Deep Black - Andy McNab [130]
The AK boys were making a show of checking their watches. Nuhanovic held out a clean hand. ‘All I now ask is that you escort Jerry back to safety and make sure he gets his photographs developed. And publish my story. Tell your Western friends, whoever they are, that I know they let Mladic go free. They have blood on their hands.’
We shook. He turned to do the same with Jerry.
There was still one more question.
‘Our bags, when do we get them?’
‘In Sarajevo.’
The AK boys were looking even more agitated. Time for us to go.
95
Four clouds of breath hung in the cold, still air. The AK boys lit an oil lamp each, then we followed them across the courtyard to the passageway. The sky was still completely clear, the frost now hard underfoot.
Jerry had pulled up the hood on his parka, but I kept mine down. I wanted to take in as much information as I could. A vehicle was ticking over somewhere on the other side of the visitors’ building.
Guided by the oil lamps, we went back along the passageway towards the guest courtyard. As we neared the door, Jerry quickened his pace to get level with me. His eyes stared out from inside the hood, shouting a silent question: ‘What the fuck are we going to do now?’
The AK boys held the door open and motioned us through. The engine was the other side of the wall. ‘Speak English?’
One nodded.
‘Our bags? We came with bags. Will we get them back?’
‘Of course. No problem.’
‘When?’
‘Later.’
We crossed the courtyard towards the archway. The vehicle the other side of the double doors wasn’t chugging. It wasn’t the VW.
They were pulled open and we were blinded by headlights. The wagon was buried in a cloud of exhaust fumes.
It appeared the AK boys weren’t coming with us. They stayed where they were and gestured for us to climb in. We stepped into the cloud and discovered a Suzuki Vitara hardtop. The choke was doing overtime to fight the cold.
It was two up, both in front. I opened the back door and let Jerry get in first. I got in behind the driver. The cloud of cigarette smoke was as dense as the exhaust fumes outside.
There was no interior light but I could see the driver in the glow from the dash. Short back and sides, moustache, maybe in his forties. The passenger was the long-haired one. Between his legs, its muzzle resting dangerously against his chest, was a G3. I looked down. The plastic butt was the full-size, not foldaway, version. Much more important was what lay next to it in the footwell: our bumbags.
These guys had changed into black-leather jackets and jeans for the trip. Maybe we really were going back to Sarajevo.
The wagon lurched from side to side as we drove down to the chicane, then the six hundred metres beyond it, before turning right on to the forest track. Neither of them said a word. The driver leaned across and flicked the radio on. It was local phone-in stuff.
We worked our way through the trees. Jerry had dropped his hood, but his eyes were still quizzing me.
I ignored him. I needed time to think. I stared down at the pistol grip of the G3. The safety catch was on the left. First click down was single-shot, fully down was automatic, the opposite of the AK. The cocking piece was also on the left, just over half-way up the stock and, like the MP5 and all the Heckler & Kochs of that era, had to be worked with the left hand. The mag was straight, not curved, and held twenty rounds.
There was no way of telling if it was made ready. I had to assume it wasn’t.
Hairy lit two cigarettes and passed one to the driver before offering us one from the packet. I leaned forward a little between their seats.
‘Bags?’ I pointed into the footwell. ‘Can we have our bags now?’
Hairy waved his hand testily towards the windscreen. ‘Sarajevo, Sarajevo.’
The driver muttered something and worked the wheel. We bounced on to the frost-covered road and turned left, back towards the barns and the city. A press statement by Paddy Ashdown kicked off over the speakers: