Deep Black ns-7

by Andy McNab

  Quite a few guys were already on mats in the drive-through outside, getting the prayers in early. Jerry and I mingled with the rest of the crowd, smiling at everyone as they waited in line at the washroom to perform Taharah, purification. You didn’t have to wash at the mosque: it could be done beforehand. Some just chatted as their kids ran riot. I’d decided we should split up to cover more ground.

  Most of the people I asked about Salkic responded with a little English and a big smile, but they couldn’t – or wouldn’t – help me. Jerry worked another section of the crowd about fifteen metres away. He looked like a bad impression of Inspector Clouseau, and so did I, probably. I caught his eye and shook my head. He did the same.

  The Qurŕān vendor was standing outside his premises, watching the crowd hopefully. Maybe he was anticipating a big run on his religious merchandise today. Then I looked at him more closely and realized he was actually studying faces. He was looking for someone.

  I decided to up the ante. I stopped a young guy in a black-leather overcoat. When I asked him if he could help me, he replied in very good English.

  ‘I’m looking for a cleric, a man called Hasan Nuhanovic. Do you know what mosque he goes to? Is it this one?’

  His smile faded and his eyes dropped to the floor as he shuffled past me. ‘No, I don’t know. I’m sorry. Excuse me.’

  Jerry was near the washrooms now and I worked my way towards him, asking as I went. The next one I tried was a suited, briefcase-toting businessman who looked like he’d just come out of an insurance office. ‘I’m looking for a holy man, a Hasan Nuhanovic. Have you—?’ Before I’d even finished the sentence, he’d walked away without answering.

  Jerry was immediately at my side, looking concerned. ‘What’re you doing, man?’

  ‘Rocking the boat.’

  I spotted the shopkeeper talking urgently to a young guy with brown hair, and not about the weather. There was a lot of pointing into the crowd.

  Jerry was still agitated. ‘Shouldn’t we stick to the plan? We’re here for Salkic first, right?’

  I was already on my way towards the shop. The young man had a neat short back and sides and the kind of raincoat that wouldn’t have looked out of place in DC. I closed on him as he headed for the main entrance. ‘Ramzi Salkic?’

  I knew it was him, the moment he tried to sidestep me and didn’t look up.

  ‘No, no, no. I’m not—’ His eyes never left the ground.

  I found myself speaking to the top of his head. ‘I need to get a message to Hasan Nuhanovic. Can you do that for me? Have I got the right person?’

  He pushed past me and I decided not to create any more of a scene by trying to stop him. Instead, I followed him to the shoe racks, where he slipped off his smart loafers.

  ‘Please leave me alone.’ He had to talk loudly to make himself heard over the murmurs of the faithful. ‘You have the wrong person.’

  We were getting quite a few disapproving glances from the direction of the mats.

  ‘My mistake. I’m sorry.’

  Their attention switched to me as I turned and moved back against the tide.

  I headed for the shop. When he saw me coming, the owner scuttled inside and turned the lights off. ‘We are closed.’ He disappeared into the gloom without a backward glance.

  For some reason I’d been expecting Salkic to be a lot older. It takes time to build trust with a principal; the middle man is normally someone they’ve grown up with, a contemporary with shared history and experience.

  Jerry joined me. ‘What do you think? Is that him?’

  ‘For sure. He didn’t look confused, he didn’t look at me. He just wanted to get away.’

  ‘You fucked that up, then, didn’t you?’

  But that was the least of our worries.

  ‘There’s two guys over there by the washrooms.’ Jerry kept eye-contact with me, as if I might take a look. ‘They didn’t look too pleased to see you. You’re gonna think I’m crazy, but I think one of them was at the Palestine.’

  73

  We walked out of the courtyard together, smiling and chatting as if we didn’t have a care in the world. ‘What’s he look like?’

  ‘Remember the pool fight? With that Lats guy? The one with the goatee, I think it’s him.’

  We exited the gates near the two shrines, turned right, out of their line of sight, carried on down the road, then took another right to get us behind the mosque. The narrow road was lined with bars and cafés.

