully down was automatic, the opposite of the AK. The cocking piece was also on the left, just over half-way up the stock and, like the MP5 and all the Heckler & Kochs of that era, had to be worked with the left hand. The mag was straight, not curved, and held twenty rounds.
There was no way of telling if it was made ready. I had to assume it wasn’t.
Hairy lit two cigarettes and passed one to the driver before offering us one from the packet. I leaned forward a little between their seats.
‘Bags?’ I pointed into the footwell. ‘Can we have our bags now?’
Hairy waved his hand testily towards the windscreen. ‘Sarajevo, Sarajevo.’
The driver muttered something and worked the wheel. We bounced on to the frost-covered road and turned left, back towards the barns and the city. A press statement by Paddy Ashdown kicked off over the speakers: something to do with law and order, bringing evil men to justice, all the normal bluster, before the interpreter faded in over him.
The forestry block glided past on our left. I was going to have to do something soon. I leaned forward again and tapped Hairy on the shoulder. ‘My friend needs a piss.’
He stared at me blankly.
‘Piss?’ I pointed at Jerry and simulated undoing my fly. ‘He wants to go.’
He just waved his hand towards the windscreen again. ‘Sarajevo.’
Fuck it, we were Nuhanovic’s guests. We could give these guys orders. ‘No, we stop! He wants to piss!’ I poked the driver. ‘Stop!’
While the two of them exchanged a few words, I sat back with Jerry. ‘Get out, go down, stay down.’
I leaned forward. ‘You stopping, or what?’