Crossfire (21 page)

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.

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
certainly 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.

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?'

'Five years, four, three, and two, maybe.'

I slapped him on the shoulder. 'I think you
need to spend more time out of the house, mate.'

He didn't really understand but grinned anyway.

We hit a busy junction. Neon glowed. Strings
of lightbulbs festooned the fronts of shops selling
food, TVs and clothes. Hundreds of locals were
out strolling, listening to the music blaring from
bootleg music shops, or just sitting drinking tea.

'Where do you live, Magreb? Near the hotel?'

'No, no.' He tapped his window. 'Up there,
maybe.'

I looked past him to see headlights climbing
steeply in the distance. The two peaks were
floodlit, and a couple of mini-lighthouses flashed
a warning for short-sighted pilots.

A couple of minutes later, we were almost
where we needed to be, maybe. That was what
Magreb said, anyway.

We'd driven into an area of dark, narrow
residential streets formed from rocks compressed
into the mud. Every house hid behind a concrete-block
wall. The Hiace lurched in a pothole and
we bounced in our seats. There was no street-lighting,
and no one about. The only noise as our
engine closed down came from a dog going
apeshit and the drone of traffic on the main, two
or three blocks away.

I sparked up the phone and once more made
sure my number would show. 'I'm going to jump
out for a while, mate. It could be five minutes, it
could be an hour – I'm not sure. You OK to wait
here?'

He looked at me wide-eyed. 'For hundred
dollar? Maybe!'

I closed the door behind me and stood against
a wall. He might be my new mate, but he didn't
need to know what was happening, for both our
sakes.

The phone rang. I hoped she'd answer. I didn't
want to start jumping over walls to find her
refuge.

Within five or six rings her voice was in my ear.
'I told you not to call again.'

There was no time to beat about the bush.
'Basma, listen to me – Dominik's in the shit and I
need your help. I was with him in Iraq. I was
there to get him out of the shit, and that's why
I'm here now. You're the only one who can help
me do that. I'm outside your house right now.
Come out and meet me. I don't want to have
to come in.'

There was hesitation. 'Where did you say you
are?'

'Right outside. On Ghazni where it meets
Sarak.'

More hesitation. 'OK, wait.'

I listened for the rattle of a steel door or to see
some light or movement. It took a few minutes,
but at last I heard bolts being thrown. The sound
came from further down on Ghazni. I ran the
fifteen or so metres just to be there the moment
she appeared. It was a set of wooden gates, wide
enough for vehicles. They were blue, and the
paint was peeling.

The right one opened just a few inches. It was
on a chain. I moved my face close to the gap.
'Basma, I'm Nick.'

The door closed, the chain rattled, then it
opened properly. She came out on to the street
and closed it hurriedly behind her, as if that was
going to stop me. It wasn't locked.

We stood there awkwardly, like a couple of
teenagers on the doorstep after our first date. She
came to about chest height, and was even better-looking
in the flesh than she had been onscreen.

'Who are you, Nick?'

'I told you, a friend. I was in Basra with him.'
Dom seemed to know all the beautiful women.
She wasn't local but Arab. 'Dom's missing. He's
probably here in the city. Has he made contact
with you? Did he come and see you a few days
ago? Don't fuck me about, I'm trying to save his
life.'

She put her hands to her mouth, but not very
convincingly. What I was telling her wasn't
news.

She lowered them slowly. 'Do you know
what's happened to him?'

'He's been kidnapped. Did he come and see
you?' I studied her face. 'He did, didn't he?'

She nodded and sank back against the door.

Now the chink in the armour was exposed, it
was time to scream in. 'He came straight here
from Basra. You know why? He tell you?'

She tried to look blank. She wasn't very good
at this stuff.

I stabbed a finger towards her, stopping just
short of her shoulder. 'I've got no fucking time to
piss about. I'm here to get him out of the shit. Do
you want to help me or not? Did he come and
see you?'

She nodded. 'Yes, he was staying here. He
wanted somewhere he wouldn't be spotted.'

'Glad we cleared that up. Now, why was he
here?'

No more evasion. She gave me eye to eye.
'He's investigating heroin-trafficking. He was
trying to fix a meeting with someone from the
Taliban. He said they're supplying heroin to
the British.'

My finger came up for another stab but she
beat me to it. 'No, he didn't say who it was. He
didn't want to tell me because he wanted to
protect me. All I know is that it's to do with the
British. People high up in the embassy, right here
in the city. I told him it was madness trying to
expose such things, but Dominik said he had a
film as security.'

'What did he say about the film? Did he mention
Dublin?'

She shook her head. 'I'm sorry, that was all he
told me.'

'Tell me about his movements. When did you
last see him?'

'He was in and out a lot, mainly at night. He
didn't want to be recognized. He said he was seeing
fixers, trying to find somebody who could get
him a meeting with the main Taliban dealer. I
don't think he did – he was getting quite
frustrated. Then he went out on Monday night
and never returned. I've been worried sick. I
didn't know whether to report him missing . . .
I didn't want to go to the embassy because of the
connection . . .'

Her voice trailed off and her hand came up to
her mouth once more. This time the shock was
genuine. 'Oh, Nick, do you think the British have
him in one of their secret prisons? We hear about
them . . . People never come out of those places.'

'Stop there – no, they definitely don't have
him. He's been kidnapped. I'm here to get him
out.'

A heli rattled high over the city, its navigation
lights flashing like strobes. I waited for its noise
to fade.

'Basma, there's an American and a Brit been
looking for him. They've gone totally local –
beards, Afghan dress. The American's very tall,
and has ginger hair. You know anything about
them?'

Her eyes widened. 'James. Noah James. An
animal.' She looked away. She was no longer
scared or sad, she was angry. 'They're the scum
that sprang up after the Taliban. They use the city
like some big anarchy theme park.'

'Why would they be looking for Dom? Are
they dealers?'

'Of a kind.' She put both hands together and
rested them on her chest. 'The documentary he did
about the refuge . . . he exposed them for what they
are. Dominik found some of the girls they'd been
keeping high on heroin and brought them here to
safety. They hate him, they hate me. We've had to
move the safe-house twice because they tracked us
down.'

'Where do they hang out?'

'I don't know. They closed down after the film
came out, but they'd have started up again somewhere
else. Bringing young girls off the hills,
turning them into addicts, making them
prostitute themselves or carry drugs round the
city . . .'

'How many of them?'

'Sorry, I don't know. They find each other.
They gravitate together like pack animals.'

I risked a hand on her shoulder. 'Listen,
Basma, it's going to be OK. Nobody knows I'm in
the city. Nobody knows I've come to see you.
Don't tell anyone. I'll contact you soon. I will get
him back.'

I ran back to the Hiace, climbed in next to
Magreb and closed the door gently. 'Back to the
hotel, mate. We've got a while before we go out
again.'

He turned his head. 'The lady – she is . . .
special friend, maybe?'

I laughed. 'No, mate, maybe not. I'm just trying
to arrange a reunion, that's all.'