Crossfire (24 page)

The cocking handle was sited on the top of the
weapon. I shoved a mag into the housing in the
pistol grip and listened for it to click home, then
pulled back.

The Jock was off the Richter scale. 'I'm trying
to run a fucking business here!'

He stormed out and I went straight to the back
door. I'd got what I'd come for. Time to fuck off.
But everything round the back was more than
just locked: nails had been punched through the
door into the frame. I decided to wait for things
to calm down in the bar. It wasn't my fight.

I went to the part-open door. Stu was trying to
make himself heard over the music. The two
Serbs were up on their feet and carrying. Mr
Sheen had rammed his pistol into the fifteen-year-old's
mouth. She was on the sofa, her head
pushed hard against the backrest. Her chest
heaved with fright and tears streamed down her
face.

One of the Americans he'd been yelling at
before lay motionless on the floor behind her. He
had a hole in the side of his head that leaked on
to the wood.

The old wizard lay in a pool of blood this side
of the bar. His .53 lay next to him, the empty
cases scattered about.

Everybody else had faded to the edges, but Stu
was as close to the Serb as he could get. 'Fuck off,
and don't come back. I don't want no more of
your shite. Go!'

They weren't impressed. Top Lip pointed his
weapon at Stu's head. Like Mr Sheen's, it looked
to be a PPK, a small weapon, easy to hide down
by your bollocks. 'No. We're staying.'

Mr Sheen nodded back to the body and his
three mates hovering round it. 'That fuck started
this. They should be kicked out. Kick them out
now, or we will kill your whore.'

Stu was coming to the boil. 'I don't think you
heard me right, son. I'm not having no more of
your shite—'

Mr Sheen pulled the trigger.

Settee stuffing exploded behind her head, then
got soaked with blood and brain. The monkeys'
screeches filled the air once more.

Fuck this. Stu was about to get it and I might
be stuck here all night.

Gripping the Mini-Ero like it was a pistol, arm
straight out, right hand on the pistol grip, left
hand over right and pushing back with a bent
arm to make a stable platform for the weapon, I
kicked the door wide open and charged into the
room.

The two of them were straight ahead of me,
maybe eight or nine metres away.

I stood ready to fire, the web of my hand hard
against the pistol grip to release the safety, both
eyes open, legs shoulder-width apart, left foot
forward, left toe pointing where I was intending
to shoot. Almost the classic shooting-range
stance, so there could be no doubt that I knew
what I was doing.

They swung to face me. There was fuck-all to
say. They knew what was required. But Stu
didn't want them to be in any doubt. 'I told you
– fuck off, don't come back. Fucking animals.'

He was just noise to them. It was me they
stared at.

Would I? Would I open up?

My eyes broadcast I would. They were clear –
and the weapon stayed rock steady.

They exchanged a glance. Very slowly, their
PPKs came down. Without saying a word, they
walked to the door. Mr Sheen wiped the girl's
blood off his hands on a seat cover on his way
out.

Stu bellowed for his son. He came running
downstairs. Then, as the Serbs' wagon sparked
up, he called for the guards. They stumbled in
and he barked commands. They shouldered their
AKs and started dragging the bodies away.

Stu looked from them to his boy, and then to
me. He stretched out a hand. In it was my three
hundred.

'I owe you, lad. Fucking animals, they should
leave that sort of shit out on the street.'

The guards were getting very busy now the
shooting had stopped. They grabbed hold of
the wizard's feet and dragged him past. We both
looked down.

Stu spat on his face. 'He was also a shite. He
gave two of the girls gonorrhoea last month.'

The boy came over to his father and he slapped
him affectionately round the back of his head.
'One of them's his mother.'

I followed the body outside and stepped back
into the shadows as the Serbs' 4x4 screamed out
of the compound.

I pulled out the mobile and dialled. 'I'm going
to AM Net. I'll phone you when I get there. Be
ready for the call.'

I threw the phone back into the Bergen and got
out the Gunga Din gear. I wasn't going to use
Magreb. I didn't want him hurt. He also needed
to keep his job, and if things got noisy I didn't
want to be worrying about him.

