Deep Black - Andy McNab [54]
‘Don’t know, mate.’
‘I’m going to give her the old special-forces chat-up. Know what I mean?’
This time I did know what he was on about. ‘Well, good luck, mate. I’ve got to go talk to my man about tomorrow.’
It was a mistake shaking the hand that had just come out of the ice bin. As I walked away I felt like I’d just had a close encounter with the living dead.
Jerry hadn’t wasted any time. He’d hooked up with a guy who looked a bit like a New Age traveller. Randy was a TV cameraman, though I wondered if he’d remember that come the morning. Waccy baccy was probably as easy to get hold of here as beer and Randy had been making the most of it. ‘I’ve been here seven fucking months, Jerry,’ he drawled. ‘Ain’t no Bosnian Messiah here, no way, my man.’ So much for not talking to the media. ‘I came in with the Marines—’ He stopped and looked up as three helicopters screamed overhead, one after the other. We couldn’t see them: they were unlit. Randy staggered backwards and pointed up, shouting, like a driver with road rage, ‘Quiet! For fuck’s sake, be quiet – it’s my fucking birthday.’
Once he regained his balance he had a fit of giggles, then leaned an arm on Jerry’s shoulder. ‘I got a way with choppers. See, they get off my case pretty damn sharp, man. It’s those fucking tanks I have issues with, man.’
Over Jerry’s spare shoulder, I saw Rob coming into the pool area from the lobby. He looked as though he was heading for a different kind of party. There were sweat stains on his T-shirt from where he’d just removed his body armour, he had a pistol on his belt and an AK in his hand. I didn’t think he’d be staying long.
‘Good to meet you, Randy.’ I had a crack at trying to shake his hand, but he was too busy waving at another burst of tracer. ‘Jerry, I’ve got to go – Rob’s here. See you later.’
Randy tried to focus his eyes on mine, but gave up. ‘Yeah, me too. I’ve gotta get out of here. Right out of fucking Iraq. Seven months, man.’
Rob was searching the crowd. He smiled as I approached. ‘Sorry, mate. I’m not hanging about. Ten minutes and that’s it.’
‘You with your man?’
He shook his head as his eyes scanned the party. ‘At the al-Hamra. Thought I’d come and say hello. How’s your search for the Bosnian getting on? You have a name for him?’
‘Nuhanovic. He’s their answer to Mahatma Gandhi. You heard anything?’
‘Nah. It’s just a picture you want?’
‘Jerry, the guy I’m with, says he’s going to be famous one day.’
‘For what?’
‘World peace, mate. Putting us out of a job.’
He held out his hand and pointed at nowhere in particular. ‘Just don’t tell that to any of the Serbs on the circuit, will you?’
‘You want a Coke?’
‘No Coke, thanks – water will do.’ Sweat streamed down his face.
I grabbed a bottle from one of the ice bins. He twisted the cap and threw his head back. It would have made a great commercial if I’d really been in the advertising business.
A couple of AKs sparked up the other side of the fence and a tracked vehicle rattled along the road. Rob listened to the chaos and shook his head. ‘Close my eyes and I could be back home.’
‘Fuck me, Rob, I know Coventry can be bad at times but—’
‘No, mate, Uzbekistan. They’re my people now. It’s the same sort of situation out there.’ He jerked his head roughly in the direction of the outside world. ‘Indiscriminate body-count stuff. There’s got to be a better way, don’t you think?’
I shrugged. Why Uzbekistan? From the little I knew, it was in a shit state. It had got independence from Russia in ’91, but was still state-run. The government decided everything, from what food you could buy to what TV you could watch. I’d been slumped on the settee not long ago watching a documentary about human rights. Uzbekistan had the sort of record that made Pol Pot look like Mother Teresa. One of their favourite tricks was boiling people till their skin peeled, then scrubbing them down with disinfectant. ‘Know what, Rob? I try really hard not to think about it too much.’
He held his bottle in his right hand, weapon in the left. ‘We’re fucking up here,