Crossfire (32 page)

So much now made sense, and the little that
didn't could wait.

We had to get moving.

'Basma, that red estate of yours – it still
work?'

Dom jumped in before she could answer.
'Where are you going? To dump the body?'

'No, mate. The Gandamack.'

He made as if to stand, but the old guys outside
the war-victims hospital would have got off
their benches quicker. He sat down again and
started ransacking his bag for clothes. 'I'm
coming with you.'

'No. You're fucked. Look at the state of you.'

'Been past a mirror yourself lately?' He
grabbed a pair of brown cargoes and shook them
out. Basma pulled them over his feet. 'You going
to upload the film to him from there?'

'The film? Why the fuck would I want to do
that?'

'In exchange for Finbar's life. It's not such a
bad deal . . .'

I shook my head. 'That's not the way it works,
mate. It's not just the film that's the problem. It's
everything that Finbar, you and Siobhan know.
To them, Finbar's just a volatile, unreliable
junkie. You're a journalist on a crusade. And
Siobhan joins the dots. Will he let any of you, or
me, stay alive? Will he fuck. It has to end here.
Basma – the keys.'

Dom wetted his hair and tried to push it back.
He could have had a full day at Champneys and
it wouldn't have made much difference. He
wasn't going to be back on the cover of Polish
Hello!
any day soon.

I splashed my face with water and tried to sort
myself out. The Gandamack wasn't the Serena,
but the way we looked we wouldn't even get
past the gate.

I pulled a blue shirt from his bag and dumped
the fleece. 'OK, Big Boy, if you're in, you do what
I say when I say to do it, OK?'

He looked at me for a long time, then nodded.

I went to the rickety old wardrobe in the corner
and opened the door. There weren't any clothes
on the two or three wire coat-hangers that hung
from the single wooden bar, but I wasn't after a
coat.

I had to shield my eyes against the sunlight as
I hit the yard. I looked up and gave the Predator
the finger.

Dom wasn't too light on his feet but he was
moving quicker down the path than he had when
we'd come up it. I helped him into the back of the
estate as Basma reappeared with an armful of
maps. 'I'm coming too. You might need Pashtun.
You'll have to drive, though. This country might
have a new set of liberators, but we women still
can't sit in the driver's seat. The police would
pull us over. Everyone would stare. The older
ones would throw stones. I'll sit in the back.'

I lifted a hand. 'Basma, you must stay here. I
need you to make waves. I need you to put the
word round that Dominik Condratowicz is going
to expose corruption and drug-trafficking at the
highest level. And we need you to keep Dom's
laptop safe. We'll take the memory stick, but if
anything goes wrong, if you don't hear from one
of us within seven days, I want you to contact
Kate at Dom's office and get the film to her. Email
it, whatever she says. Tell her everything.

'And there's one other thing. The guy in the
GMC . . .'

She smiled. 'My girls have already taken care
of him. There's no shortage of willing hands
round here when it comes to dumping men in
holes in the ground.'

'Right here?'

'We have a cemetery round the back. We
collect suicide victims from the hospitals and villages
and give them a decent burial. We're the
only ones who seem to care . . .'

I took the keys from her as two pepper-pots
hurtled past us. As they swung the gates open I
climbed into the wreck of a car and rolled down
the window. 'Basma, thank you. But you're
wrong about one thing. You're not the only
ones . . .'

She leant in through the window and kissed us
both on the cheek. 'May Allah protect you. He
always makes sure the tank is full, so that's a
good start.'

I fired up the protesting engine. 'Yeah, well,
let's just hope the Taliban weren't watching, eh?
That peck on the cheek could get you stoned to
death.'

We started moving.

'And make sure you dump that wagon somewhere,
preferably tonight.'

We rolled out on to the street, turned left and
headed for the main.

Down by the market, the traffic was still paying
no attention to the boys in the drunken-sailor
hats, and they were still going berserk.

Dom was fighting the urge to nod off beside
me.

We passed the woodstacks. We turned our
heads in unison to stare at the little shack where
Sundance and Trainers had caught up with us. I
knew we were thinking the same thing. Magreb's
wife faced a bleak future. In Afghanistan,
widows are the lowest of the low. Those
medical careers were going to be a long time
coming.