I had a long walk ahead.

Emergency Surgical Centre for War
Victims
0758 hrs

The old guy who'd joined me on the left-hand
bench under the corrugated-iron canopy pointed
at the manic traffic and waved his arm with
disgust. I agreed. Then he said something else
and clearly expected an answer. I pointed at my
ear and made a strangled sound. He nodded
knowingly and looked to the other bench for
someone to chat to just as the Yes Man's phone
vibrated in my hand. I pushed my head down
under my
shemag
. Now I was mad as well as deaf
and dumb.

'No sign?' He sounded edgy. 'You still have
eyes on?'

I cupped my hand over the phone to make
doubly sure this stayed local. 'Don't call unless
he's online. I'm trying to do my fucking job. You
just stand by and do yours.'

I cut the call. It wasn't the time to worry about
him being a bit sensitive about profanity.

One of the young lads who'd been fanning the
fire in the metal trough last night came out of
the kebab shop carrying a tray. He went into AM
Net.

I was facing the end of Flower Street, on the
other side of Jadayi Sulh. Further down the main
to my left, on the next junction, was the Iranian
embassy. My new mates outside were probably
having a hot brew as they sat and watched the
traffic. I was almost becoming a local.

The only thing that mattered right now was
finding whoever was sending Siobhan the emails
and follow him – or her. The target might be on
foot or might have a vehicle. A vehicle would be
nice. I could just go back to the fixer and he'd find
out the registered keeper. Even in places like
Baghdad it was simple to trace a driver by his
plate. US patrols were tasked to hunt specifically
for unlicensed or unplated vehicles. It's one of the
first things that had to be done to show some
semblance of order. Every self-respecting terrorist
or kidnapper operating in a city knows to keep his
paperwork up to date. In the early days, too many
got pulled over with a truckload of explosives or
bodies wrapped in gaffer-tape in the boot.

An explosion rumbled up from the south, the
direction of TV Hill. Nobody paid a blind bit of
attention. Even the sparrows stayed chirping in
the trees. The old guys on the bench had a bit of
a tut to each other and waved their arms, but that
was about it. They left me out of their gang this
time.

It had been a long night's walk from the Jock's
place. After changing into the Gunga Din gear,
I'd used the bottle of water to mix scoops of
Marmite into a lumpy cream that I worked into
my face and hands. It stained me up a treat, but I
smelt like a toasted sandwich.

I'd got here three hours ago. The shop had
opened just before seven. Only four people
had gone in – and one of those had been the old
man who'd opened the shutters and now sat
sipping his tea. The other three had been smartly
dressed, Western-style, and in and out within ten
minutes.

Soon afterwards the old men started filling up
the benches. Nobody gave my Marmite tan a
second glance. Some took a second or two to give
me the once-over, same as they would with any
stranger, but then they got on with their lives.
They'd been there the best part of an hour. It
couldn't be a bus stop. Maybe they were queuing
up to ask where I got my aftershave.

The plan was simple. I sat there and kept the
trigger on AM Net, while the Yes Man stagged on
in London, waiting for the next email to be sent.
There would be a fifteen-second delay between
Siobhan receiving it and it popping up on his
screen.

This wasn't an ideal spot to be keeping the
trigger from because of the main in between.
Vehicles cut my view and the target became
unsighted for seconds at a time. But it was
the best I could do. Anywhere else, I'd stand out
like a bulldog's bollocks.

Flower Street was too narrow to hang about
unobtrusively, and there were no options left or
right close enough to the target where I could
step back into the shadows. If the target came out
of AM Net and headed my way, we'd have a
head-on.

I couldn't just walk up and down the street,
waiting. This was the city of kidnappers and
suicide-bombers. Their kids were running
around delivering tea and cooking kebabs. So
there I sat with the main drag between me and
the target.

Sirens warbled. The gates to my left swung
open and two Merc ambulances screamed out,
heading south. The traffic stopped briefly to let
them through, then the trigger on the shop disappeared
intermittently again as more vehicles
drove between us.

