Crossfire (26 page)

Serena Hotel
1834 hrs

I came out of the shower still honking of
Marmite but wearing a nice bathrobe. My
arm was red and sore. My fault, I'd kept
scratching.

The TV was tuned to an Iranian station. No
need to buy any of those street-market DVDs of
Americans getting blown to shit by IEDs. You
could watch it all on state-sponsored news. I
picked up the remote and flicked. It was all the
normal shit. CNN, fuzzy HBO, some Russian
channels, hundreds of Indian ones. I settled on
some girls in bikinis playing beach cricket in
Australia. I wondered what the boys up in the
hills would make of it.

The Yes Man's mobile bounced across the desk
where it was busy recharging next to my
personal one.

'The latest imagery is with you. If he's in there,
get him down into the city and away from ISAF
before contacting me. I will arrange pickup and
fly you both out within the hour.'

I fired up the laptop with my left hand. 'You
need to make sure the unmanned aerial vehicle is
retasked and not covering the hill. Neither of us
would want anything recorded.'

'Agreed.'

The mobile cut and I powered it down. I
picked up the personal one and tried Magreb. It
just rang and rang. Maybe he was at a crucial
stage with the stir-fry.

The downloads finished. I was looking at a
series of black-and-white thermal images. The
hotter the source, the whiter it showed. A live
human, even fully clothed, would show as a
precise silhouette.

The 4x4 glowed with varying intensities of
white. The bonnet was bright. The exposed bit
of exhaust pipe was incandescent.

Scaled against the 4x4, the target looked about
twenty metres by ten. There were no power lines
going in, not even at the back, and the steeply
sloping ground at the rear wasn't enclosed.

I scrolled down. Two pathways led from the
rear door. One went left, towards where
the wagon was parked. The other branched off
right, meandering round the contours of the high
ground to the other houses, thirty to thirty-five
away.

There were no windows or doors in the side
walls, and no heat signature leaked from the
windows at the rear. Either they were boarded up
as securely as the front ones, or nothing was
being generated.

The last picture showed a body – too small to
be Noah – taking a piss near the back door. The
bright liquid ran back towards the house.

The UAV hadn't done much to help, except to
tell me there were at least two people in the
house. I was going to have to recce the target
close up. I needed to find a way to make covert
entry, and if Dom was there, get him out without
compromise. Like I'd told the Yes Man, this
wasn't a shoot-'em-up and drag-him-out job.
That one, I might just lose – especially when
those Turks came legging it down the road to
investigate.

The Mini-Ero lay on the bed next to the mags.
I'd emptied them to give the springs a rest so
they'd have a better chance of pushing the
rounds up. If things did go noisy, Plan B called
for lots of speed, aggression and surprise. I'd
have to get in there, grip him and get us out –
whatever state he was in.

I sat down as the girls changed ends or whatever
they did in beach cricket, and started to
load. I was going to use thirty rounds a mag
instead of thirty-two. It was all about giving the
springs a bit of leeway. I wished my forearm
would give me some. It throbbed as I gripped the
mag and fed in the nine-millimetre.

As I was loading the last mag, the room phone
rang.

'Hello, Mr Nick. I see you call me, but the
noise, I no hear it ring. I sorry. I worry about you
in that place. I no want call you because you with
your friend, maybe.'

I kept loading with the phone jammed
between my ear and shoulder. 'Don't worry
about that, mate. Last night was fine. There was
no drama and I even got a lift back with the man
I was trying to make the reunion with.'

'Very nice, Mr Nick. I go home very happy and
wait for your call, maybe.'

'Why don't you come up to the room right
now and I'll pay you for tonight's standby? I was
going to call you in an hour or so anyway to say
don't wait up – just have your mobile next to
your bed.'

'OK, Mr Nick.'

I finished the mag and packed the Bergen. The
personal phone was clear of Magreb's, Basma's
and Kate's numbers. It had to be sterile. I had been
running Magreb's number in my head all evening.
It was pointless remembering Basma's as well. I'd
only fuck the numbers up and wouldn't be able to
contact anyone. I knew where she lived. That was
enough for now.

I zipped it into the top flap, along with the
hotel torch. My jeans and T-shirt went in too,
along with the Mini-Ero. The Yes Man's mobile
would be staying in the safe with the laptop. If I
did find Dom, I was going to keep him to myself
until I found out what the fuck was going on.

It wasn't long before there was a knock on the
door. I ushered Magreb in, but he clearly felt
uncomfortable invading an employer's personal
space.

'Here you are, mate.'

