talking about, but I didn’t want to risk any sudden movements to help make things clearer.
Jerry’s pistol and mags were taken off him, along with his bumbag. My hands were pulled down by my sides and the guy who’d done it seemed to be telling me to relax. They were now containing, not controlling.
There were four of them. They were all much older than Salkic, more Nasir’s vintage. They were old enough to have been through the war, and it showed. A couple had scars on their faces, and the sort of look in their eyes that said they’d seen and done things they didn’t need to talk about. I wondered if any had fingers missing.
Their weapons were clearly well oiled and maintained; some AKs and a number of Heckler & Koch G3s, a 7.62mm assault rifle with a twenty-round mag.
One of them – who seemed to be calling the shots – had big curly hair that fell way past his shoulders from under his Russian fur hat. A Motorola crackled somewhere in his thick sheepskin glove. There was some quick-time gobbing off, with ‘Ramzi’ and ‘Nick Stone’ making regular appearances. Eventually he passed it over to me, and pointed at the pressle.
‘Hello? Are you Nick Stone?’ The voice was male, educated, authoritative.
I hit the pressle. ‘Yes. I’ve got someone else with me, Jeral al-Hadi. The photographer.’ I thought it sounded a bit better having a Muslim in tow.
‘Where is Ramzi?’
Didn’t they know what had happened?
‘He’s alive. So is Benzil. They’re back in the city.’
I rattled through what had happened at the cave.
‘Wait one minute, please wait.’
I hoped it wouldn’t be much more than that. I was freezing.
I gave the radio back to the glove and just stood there, the cold biting into every inch of me. It was like being back in the sheep hollow. I stamped my feet together and so did Jerry. Whoever was on the end of the Motorola gobbed off at one of the crew, who disappeared as the long-haired one offered us both a cigarette. I’d never smoked in my life, but I was almost tempted, just so I could cup my hands round a match.
Two green German parkas were produced and neither of us needed to be told twice to get them on, hoods up. These boys knew what it was like to be wet, cold and hungry, and only wanted that for their enemies. They’d be taking them back before first light, then.
We stood there for another ten minutes or so before the Motorola sparked up again, then we were herded into the back of the VW, alongside the spare diesel. I’d been right, it was much warmer. The long-haired one got behind the wheel and manoeuvred us through the chicane.
The track went straight for a while, then bent to the right and led towards a dirty white wall, about three metres high. Set into it was an archway, blocked by a pair of heavy wooden coach doors that were opening inwards as we approached.
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The van bounced to a halt. The long-haired one jumped out and slid open the side door. Light flickered on the other side of the archway and a small man in a long black coat, fur hat and sheepskin boots appeared, an oil lamp clutched in his hand. It was Nuhanovic. Although his face was mostly obscured by his collar and hat, I could see he’d binned the beard. It didn’t seem to make much difference: he still came across like somebody’s favourite uncle.
‘Please come in.’
His eyes were bright and piercingly intelligent. The corners of his mouth were lifted in a half-smile, but I wasn’t sure whether it was aimed at me and Jerry or his long-haired mate, who shepherded us in, then turned the VW back down towards the checkpoint.
We followed Nuhanovic through into a cobbled courtyard. He only came up to my chin, but there was no doubt who was in charge here.
‘I have dry clothes for you, and hot water. Once you are comfortable, we will eat and talk.’ He spoke slowly, in heavily accented but perfect English, and chose each word with a lot of care.
Directly in front of us was a long, one-storey building with a veranda that ran its whole length. The place was in darkness.
He led us to the left, along the line of the wall, to where another, taller building joined it, forming an enclosed courtyard. We followed him and his oil lamp up a very old and creaky external wooden staircase on to the first-floor veranda. Warm light glowed behind the blue-glass panels in a door to our left.
He opened it and ushered us through. We hesitated, starting to take off our boots before crossing the threshold.
‘Please, no need, just enter.’ Nuhanovic took a closer look at Jerry’s face. ‘That wound needs to be cleaned.’
The room, maybe four metres by five, was heated by a blazing fire. Logs were stacked against the wall, and the air was heavy with perfume and woodsmoke.
Our shadows flickered on the walls. An oil lamp in the corner provided the only other light, and lavender oil simmered in a little brass tray above the flame. The happiest sight was the steaming brews that stood on two brass trays by the grate. I headed straight for them.
Jerry joined me, trying to kickstart his circulation in front of the fire. Above it, hot water bubbled in a clay tank decorated with inlaid pieces of coloured glass.
Nuhanovic stayed by the door. ‘The water should be hot enough for you to shower. Please, change, be comfortable and then we can talk.’ He turned to leave.
‘I’m Nick.’ I motioned with my hand. ‘This is Jerry.’
That half-smile returned. ‘And I am Hasan.’
He closed the door behind him.
Jerry didn’t need any second invitation. He turned the small brass tap at the bottom of the tank and hot water streamed into a large clay jug beneath it. I poured out the brews. I was pleased to see it was tea rather than that Arabic coffee shite, although I would have gone for anything even half-way warm. I threw in a handful of lumps of crystallized brown sugar. The glass burned my fingers and lips as I started sipping.
Jerry filled the jug, and started to get undressed in front of the fire. I kicked off my boots, refilled my glass and took a look around. Two sides of the room were dominated by long seating areas littered with cushions. Some basic clothing had been laid out for us. There was no decoration on the dirty white plastered walls.
A slatted wooden door opposite the fire led to a toilet, a simple box with a hole in, with a washing bowl and hand towel alongside. There were no electric sockets or fittings that I could see. It was as if we’d been transported back two hundred years.
Jerry had ripped all his kit off and was busy drawing cold water from a barrel into a second jug. He obviously knew his way around nineteenth-century plumbing. He unhooked the chain that held the ornate brass bucket above the stone shower tray to the left of the fire. Letting it run through his hands until the bucket hit the shower tray, he poured in water from each jug until he was satisfied with the temperature.
I eased open the blue-glass door to check outside. The terracotta rooftops were covered with frost. Above them, a million stars glistened in a pitch-black sky.
The other side of the compound was in total darkness. The guys on stag must have been freezing. I could make out the shape of another building beyond the one-storey one, which was where the family would have lived. It was the usual Muslim set-up. Visitors would be kept this side. If they were here for business, they’d be confined to the ground floor. The first floor would be reserved for family guests, as they would be able to see into the private courtyard that separated the two areas. Weren’t we the lucky ones?
These places were completely surrounded by thick walls, and were a nightmare to get into or out of. They’d even made sure the treeline was a fair distance from the walls to prevent any climbers.
I saw movement in the guest courtyard. A couple of bodies were standing under the veranda. Fair one; I’d