There were a lot of old jeeps that had been
rebuilt to carry sixteen people on the tail-bed.
They obviously kept these things on the road
until they finally fell apart. There was plenty of
old Russian gear still about as well: big trucks
with bulbous noses that were made in the 1980s
but might have been at the siege of Stalingrad.
They laboured up and down blocking my view,
overloaded with bricks and rubble.

My normal clothes, the map, the Mini-Ero and
mags were stuffed into my Bergen, which I'd
kept on my back. The straps were loosened so it
fell back and rested on the top of the bench. My
arm itched and I hadn't resisted much up to now.

The young lad came back out of the target with
an empty tray. I could have done with a brew
right now. I eyed the two old guys selling tea on
the corner at the other side of the road, under the
sign pointing to AM Net. They'd sparked it up
about an hour ago and were doing a brisk trade.
If only . . .

Another guy went into AM Net – maybe
young, I couldn't tell under the beard and cowpat.

I gripped the phone.

A knackered truck pulled up at the kerb and a
gang of workers with shovels clambered out.
They moved further along and started having a
go at the ditches. A few had black and
white
shemags
like mine, but all wore orange
fluorescent jackets over their other gear. Health
and Safety had even weaselled their way into
Kabul. They should have had a look round the
back of the Jock's place.

He came back out of AM Net. The Yes Man
hadn't rung.

I used the phone to give the sutures another
rub instead. The traffic was binding, sometimes
stopping altogether and blocking my view.

It was just after half eight when I felt more
vibrations in my hand.

I got my head down again but strained to keep
my eyes on target. 'They online?'

'Yes . . .' He hesitated, perhaps checking
monitors. 'Is it him? Do you have Dominik?'

'No.' I kept my eyes on AM Net, waiting for
the sender to sign off and come out.

'The email has confirmed proof of life. The tree
fell on John's BMW in the storm last winter.'

The traffic snarled in front of me again. I kept
my head pressed firmly to the phone.

The Yes Man read out the reply word for word
as it came up on his screen. ' "They – are – getting
– impatient – please – hurry . . ."' Shit. Two trucks
blocked my line of sight. I'd lost the trigger again.
I cut him short. 'I don't give a fuck what's being
said. Call me when the link closes down.'

'Just has.'

I closed down, too, and slipped the phone back
into my pocket. I got up, resisting the temptation
to run like a lunatic. I smiled goodbye to my
friends and stepped off the pavement.

I squeezed between the two trucks and
reached the other side by the tea stall. I checked
right, then left, then back up towards the
embassy, as if I was meeting a friend. There was
no one but pepper-pots and kids within the time
and distance anyone could have walked from
AM Net.

I played phone call to the mate and glanced
through the target window as I crossed Flower
towards it.

I could see the old man near the window, but
no one else.

I'd fucked up big-time.

The young lad brushed past me with another
tray of tea glasses. He disappeared into a baker's
as I started checking down Flower. There was
fuck all else I could do.

I walked quickly down the street, head up. I
was going to have to risk appearing suspicious. If
I didn't find anyone who looked like a possible
target I was fucked anyway.

A group of surly young guys who were probably
best mates with the ones chasing me
last night moved towards me, but carried on
past.

It was no more than a hundred to the junction
where my reception committee had been waiting.
It was much busier than this stretch.

My arms were pumping now. The main was a
blur of orange-and-whites.

Bodies milled on both corners, talking and
smoking. Women with shopping bags wove their
way through.

I stopped and looked around. One cowpat,
moving across Flower in the distance, was taller,
much taller than the others.

I ran.

A taxi pulled up, an old Mazda estate, and I
saw him slide into the back seat. As it pulled
away, I couldn't believe what I was about to do. I
waved frantically at the nearest orange-and-white
and did the same.

I jumped into the back. The driver had a white
beard and black teeth, and looked about eighty.
He waffled some kind of greeting. I shoved my
hand into my bum-bag and dragged out a bundle
of bills. 'Let's go! That taxi! Follow, follow!'