He took just one of the two hundred-dollar
bills. 'No, thank you, Mr Nick. Tomorrow money
tomorrow, maybe.'

I almost had to force him to sit on one of the
luxurious armchairs and drink some water.
'Whereabouts on the hill do you live, Magreb?
You on that road that goes all the way up to the
top?'

He took a sip. 'Not all way. Halfway, maybe.
Near United Nation school.' He beamed with
pride. 'My children will go school there and be
doctor.'

I stood up to let him out and we shook hands.
'Have a great evening with your family, mate,
and remember – keep that mobile with you.'

He headed for the door and I jumped ahead to
open it for him. He gave me a smile, and I
couldn't help noticing that the school-fees
savings fund obviously took precedence over a
dental plan.

He paused on the threshold. 'Mr Nick, you go
where bad people are. But I know you not bad,
you kind. I listening for your call, maybe.'

It would have made my night a whole lot
easier if I'd got him to drive me up the hill and
back down again with Dom. But he was a real
person, the sort who had a real job and a
real family who loved him. I didn't want to be
responsible for fucking that up.

I'd walk from here to the target in local gear,
then get changed.

TV Hill
Saturday, 10 March
0146 hrs

The lights of the city twinkled below me. Above,
the sky was clear and full of stars.

The wind was starting to pick up. It chilled the
sweat on my back. I was still in local gear, but
hadn't bothered with the Marmite this time. The
shemag
covered my face and I walked with my
head down. Kabul wasn't exactly swamped with
street-lighting.

A whole swathe of the city around the
Gandamack was suddenly plunged into darkness.
Even the embassies were affected. Then,
one by one, lights came back on as their
emergency generators kicked in.

It was pitch black up here, excepting the odd
glimmer from an oil lamp spilling under a door
or past the sacks most houses used as curtains. A
couple of dogs barked at each other in the
distance. Apart from that there was no sign of life
as the road wound upwards.

I came across two knackered American school
buses, painted white with UNHCR stencilling,
parked on a tight hairpin. A stretch of hillside
close by had been scooped out to make way for a
big brick building. A blue board drilled into the
concrete-block wall announced that I'd arrived at
the UN school.

Magreb's Hiace was tucked in by the wall. Any
of the five or six nearby houses could have been
his.

I kept climbing, fingers crossed that his mobile
was taped to his ear while he slept.

It was another fifteen minutes before I came
parallel with the target house. Not even a pinprick
of light leaked from the boarded-up
windows.

The 4x4 was still outside, and didn't seem to
have moved.

I carried on past, until I was sure I was out of
line of sight of both the house and the Turks on
the summit. Either might be on stag and
equipped with night-viewing aids.

I slipped behind one of the Russian wrecks and
changed. When the Gunga Din kit was back in
the Bergen, I prepared the weapon.

A magazine was already loaded into the pistol
grip. I pulled back on the cocking handle and the
working parts stayed to the rear as I slid it back
to the forward position. There would now be a
round poking up from the magazine, ready to be
snatched when I squeezed the trigger and the
bolt went forward. I hoped I wouldn't have to
use it. The ejection system was so poorly
designed that, with the working parts held to the
rear, the ejector-opening became a fucking big
hole just waiting to suck in all kinds of shit and
give you a stoppage.

I shoved the hotel torch into the front pocket of
my trousers and a spare mag into each of the
back ones. I felt in my sock for the cash and
the Stevens passport. Finally I shouldered the
Bergen, pulling the waist strap tight, and held the
weapon vertically at my side to hide its
silhouette. After a couple of jumps to check for
noise, I started back downhill.

My mind was zoned in. The only thing in my
head now was getting inside the target. And after
that, nothing would matter but getting Dom out.

The target house, still in darkness, loomed on my
left. Down in the valley, most of the Gandamack
district was still plunged into darkness. The only
ambient light up here came from the stars.

I walked carefully up to the wagon, bent down
and touched its exhaust. It was cooler than the
rocks after a day in the sun. A couple more dogs
got pissed off with each other further up the hill.

I picked my way along the pathway towards
the rear, lifting and lowering my feet in a slow-motion
moon walk. I didn't want this to go noisy.
There could be half a platoon inside for all I
knew.

The back door was dead centre, like the front,
with a window each side of it and three across
the floor above. I stopped at the first window. It
was boarded on the inside by what looked like
scaffold planks. Whoever was in here was very
determined to keep the rest of the world outside.

A key turned in the door.

I dropped to my knees and brought the
weapon up, pushed the safety to its first click and
squeezed my hand hard against the pistol-grip
safety.