Dom sighed heavily, and a tear rolled down his
cheek. 'I've been so stupid . . . Peter, Magreb,
Finbar . . . God knows who else . . . All because of
my stupid bloody personal crusade . . .'

I concentrated hard on the road. 'He was never
going to stop until he had the film. Once he'd
destroyed that, it was always going to be your
turn next.'

Dom stared miserably ahead. 'I thought it
would solve everything. When the Irish guys
said they wanted it, I bluffed and Peter played
along. I said I didn't have it – not with me, anyway.
That was when they dragged us out into the
desert and shot Peter dead, right there in front of
me.' He turned. 'And I still thought I could steal
a march on them. Baz's girls had heard rumours
about some big drugs deal going down between
the Taliban and some Brits. I knew they must
be the same Brits the FCO were trying to stop me
investigating. I thought if I could make contact,
find proof, whatever, I could put everything
right . . .'

'And then Noah and his mate snapped you up
and decided to skim themselves a nice little
earner on the Dublin property market.' I put a
hand on his shoulder.

Gym Tonic was coming up on our left. I took a
few more twists and turns until we came to a
crossroads. On the far side there was a high wall
topped with razor wire. To the right I could see
TV Hill.

I negotiated the junction and headed left.
Moments later, we were passing the computer
shop. I waited for a couple of workmen carrying
buckets of rubble to get out of our way, then
pulled up outside the pedestrian door to the right
of the Gandamack gates.

'Stay here, mate. I won't be long. Ten minutes
max. Any longer than that, take the car and get
yourself back to Basma's. If I don't show up by
tomorrow, get on the first plane out. You'll have
to do it all on your own.'

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

I gave Mr Winter Warfare a big smile, and as the
door swung open I got a big row of brown teeth
back. He was still dressed in the thick black
polo-neck jumper, with even thicker stripy tank
top. Five or six dusty 4x4s were jammed against
each other in the courtyard. I followed the
gravel path across the garden to the concrete
steps.

I was hoping the reception desk would be
unmanned, but the lad in the white shirt was
right behind it, all smiles, a model of efficiency. I
walked past the rack of Martini-Henrys. 'Hello,
mate – everything good?'

'Yes, thank you, sir.'

'I'm looking for a guy I did some business with
a few nights ago. Local, mid-thirties, clean-shaven,
dresses quite Western – polo shirt and
jeans. He was wearing a navy ball cap . . .'

His face lit up. 'Kellogg, Brown and Root?'

'That's the one. Could you do me a favour? Go
and check if he's here? I said I'd meet him in the
Hare and Hound, but I'm expecting a call and I
don't get a signal down there.'

'Certainly, sir. Two minutes.'

'As long as it takes, mate.'

He headed past the weapon racks and back
outside towards the steps that led to the
basement.

If the fixer really was there, I'd consider taking
him with us. A Pashtun speaker might come in
handy. If I'd been on my own, I would have
driven as close to the border as I could get without
having to go through any checkpoints or
controls, dumped the car and taken off on foot. I
knew these mountains – not as well as the muj or
the Taliban, perhaps – because I'd crossed them
many times. But I had a semi-cripple in tow, and
a seriously ticking clock. We had to get to an airport
in Pakistan as quickly as we could. We
didn't have any time to play with.

I'd become the world's greatest Martini-Henry
admirer all over again. I went to the rack and
almost caressed them as I pulled the coat-hanger
from my pocket and straightened it out.

I checked the corridor for bodies and CCTV
before realizing my bootlaces needed retying. I
bent down, slid the wire behind the rack and
fished. The slim bundle was where I'd left it. I
grabbed my Nick Stone passport and ten
hundred-dollar bills.

The young receptionist reappeared, shaking
his head. 'He's not in the bar, sir. Can I take a
message?'

I gave him the biggest grin I could manage.
'Tell him I was here, but I left early.'

I walked back to Basma's car.