  We sat down outside a cevapcici shop, on a long wooden bench under an awning. The doors were open and we were hit by a blast of warm air from the grill, where an old boy was frying meat.

  I got Jerry to sit facing the shop because I needed a better view of the road. All the cafés were pretty quiet. It wasn’t really time to eat yet.

  Seconds later, the two flat tops rounded the corner. I looked at Jerry and smiled as if we were enjoying a joke. ‘Both of them were in Baghdad.’

  They were in pretty much the same kit, too; the only additions were the black-leather bomber jackets. Goatee caught sight of us and they ducked into a bar more or less opposite.

  ‘Won’t be long before at least one of them comes to the window.’

  ‘Why the fuck were you going public about Nuhanovic, man?’ He managed to give me a big smile and a bollocking at the same time. ‘That’s what’s got us in the shit. What we going to do?’

  ‘Nothing, yet. Chances are it’s nothing to do with Nuhanovic; maybe they just recognized us. I’d be curious if I bumped into someone here I’d seen in Baghdad.’

  Jerry leaned forward. ‘Me too.’

  A waiter appeared with ears that stuck out far enough to have held ten pens instead of just the one, and we both ordered cevapcici. ‘Five or ten piece?’

  I asked for ten and Jerry nodded. ‘You have any Zam Zam?’

  The waiter looked puzzled.

  ‘Or Mecca? You got any Mecca Cola?’

  He looked as if he thought Jerry was taking the piss.

  ‘OK, maybe Fanta?’

  He nodded and walked away, shouting our order to the old guy who, going by the size of the jug handles each side of his head, must have been his dad.

  Jerry was rather good at this acting-normal-while-really-doing-something-else routine. Maybe it was a photojournalist thing.

  The Fanta arrived, complete with straws and glasses. Jerry picked his up and held it in front of him. ‘I just thought I’d liberate my taste – you know, “Don’t drink stupid, drink committed.” Those guys still in the bar?’

  I nodded as I reached over and swivelled the can so he could read the manufacturer’s details. ‘See who makes it?’

  ‘Coca-Cola. Shit.’ He pulled back on the ring and poured it into his glass. ‘Oh, well, I tried.’

  I took a map I’d picked up at Reception from my pocket, put it on the table and pretended to play the well-known tourist game, Where the Fuck Are We?

  The cevapcici turned up, ten sausage-type things the size of my little finger, made of kebab meat. I ripped open the pitta bread and shoved them in with a king-size helping of chopped raw onion. ‘They’ve still got eyes on us.’

  One bite took me straight back to the Hereford kebab shop with Rob, trying to impress women with our sophistication while our lips were covered with grease, and chilli sauce dripped on to our shirts. ‘OK, here’s the plan.’ I kept on chewing. ‘If Salkic is there during Asr, we hit him again.’

  Twenty minutes and a couple of Fantas later, we were ready to roll. It was time to shop. Well, sort of: I wanted to see how the flat tops reacted. There was no point trying to lose them – there weren’t that many hotels in town. Someone, somewhere, would know where we were.

  Jerry paid the bill, all of about four dollars, and we wandered back across a small square where old men played park chess with giant pieces on faded black and white paving slabs. Weeds sprouted through the gaps and some of the original pieces hadn’t survived. The missing ones were improvised w
ith sculptures made from lumps of wood and plastic bottles.

  Jerry and I weren’t the only ones who had stopped to watch. Maybe the flat tops’ surveillance drills were shit; maybe they wanted us to know that they were there. Either way, they never took their eyes off us.

  Jerry was still switched on and avoided getting eye to eye with them. He walked and talked as if he was totally unaware.

  The more I thought about it, the more I agreed with Jerry that the flat tops were on to us because of Nuhanovic. Like everyone else on the planet, they’d want him dead: a moral crusade would be bad for business – probably always had been, even during the war. I wondered if the girls at the cement factory had been held so they could be sold on, until Nuhanovic managed to get them released. Well, most of them. The bastards had still managed to keep hold of Zina and the other three or four.

  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 t
hat 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.’