‘Ah yes, the terrorist party executed by the Macedonians. You were with them?’
‘Yes, and so was Jasur. But we were not terrorists. You have to believe me. He was a Palestinian. A refugee. He died of a heart attack while we were escaping.’
‘Of course we Albanians are used to these stories about terrorists. To the Macedonians and Greeks we are all terrorists and we do not believe what they tell us. But the Macedonian army say there were eight terrorists on the road.’
‘That’s right. We were just looking for work. We wanted to go to Greece. Those men with me were all innocent. None of them was carrying a weapon.’
‘But, Mister Khan, you are not understanding what I am saying to you. Maybe you do this on purpose – not understanding me?’
‘No, no. I am trying to understand what you want.’
‘They say there were seven terrorists and one other who escaped after he was cutting the Macedonian with knife.’
‘Yes, that’s right. That was me. I stabbed him and took his gun.’
‘Look at these photographs. Mister Khan.’ Captain Nemim flourished a newspaper and showed him a photograph of a mortuary in Skopje. Seven bodies were lined up and at their feet lay an assortment of automatic weapons, pistols and grenade launchers. Khan recognised the men – the Kurdish trio, the Pakistanis and the rest of them, laid out like trophies with their killers standing behind them.
‘They weren’t carrying these weapons,’ he said.
‘We know that,’ said Nemim. ‘This weapons used by the Macedonian security forces. But you make not to understand me again. I am not stupid man, Mister Khan. You see? Which is the Palestinian gentleman please?’
Khan peered at the picture. ‘He’s not here. They must have left him on the hill. Maybe they didn’t find him.’
‘But you say seven men were killed. There are seven bodies here but where is Mister Jasur?’
‘Hold on,’ said Khan, adding up the members of the party again.
‘Maybe he was ghost. Maybe this Jasur has flown away.’ Nemim seemed pleased with his sarcasm and looked to the junior officer who had come into the room, as if to say this is how it is done; you are watching a master at work, a man who is going far.
‘But the soldier I injured with the knife knew there were two of us who escaped. He would have reported this to his senior officer. There were nine people in our group.’
‘No, this is what they say. The Macedonians like to boast about this murders so there is no reason for them to lie. They say seven men were killed and one escaped. That is you. There is no other man.’
‘But they saw the other man…’
Nemim shook his head. ‘There was no other man.’
There followed a hurried exchange with the junior officer during which Nemim’s eyes never strayed from Khan’s. Then the junior left and Nemim folded his hands on the table with a look of satisfaction.
‘You know we weren’t terrorists,’ said Khan. ‘You said yourself that these weapons belong to the Macedonians. So why are you holding me here?’
‘It is necessary for us to know who you are. I have spoken to Mr Vajgelis.’ He nodded several times to signal that this was the first of many trump cards. ‘Mr Vajgelis says you are fighter. He saw you attack the security forces with a machine gun and then you were wounding his men with your head and arm like this.’ He threw his elbow backwards and did a head butting action. ‘He say you are professional Mujahadin. And you tell him you are Mujahadin. You are saying this to Mr Vajgelis. That is why he gives you to Mr Berisha and Mr Berisha gives you to me. They are good men.’
Khan’s shoulders sagged, as much out of fatigue as frustration. ‘Good men?’ he said. ‘What are they taking to the coast – peanuts and Coca Cola? These are good men in your country, Captain Nemim? No, they are drug smugglers. If these are good Albanians, I pity your country.’
Nemim leaned forward and hit him hard with the back of his hand on both sides of his face. ‘Who are you?’ he shouted. ‘What are you doing here in our country?’
A rotten taste spread in Khan’s mouth, which at first he imagined was some physical manifestation of his fear, but then he realised that the blow on the left side of his face must have burst an abscess. It was months since he’d cleaned his teeth properly and he had been aware of a swelling on his gum. In Afghanistan he had periodically developed these infections, lancing them himself and treating them by washing his mouth out frequently with salt water. He supposed the bacteria had never cleared properly and in time built up to form another abscess. But this gush of decay in his mouth was something else entirely and he was disgusted – by this taste and also, now he came to think about it, the stench that rose from every part of his body and seemed to fill the room.
‘I will tell you about myself, Captain, but I must wash. I need to do this, sir. You can hit me as much as you like, but I will talk better if I am allowed to do this. For our religion I should wash before I pray this evening.’
The Captain considered this for a few seconds then gave some instructions to a policeman standing outside the door. Khan was taken to a tiny chipped basin at the back of the building under which was a large container of water. He took the block of soap and for ten minutes washed all over his body. He cleaned his mouth once again and then dried himself with part of his shirt.
He sat down now opposite Nemim determined to bring some reason to the interview. ‘I told Vajgelis I was a Mujahadin fighter because I wanted him to accept me,’ he began. ‘I wanted to escape and I needed his help so I shouted out the first thing that came into my head. The reason I hurt his men was because three of them tried to assault me. You know what I mean. Any honourable man would have done the same.’
‘Before this, where you come from?’
‘Bulgaria, Turkey, Iran.’
‘With all these men?’
‘No, we came together in Turkey. Then we went by truck to Bulgaria, but were cheated many times. Our money was stolen by men who promised to take us to Greece by boat. There was no boat.’
‘You say you are Karim Khan – not Jasur…’ he checked the notes and the identity card he had in front of him. ‘Not Jasur al-Jahez. Or Jasur Faisal or Jasur Bahaji. The man with many names. You are not him.’
‘No, I am Karim Khan.’
‘How can I believe this?’
‘Because it is the truth. Look at the picture of him. He is younger than I am and he is different. Look at him. Jasur has curly hair. I have straight hair.’ He touched his damp head.
Nemim shrugged, then moved on to examine the photograph in Khan’s passport. ‘Why you are not black like Pakistani man? You are like an Arab man, I think. You are Palestinian terrorist, no? You are Mister Jasur?’ He held one or two of the passport’s pages to the bulb above them, which had attracted a swirl of small black flies. His brow furrowed. Then he brought it down on the table and began to scrape at the page that included Khan’s details and photograph.
‘This passport is changed – here.’ He held it out to reveal the spot where the expiry date had been altered. ‘And here the paper. Where is the paper? Why no paper here?’
The page had been razored out by the man in Quetta who’d suggested that an entry stamp for Afghanistan at the tail end of 1996 was enough to put him in jail. The same man had changed the date, quite expertly, Khan had thought, but he had to admit that the passport was barely tested. He had crossed from Pakistan to Iran along the Siahan range without being stopped by a border patrol, and the man on the Turkish border with Iran had not looked beyond the twenty dollar note folded in the front.
Nemim flipped through the passport again and came to a page containing a British visa.
‘So you go to London City in nineteen ninety-one?’
‘Yes, that was my second visa. I was studying to be a doctor. I was at school in London before then.’
The policeman looked at him sceptically. Khan had the odd thought that perhaps he had dreamed his past; everything before Bosnia and Afghanistan had been a kind of fantasy to protect him from things he had done and seen. Nemim was talking but he didn’t hear properly and asked the policeman to repeat himself.
‘This British visa is dated. This makes your passport thirteen years old,’ he said. ‘No passport can be that old. This passport is dead.’
He closed it and swept the notebook and Jasur’s documents up from the table. ‘We understand you. We know who you are. You are international terrorist,’ he said. He got up abruptly and marched from the room.