Dom hadn't wasted his time. He'd wrapped a
shemag
round his head to hide his blond hair, and
was studying the map spread out on his lap.
He'd obviously done his stuff. 'Couldn't be
easier, Nick. It's east on Jadayi Suhl, then a left
when we hit Jadayi Awalimay. It's main road all
the way to the Khyber Pass. A hundred miles,
tops.'

I gunned the engine. 'It'll be a fucking sight
less than a hundred if we've got a Predator overhead.'

I reversed down the alleyway and on to the
street.

'How can we tell?'

'We can't. First we'll know about it is either
ISAF putting in a flying roadblock up ahead, or a
Hellfire missile up our arse.'

'Up the Khyber?' He grinned. 'Either way, nice
knowing you, Nick. And I still haven't thanked
you . . .'

'Later, mate, later.'

We passed Flower Street. It was packed.

We drove through the embassy area and past
the compound protected by the sangar. I was
tempted to stop and ask the big lads hitting the
weights inside if they cared to come and ride
shotgun.

A couple of Toyota flatbeds screamed past,
with four or five police on the back of each,
weapons pointing out. None of them gave a fuck
about a battered red estate.

We passed the high walls and razor wire that
surrounded the British embassy. The barrels of
SA80s paraded back and forth behind the sandbags.
Nine times out of ten this would have been
a safe haven. We could have driven to the barrier,
declared ourselves, and the ordeal would have
been over. But right now some of the grey men
behind those HESCOs wanted us dead. How
many? I wondered. How far and how deep had
this thing spread?

The estate lurched across a pothole and we
bounced in our seats. We came to the main. I
turned left, heading north.

Dom tapped the map. 'This parallels the airport
road for a while, then veers north-east, then
east.'

'About a hundred and sixty K max, right? You
might as well get your head down, mate. Fuck
knows, those scabs of yours could do with some
beauty sleep. But a few things first. Assuming we
get over the border, Islamabad's about the same
distance the other side. We'll get flights from
there. We'll go separately. You take British
Airways, I'll take any other carrier I can. It'll
make it harder for the Yes Man to lift us both. He
has to do that to control the film, and it'll be
easier and cleaner for him if he can do it this side
of civilization.'

Dom started to settle. 'The Yes Man? The guy
talking to me in the cell or the one with Finbar?'

'Both, mate. They're the same man. Listen, I
know him. I knew the two Irish guys too. I don't
know his name, never have, but I know he's dangerous,
smart and doesn't give a shit about
anyone.'

He sat up, ready to question me to death.

'Not now, mate. We've got too much real shit
to deal with. Now . . .' I paused as he settled
down again. 'Once in Dublin, we'll aim to be at
Bertie's Pole at nine a.m. every day for three
days. If neither of us turns up in that time, we
have to assume the other's been lifted or something's
gone wrong. You got that? I'm saying it
now in case there's a roadblock round the next
corner and we get separated. If we do, then,
yeah, it was nice knowing you, too. Who shall I
send my invoice to? You or Moira?'

He grinned. 'Moira, definitely. Then me, once
she's rejected it.' His grin faded as a new thought
came into his mind. 'Nick, there's a real complication
to all this. The Yes Man and his team
didn't ship their heroin into virgin territory.
There's a turf war going on in Dublin, and it's
him who sparked it.'

'PIRA won't be liking that one little bit.'

'Haven't you heard, Nick?' He raised an eyebrow.
'PIRA have been disbanded! They've
handed in every single weapon they ever had
and taken up landscape gardening . . .'

If his aching jaw had let him, he'd have
laughed as hard as I did.

'A turf war is the best news I've had all week.
It's going to help us get Finbar back. Now grab
some kip. I'll wake you when we get to the border
and I need your wallet. It's the most corrupt
spot on earth. Last time I crossed here it cost a
hundred bucks.'

I wasn't sure he'd heard the last bit. His
shemag
-draped head was banging against
the window and he was snoring like a chain
gun.

I checked the dash. The clock said it was midday.
We had a full tank, and that was plenty for
the distance we had to cover. We'd be going at a
fuel-efficient pace anyway because I didn't want
to be conspicuous or get involved in even the
slightest accident.

There was nothing much else I could do now
but resist the temptation to search for Predator-shaped
specks on the horizon.