I waved my hand urgently but he seemed
more interested in the stink of Marmite. I shoved
a couple of tens into his gnarled brown hand.
'Let's go! Chop-chop!'

He finally pulled away. He studied me in his
rear-view, which had enough beads hanging off
it to decorate a mosque.

The Yes Man's mobile vibrated in my baggy
pockets. Fuck him, he could wait.

I leant forward between the two front seats, eyes
skinned for the Mazda. I tried to stay all smiles as
I gave his bony old shoulder a friendly squeeze.
'That's it, matey, let's go get that wagon!'

I shoved another note at him.

It was just after nine. The sun was behind us.
TV Hill was on the left. We were heading west.

The road narrowed. The shops petered out.
Concrete, flat-roofed two-storey houses took
their place. I peered through the dusty, cracked
windscreen but there was no sign of the orange-and-white
estate.

A vehicle pulled out of our lane up ahead and
cut left across the oncoming traffic.

'There! That taxi! Follow that taxi!'

I waved my hands and tried to get him to see
what I wanted. He didn't understand until I produced
another ten.

The orange-and-white disappeared down a
compacted-rock road. It was definitely two up. A
large body sat rear right. It didn't move, didn't
check behind.

I rolled down the window. The noise and heat
of the outside world rushed in. 'That's it. Left,
yeah? That taxi, yeah?'

He grinned knowingly as he spun the wheel to
get in among the oncoming traffic. He'd probably
seen that bloke with a beard pull the same stunt
in a hundred Bollywood films as he fought big-time
crime in downtown Delhi.

He got halfway across the road and slammed
on the brakes. I pitched forward. Two gleaming
white GMC suburbans, all blacked-out glass,
sped towards us. Red and blue lights flashed
behind radiator grilles to tell us to keep the fuck
out of the way. These boys were stopping for no
one.

We turned in their wake. TV Hill was now
ahead. We were heading south.

I kept eyes on target. The plume of dust that
billowed behind it was maybe a hundred and
fifty further ahead. A gang of kids cleaning cars
had to jump out of the way as we slewed across
the gravel.

The orange-and-white hung another left.

'That's it, matey!'

Our car slowed. He still faced forward, but
gave me a sideways glance.

'Dodgy bastard!' I jammed another ten his way
and he chuckled as we picked up speed.

We followed the Mazda through the residential
area, sometimes fifty behind, sometimes more. A
main drag was coming up in the distance, but I
could see a tailback stretching almost all the way to
us. I ripped off my Bergen and grabbed the map.

TV Hill was now about a K ahead. I could
clearly see the antennae farms on the two peaks.
The main had to be Salang Wat. A left would take
us back to the city centre. A right would take us
north-west – out of the city and off the edge of
the world.

We crept towards the main. The target was
now about four vehicles in front.

The driver was chatting away now as if I was
his long-lost brother. He smiled and sniffed the
air. I could tell he was dying to ask the aftershave
question.

Fuck it. I dug in the Bergen, eyes never off the
target, got hold of the Marmite jar and opened it. I
held it out so he could have a smell. He winced. It
was official: Afghans definitely didn't like the stuff.

We rolled forward a couple of vehicle lengths.
My face was covered with sweat, and that made
the smell even worse. I could finally see the
smouldering remains of a car bomb and the
carnage it had created in the open-air market.

Italian armoured vehicles formed a partial
roadblock, their .50 cals pointing every which
way. Soldiers took cover in doorways while
traffic cops in drunken-sailor hats shouted and
pointed at the approaching traffic.

Body parts were scattered among the shattered
metal and glass that surrounded the crater. Fire
engines sprayed white foam as the larger pieces
of the dead were retrieved and the injured were
helped towards any available vehicle. The two
Merc ambulances couldn't cope.

The market seemed to stretch all the way to the
bottom of TV Hill. There it morphed into a
shanty that reached most of the way to the
summit. Somewhere in the sea of mud and
corrugated iron lived Magreb, Mrs Magreb,
and their four little boys.