Crossfire (20 page)

The stone wall directly opposite me was ten feet
high, and the sign that ran the whole length of it
confirmed in red that I was at the Emergency
Surgical Centre for War Victims.

A corrugated-iron canopy shaded two long
benches at either side of the entrance. It was
guarded by a huddle of grey serge and AKs. Old
guys occupied the benches, smoking, waffling,
reading the paper. I couldn't tell if they were
patients, visitors or just waiting for a bus.

On my side of the junction, a couple of guys
sold glasses of tea as black as boot polish. Above
their heads, a small blue handpainted sign with
an arrow said AM Net was round the corner.

This was the sort of thing I needed to know
about – what was happening during working
hours when I'd be hanging about and waiting for
someone who spelt in American English.

Flower Street was narrow and the sun had
stopped shining on it for the day. Every shop
sold either flowers or cakes. There were pavements
both sides. It was potholed, but there were
still traces of tarmac. Large open concrete drains
lined one side.

AM Net was exactly where the Yes Man had
said, two shops in from the junction. I walked
under the rusty corrugated-iron awning and
glanced through the grimy window. The room
was small and dark. No one was using too much
electricity here. I saw two rows of four grey
monitors, maybe three or four people hunched
over them. An old guy waited at the desk by the
window to take their cash.

I kept going without looking back. If I'd
missed something, tough shit, I should have
done a better job. Enough people were looking at
the white face as it was and quite a few didn't
like what they saw. I lengthened my stride.

The smell of grilled meat reminded me I hadn't
eaten since getting off the plane. I came to a steel
trough, maybe three metres long. Lines of kebabs
sizzled away over glowing embers in the half
nearest me. Two kids up on boxes fanned the
charcoal at the other end, keeping it sparked up.
At least they gave me a cheery wave.

I kept walking, past yet more flower and cake
shops.

My time with the muj had taught me they loved
flowers – and not just poppies. Maybe it was something
to do with the barren mountains they had to
live among. The Taliban were the same, and a lot of
the guys we trained and fought alongside were
now with them. They liked to put them down the
barrels of their AKs as well as in their waistcoats
when they had the chance. But the idea of going to
San Francisco never crossed their minds – unless it
was to bomb the fuck out of the place.

The deep ditch on the right was obviously a
great place to park your bike. All I could see were
seats and handlebars. The people milling round
were doing exactly what anyone else on the
planet would be doing right now, just getting on
with their lives – picking up a birthday cake or
some treats for the family on the way home. It
always amazed me how people so fucked-up by
war still managed to carry on. Maybe they had
no choice.

Word had definitely spread that there was a
white guy in town. Kids materialized from doorways
and held stuff up. 'Mister! You buy this!'

No, thanks. I didn't need twelve boxes of
matches wrapped in cellophane.

'Boots dirty, Mister – I shine!' A ragged little
boy thrust his shoe-cleaning kit and black
brushes insistently at me. I pointed at my scuffed
brown Timberlands and shrugged.

I pushed on and most of them faded away
within ten or fifteen paces. A group of pepper-pots
headed my way and stepped out on to the road.
I was careful to wait until they'd got back on the
pavement and walked past.

Flowers and cakes gave way to furs and
leather. Skins of all shapes and colours hung
from awnings or were stretched on frames. Large
hides were being prepared as rugs. A couple of
white spotted cats looked mildly surprised,
thanks to their new glass eyes. When the Taliban
weren't shooting ISAF, they killed anything else
that moved on the mountains to make a few bob.
Maybe my three new mates were in town
to drop off pelts.

I could see the crossroads maybe fifty ahead.
Turning left would take me to a main drag. Then
if I turned left again I'd get to the junction near
the Gandamack.

But that wasn't going to happen. There were
too many cowpats with pissed-off faces gathering
at the junction. Young men smoking, staring,
waiting. I didn't know if it was the prospect of
money, wanting to know what the fuck I was
doing there, or just because I was white. I wasn't
going to hang around long enough to find out.

I crossed the road as casually as I could, heading
towards the nearest alleyway. As soon as I
was out of sight, I broke into a run. I took the first
left, then a right down a rubbish-filled gap
between two buildings. I wanted to put as many
angles between them and me as I could. I jumped
a low wall and landed in a small square. I was
losing my bearings as I ran into another street,
but at least it was quiet, just closed doors and
growling dogs.

Shouts bounced off the houses behind me.

I charged down another alleyway, not looking
back, just trying to make distance. The shouts
seemed to follow me. My sun-gigs bounced even
higher as I took a right between two mud buildings.
I spotted a mountain of firewood and
burrowed in behind it.

