Deep Black - Andy McNab [125]
I murmured into his ear. ‘Even if there’s no electricity, the room could still be bugged, OK?’
He nodded.
I moved away to the fire as he cut the water before soaping himself down. I finished mixing my own as the water splashed in the shower once more with Jerry on rinse cycle, and got my kit off.
Less than twenty minutes later we were both dressed in baggy cotton trousers, white T-shirts, thin padded jackets and Turkish slippers. We finished off the brews as our kit steamed gently in front of the fire.
The smell now reminded me of the drying rooms in training camp. You’d come off exercise after days in the wet, and nine times out of ten the heaters didn’t work and you’d have to wear the same wet gear until it dried out on you. When they did, we’d all be like pigs in shit, but no amount of lavender oil could have shifted the stench our kit left behind.
As I sat there in front of the flames, the stubble on my cheek rasping against my hand, my eyes started to droop. The drying rooms made me think of the Regiment, then Danny Connor, and Rob. I jerked them open and checked Baby-G. It was just after ten. Baby-G made me think about Kelly, which also made me think about Zina.
I tried watching Jerry patting his scabby nose with a towel, but my eyelids had a will of their own. Maybe I dozed.
There was a knock on the door, I didn’t know how much later. Jerry jumped up and opened it. Nuhanovic remained outside this time, his lamp throwing shadows across the landing. Maybe he didn’t like the smell. ‘You will require your coats.’
I started to put on my kit, now just damp rather than completely soaking, over the clothes we’d been given. I’d decided to take everything except the sacks and my PVC special. Who knew how this eat-and-talk fest would end?
Nuhanovic said nothing as Jerry followed my example, just watched in mild amusement. We finished with our parkas, zipped up as tight as they would go. As we followed him back down the stairs, he explained the layout of the place as if we’d just arrived for a dinner party. ‘It was built by a very wealthy Turkish trader in your sixteenth century. It hasn’t changed that much.’
I couldn’t see anyone under the veranda as we headed across the visitors’ courtyard to a doorway where the two buildings met, but I knew they were out there somewhere in the darkness.
Inside, his oil lamp bathed the wide stone passageway with light, and his voice echoed as he carried on his pre-dinner-party waffle. ‘The story is that the trader’s wife was so beautiful he didn’t want anyone to see her, so he built this house in the middle of nowhere. He was a jealous man, you see. But it still wasn’t enough, so he also planted the forest to prevent even the house being seen.’
‘That why you live here?’
He looked at me with that strange half-smile. ‘I live for my work, Nick. I am not blessed with a beautiful wife . . .’
The door at the end of the passageway opened on to the family courtyard. The building facing us was flanked left and right by the exterior walls. Set in the centre of the one to the right were the coach doors. We followed him over the cobblestones, past another set of heavy doors. Ahead of us, a light glowed behind a window.
‘But I am a nomad, Nick. I do not live anywhere. I move from place to place. Concealment is my greatest weapon, just as it is for the aggressors who avoid justice for their war crimes. It seems I have something in common with my old enemy, no?’
My eyes were fixed on the glow from the window. We stepped up on to the wooden veranda and he opened the door; this time he motioned for us to leave our boots outside. The threshold was two feet high. ‘Mind your toes.’ He lowered the lamp a little. ‘These are designed to keep little children in the rooms, but they claim a lot of flesh from adult feet.’
We were in a large square room. Fragrant perfume wafted from a pair