intrusion.
‘At the moment, our Muslim militancy is being stoked up deliberately so that the West has a reason to be there to protect what they consider to be their oil and gas resources. Maybe Mr Nuhanovic can work his magic, and then everybody will benefit from the oil wealth. Not just the Americans and the West, but everybody.
‘It’s a long-term plan, and to make it work we need to keep Nuhanovic alive. My plan is to persuade him to come to Uzbekistan, where he can be safe with me while he develops his message using my country. Once people understand they have power in unity and power in their pockets, it will not have to worry about its government, America, the elephant, or even our neighbours.’
The road led us to the outskirts of Sadr. A line of dead T52 tanks, their barrels drooping to the ground and being used as washing-lines, had become slum housing. The scorch-marked hulls had been painted red, yellow and pink, and flowers stuck out of pots where the fuel tanks had been. Women cooked from fires built over the engine grilles, and kids kicked footballs against what was left of the track wheels.
‘We can stop the tension in the regions as the oil cash flows in. The West will have no reason to station troops there, and we can get on with our lives. Does that make sense to you, Nick?’
It did, but I knew there was more to come. He hadn’t talked about how I fitted in yet.
‘Where are we going now? To see him?’
He gave a gentle laugh and pushed his gigs further up his nose. ‘Unfortunately not. I know people who have had contact with him, and have been trying to impress on them that I need to see him. He knows I’m here. I have had indirect contact with him in Bosnia for nearly two years, through one of his intermediaries in Sarajevo. Is that not so, Robert?’
‘Nuhanovic is testing Benzil’s commitment, Nick. In Bosnia, he only deals through a guy called Ramzi Salkic. You remember that big old mosque in the Turkish area? You know, Gazzer something?’
I nodded but, like him, I couldn’t remember the name.
‘Salkic almost lives in there. That’s where we meet him. But Benzil can’t go inside the mosque. They’d smell him. So I go. I’m really good at all the prayers now.’ He was quite proud of himself.
Benzil looked at me over the top of his dark glasses. ‘But now I fear Mr Nuhanovic may have already left for Sarajevo, earlier than expected.’
We worked our way through a market selling vehicle parts, American uniforms, weapons, and some of the drugs that should have been in the kids’ hospital they’d visited that morning. The skeletons of Iraqi military trucks were everywhere, along with the twisted remains of the odd Hummer and a burnt-out AFV.
‘I hope we can meet. I know I can convince him it’s the right thing to do. He’s a target for so many people. The West want him dead because he can unite Muslims, the corporations because of the boycotts, the fundamentalists because he’s preaching the wrong message.’ He nodded out towards the crush of people in the market. ‘Some of his enemies are here, just the other side of this glass.’
He removed his gigs and leaned back against the door. ‘I have talked enough about our situation. But what about you, Nick, what is your place in the story? Would you like to be part of something different? Would you like to be part of keeping him alive?’
Soon the market was behind us. We bounced along pitch-black, deserted streets and Rob hit the lights.
Both of them were silent now. I didn’t know if it was because we were nearly there, or they were giving me time to think.
Benzil must have been reading my mind – or was it showing on my face? ‘No need to rush your decision, Nick. We have time.’
There was a heavy, dull thud. The front of the vehicle lifted. The windscreen shattered. The car rose up and over to the right, then bounced back down. Rounds rained into the bodywork, punching through the steel.
Rob lunged for the footwell, scrabbling for the AK. Two rounds thumped into his neck, spraying the interior with blood. His head lolled from his shoulders, held by just a few ligaments.
I shoved the door and rolled out on to the road. Glass showered down on me. Petrol spewed out of the vehicle as more heavy 7.62 AK rounds ripped through metal.
I turned back, trying to grab Benzil, but I was too late. He was slumped in the footwell. The rounds poured in. I kept low, sprinted back to the junction, turned right and leaped over a fence. I landed in a garden.
60
Kids screamed. Dogs barked. My legs weren’t moving as fast as my head wanted them to. It felt as if I was running in mud.
People peered from their windows and shouted when they spotted me. ‘American! American!’ A couple of women started the Red Indian warble.
There were a couple of long bursts from near the vehicle as I ran down a narrow alley between two tall breezeblock walls. Arab screams echoed behind me. A burst water main had left the ground slimy and I lost my footing. I stumbled over a pile of rotting garbage and fell face down. Scrambling on all fours to move forwards and get up, I saw headlights moving back and forth about seventy metres ahead. All I wanted to do was get there and turn, it didn’t matter which way – anything to get out of the line of sight and fire.
I kept running, not bothering to look back. My feet kicked old cans and newspapers. My hands were stinging like I’d fallen into a nettle bed.
I stopped about two metres short of the road, and had a quick check left and right. A few pedestrians hovered on the dark pavements. Some shops and houses had electricity, others just a flicker of candlelight.
I was covered in Rob’s blood. My hands were soaked with it; shards of glass were sticking to it. My heart pounded in my chest as I tried to regain my breath.
There was a junction about twenty metres down. I stepped out of the alley and started along the pavement, concentrating hard on the weeds growing in the cracks between the paving-stones, keeping myself in the shadows.
A couple of people spotted me immediately and pointed. Somebody behind me shouted. I ignored it and kept going. All I wanted to do was get level with the junction and run across the road. They shouted again, this time more distinctly. ‘Hey, you! Stop! Stop!’
I turned my head but kept moving. A Hummer patrol was parked on the same road, just too far up for me to be seen from the alley. With them were some Iraqi police, standing next to a new blue and white, carrying AKs.
The patrol challenged me again: ‘Stop!’ The police joined in, in Arabic. I looked to my half right and spotted an alleyway. I crossed the road and broke into a run.
‘You – fucking stop! Stop!’
The Hummers and police revved up and started rolling. I reached the other side of the road and was into the alleyway. My mouth was dry and I fought for breath. Sweat diluted the blood on my face and hands. There were rough breezeblock walls either side of me again, only this time closer together. Light streamed through the shutters. I kept running as police sirens wailed behind me.
The blow to my throat was so swift and hard I didn’t see who’d delivered it.
I lay on my back, gasping for breath, trying to get my Adam’s apple moving as I listened to vehicles shrieking to a halt and pissed-off shouts coming from a house to my left, now in darkness.
American voices joined in, screaming at each other: ‘Where the fuck is he? Let’s go, let’s go!’
As I pulled myself on to my hands and knees, I realized I’d run straight into a cable stretched between two buildings. The fuckers were getting their kettles on.
I got up and ran, stooped. I tried to suck in air but my Adam’s apple was still glued to the back of my throat.
A powerful torch beam swept the alley. I hugged the wall to the right, crouching among piles of garbage and old mattresses.