My throat rasped as I lay there gulping air.

Woodsmoke and the sound of Bollywood
wafted from the house above me.

I fought to control my breathing as I heard
more shouts and the slap of sandals and boots on
what was left of the tarmac.

I moved my head very slowly and peered
round my cover. Three or four were running,
searching, sounding more and more pissed off at
not gripping me.

It was getting close to last light. I would have
to sit it out and wait. This wasn't the time to get
out my map and play tourist.

I wondered if it was the Indian guy with the
beard who'd been singing and dancing on their
television for the last thirty minutes.

It was fully dark, and the crowd had dispersed.
I pulled the mobile carefully from my
jeans and powered it up, shielding the glow of
the display with my hand.

'Magreb, mate. It's Nick. The Gandamack – do
you know where the Gandamack Lodge is? The
hotel?'

Pots and pans clanged in the background as
the Serena's answer to Gordon Ramsay yelled
orders at his sidekicks.

'Yes, yes. You want me drive you there,
maybe?'

'No, I want you to meet me there after work.
But right now I need you to tell me how to get
there on foot.'

His voice took on a strangulated tone. 'Not
walk, Mr Nick. Very bad men there. Wait until I
finish work, maybe—'

'Too late, mate. Listen, if I describe where I am
could you get me on the right road? I know
I'm not that far away from it.'

He didn't sound too happy. I wasn't sure if he
was concerned for my safety or for lost income if
I got lifted.

I extricated myself from the woodpile. 'I'm
looking at a big road just ahead. By the junction I
see a sports shop – Gym Tonic. The windows are
full of running machines, mate. You understand,
multigyms? Punch bags?'

It seemed so out of place. I'd have thought the
last thing the locals would be worried about was
toning up for the beach.

'OK, OK.' He was thinking. 'Mr Nick, walk
past sport shop and go right, then—'

'I'll stop you there, mate. I need to keep on the
side-roads. The bad men have already found me.
I'm hiding from them. I don't want to be under
those shops' lights, do I?'

It took a few seconds to sink in. Either that or
he couldn't hear me above the din of Gordon's
latest wobbler.

'OK. You walk away from sport shop, maybe,
the other way, and tell me what you see.'

I did what he said. I walked for the next ten
minutes without hitting a landmark. At last I
found a handpainted street name and spelt it out
for him.

We worked our way down streets where
occasional slivers of light forced their way
between shuttered windows. Traffic groaned
incessantly on parallel roads. I imagined
the pavements full of angry young men in
cowpats.

'What can you see now, Mr Nick?'

I stood between two trucks. 'There's a crossroads.
On the far side there's a high wall with
razor wire, maybe an embassy. I might be at the
start of the diplomatic area.'

'Yes, Mr Nick. What is in the middle of road?
Concrete, maybe?'

The road had a central reservation of scabby
bushes. 'Bushes, mate. Not concrete. To the right
I can see the lights on TV Hill.'

'Go left, Mr Nick. Left and you will come to the
Gandamack.'

I jumped the junction and headed left, hugging
the wall. Headlights caught me in their glare but
there was fuck-all I could do about it.

'Go up the road, Mr Nick. Walk more. You see
computer shop, maybe?'

'Yes.'

The little fucker was spot-on.

'The Gandamack is on this road, on same side
as computer shop.'

There were shouts from behind me. I spun
round to see cowpats, maybe five or six of the
fuckers, running my way.

'I'll call you later.'

I closed down as I legged it, and within a few
strides I could make out the shapes of guard huts
sticking out from the line of buildings.

The cowpats were gaining on me but I was
getting closer to the huts.

Bodies spilled out to investigate the
commotion. They couldn't have been sure
what the fuck was coming at them out of the
dark.

A couple had their weapons up. Another two
were already checking their safety catches.

I held up my hands as I ran. 'It's OK, it's OK!
Gandamack!

My hands stayed up. I got to within about fifteen
metres of them. 'The Gandamack! Where's
the Gandamack?'

One pointed down a dark gap that loomed on
my left. I couldn't tell if the building behind had
been bombed or was being repaired, but these
guys had to be guarding something.

Their weapons lowered. I checked behind. The
cowpats weren't that brave.

My hands dropped to my knees as I fought for
breath. 'No need to shoot me. I won't complain
about the food, honest.' I held out my hand and
they shook.

I picked my way over rubble and bricks.
Plastic buckets full of the stuff sat waiting to be
moved.