The door creaked open. Torchlight flooded out
into the yard.

A shout came from deep inside the house.
'Shut that fucking door – keep the heat in, will
ya?' The voice was American, and not sober.

The door opened wider. 'Yeah, yeah, fucking
yeah.' This one spoke a lot like me. Joey and I
were about to be introduced.

I lowered the Mini-Ero and laid it on the
ground, then closed my hand round a rock.

A figure emerged, silhouetted in his own
torchlight. His left hand was still on the door
handle and he had something clutched in the
right.

I jumped to my feet and grabbed whatever I
could of him as the door slammed shut. I brought
the rock down as hard and fast as I could. It hit
the top of Joey's head with a dull crack. He
groaned and I pulled him towards me, trying to
control his fall. I toppled backwards with him on
top of me, my Bergen taking the brunt. A long,
matted beard covered my face and his blood
trickled into my ear.

Joey was fucked and drowsy but not
completely unconscious. A roll of toilet paper
had dropped from his hand and flapped in the
wind like a kite tail.

He groaned again as he started to come round.
I smashed the rock against the back of his skull,
rolled him over and brought it down a couple
more times for good measure. The wind carried
the sound of his death up the hill.

I patted him for keys, sat back and wiped his
blood from my face and ear, then retrieved the
Mini-Ero. I took out my torch, stepped back to
the door.

Two deep breaths and I eased it open, weapon
in my right hand, web pushing against the safety
grip, finger on the trigger.

Immediately I smelt cannabis. I brought the
torch up to the weapon and gripped it against the
barrel so I'd be able to see what I was firing at.

The American kicked off the moment I moved
inside. 'Turn that fucking light off, will ya?'

The room took up maybe two-thirds of the
ground floor. There was a concrete staircase to
the right.

I stayed behind the torch. Four sleeping-bags
lay on roll mats. Three were occupied. A ginger
head stuck out of one. I jerked the beam in his
direction and he screwed up his eyes. Noah was
not pleased. It really wasn't his night. 'Jesus, will
you turn that fucking thing off?' A joint dangled
from his lips as he spoke.

The other two bodies looked like maggots
and were totally out of it. Scattered around them
were syringes, spoons, all the rest of the paraphernalia,
and a variety of weapons.

I could have just fired. But I needed to find out if
Dom was there and get him out. I'd only deal with
these guys if I had to. It would bring ISAF down
like a ton of bricks – and, besides, I might lose.

I pushed the door closed with my foot. There
was another near the staircase, leading to the
remaining third of the ground floor. I headed
towards it.

Noah's joint glowed in the darkness.

'Hey, Joey, man! Get me a Mars, will you?'

It was only a makeshift kitchen. No sink or
oven, just some bottled water on a table next to a
couple of butane gas rings, and a pile of dirty
pots. Another table boasted a week's worth of
half-eaten food, liberally punctured with dog
ends, on a couple of haphazard piles of metal
plates.

The torchbeam hit on a box of Mars bars.

'You picking the fucking cocoa beans, man?'
Noah definitely had the munchies.

A reply of sorts came from upstairs. Moans
and murmurs of pain. A stifled sob.

'Shut the fuck up, cunts, or it'll be beasty-beasty
time again,' Noah yelled, then chuckled to
himself.

I grabbed a Mars bar and stepped back into the
room. I threw it to him, then swung the torch up
the staircase.

The wrapper rustled. 'Yeah, go on, Joey. Strut
your stuff, dude.'

As he chuckled some more, I followed the
torchlight up. The smell was terrible, a mixture of
sweat and shit and stale cannabis.

The beam illuminated a bare hallway with a
door left and right. Another at the far end was
heavily padlocked.

A pool of water had seeped under the door to
the left. I switched off the torch. There was no light
from under any of them. I switched it back on.

Weapon up, I stood in the puddle as I closed
my other hand round the plastic handle. The
moment it was ajar, I was hit by the stench of
human shit.

Two naked bodies hung by their feet from the
ceiling. One was still alive, though every inch of
her was cut and blistered. She was able to support
some of her weight by pushing herself up on
the back of a chair. She screwed up her eyes
against the torchlight and whimpered softly. I
didn't understand what she was saying, but
I knew she was begging. As I took a step closer,
she sounded like she was praying.

Noah heard it, too. His laugh echoed round the
building. ''Bout time that bitch learnt a little
respect . . .'

The other girl was way out of Basma's reach.
She hung like a tongue-dangling carcass in a
slaughterhouse. Her teenaged body was covered
with black scorchmarks and red blisters. In
places, her skin peeled.