There was a pedestrian door to the right of the
gates. Set into it was a sliding peephole.

I gave the gate a couple of punches. The steel
rattled. The slide was pulled back and a set of
dark brown Afghan eyes wanted to know what
the fuck I wanted.

I gave him a big smile as the door swung open
and I got a big row of brown teeth back. He was
dressed for winter warfare in a thick black polo-neck
jumper beneath an even thicker stripy tank
top. Me, I was wiping sweat off my face. On the
floor of his plywood gatehouse were a bedroll,
bottled-gas burner, kettle, teapot and glasses. He
was set for the night.

A dozen or so dusty 4x4s were jammed against
each other in the courtyard. The house was large,
with additions all over the place. I followed the
gravel path across a patch of garden to a set of
concrete steps that led up to the glass-fronted
entrance.

The first thing I saw in the hallway as I stepped
inside was a long rack of old Martini-Henry
rifles, probably relics from the last time we tried
to control the area and got fucked off big-time.
The Khyber Pass to Pakistan wasn't that far
away.

The reception desk wasn't manned. A card told
me the name Gandamack had come from the
fictional home of Harry Flashman, the
nineteenth-century answer to James Bond. It was
also the name of the village that had seen the
slaughter of about sixteen thousand British
troops by the Afghans in 1842. I wondered if
some of the gear in the racks had seen action
there.

I wandered into the eating area. The tables
were laid for dinner later tonight, with starched
white cloths and china. All the breakfast stuff –
jars of marmalade, jam, honey and Marmite
– were stacked ready on a side-table, just like in a
B and B. The walls were decorated with hunting
and fishing prints. Stuffed parrots flew around in
a glass-fronted cabinet. The only thing to remind
you that you weren't in an old Surrey inn was the
neatly stencilled sign on the door:
Only side-arms
allowed in the restaurant
.

I looked through the open windows and on to
the grass. Two big, muscular guys had squeezed
into a couple of wicker chairs under the external
lighting. They sat with their tree-trunk legs
splayed apart. With their dark skin and black
leather jackets they could only have been from
the Balkans. My money was on them being Serbs.

They had been taking afternoon tea. A wicker
table was set with china. Ducks waddled round
their legs scavenging scraps of sandwiches.

Neither looked the afternoon-tea type. One's
head was shaved bald, and reflected the light like
he'd been having a go with the Mr Sheen. The
other had greasy brown hair down to his
shoulders and a top lip like John Major's. He was
talking into a mobile.

I moved closer to the window. He wanted to
know why they hadn't got the equipment they'd
asked for. If it didn't come soon, someone was
going to pay. That would have had the person at
the other end sitting up and taking notice. To a
Serb, payment didn't necessarily mean cash.

A young lad in a white shirt appeared behind
me. He was all smiles.

'Hello, mate – where's the pub?'

'The Hare and Hound? Downstairs, sir. I'll
show you.'

He led me out of the restaurant, past the
weapon racks and back outside towards a flight
of steps down to the basement.

'Is my mate staying here? Tall Polish guy,
irritatingly good-looking? His name's Dom,
Dominik Condratowicz. Might have left a couple
of days ago, I'm not sure.'

He thought for a while. It couldn't be that
hard. The card had said there were only fifteen
rooms. 'I do not think so, sir.'

'Could you find out, mate? Maybe at the desk?'

He nodded and gave a smile as five dollars
found their way into his hand.

I carried on down a couple of stone steps to a
large wooden door. I took off my Bergen as I
went through. It was like walking into an olde-worlde
pub, right down to the low-beamed
ceiling. The only giveaway that we were still in
Kabul was the two hundred years of rifle and
machine-gun history stuck on the wall.

It wasn't busy. There were a couple of guys at
one of the tables in a corner, and a couple of
women at another. An overly Western-dressed
local nursed a Coke at the bar. Bob Marley was
on the speakers. Was it the anniversary of his
death or something?

The young barman wore jeans, a tight T-shirt
and had long, centre-parted hair. I asked for a
Coke. All the drink was in bottles or cans.
Löwenbräu was the only stuff on tap.

I took my cold can and glass and headed past
the dartboard to one of the vacant tables.

The two huddled in the corner were big lads,
maybe in their late twenties. They'd obviously
been hitting the weights before slapping on the
hair gel and heading out for the night. They hadn't
been working on their lower bodies, though.
They'd just been hitting the chest and arms so they
looked good in their spray-on T-shirts.

Sundance and Trainers wouldn't have
approved.