Deep Black - Andy McNab [73]
The place was filling up. One white guy stood out. He was sitting with another white guy and a couple of locals, all drinking tea from little glasses. His crewcut was just cropping out to show the grey on the sides. His face was peppered with small scars, as if he’d been blasted with fine shrapnel. Stubble only grew where the skin wasn’t marked. But what made him difficult to ignore was that he was missing the little and ring fingers of his right hand.
Jerry had spotted him too. He leaned forward, grabbing some more bread out of the bowl. ‘Bosnian Muslim? What you reckon?’
‘Dunno, can’t hear him properly.’
Jerry got up, still chewing a chip.
He skirted the two women, and went on past Three Fingers’ table. A couple of paces further on he stopped, turned back, smiled and started talking to the four men.
He certainly looked old enough to have been captured by Mladic’s mates. Cutting those two fingers off a prisoner really gave them a buzz because it left the hand in a Serb salute, sort of a Boy Scout thing.
The conversation lasted less than a minute. It didn’t look promising. Jerry moved on to Reception, maybe going for a piss. It had to look like he was passing for a purpose.
The guys finished their tea and left before Jerry came back and helped himself to the two remaining chips.
‘What you say?’
He sprinkled salt over the last one. ‘He didn’t speak English, but the other guy did a little. I just said I heard him talk, and wondered if he knew my old friend Hasan who I’d heard was in town. “I know it’s a long shot but I’d really like to catch up with him.” That kind of thing. But jack shit, man.’
I dipped a finger into a puddle of salt and chip grease on the table. ‘What you reckon? Girl power? We got Muslims at this place, Serbs at the Palestine. We could have a war inside a war soon over who runs the knocking shops.’
Four cans of Coke and another round of chips later, the sun was a lot higher and hotter, and we were about to be in the firing line. I stood up and raised the parasol. Most people had drifted away from the swimming-pool and gone indoors.
‘Midday.’ Jerry was looking at his watch.
‘Well, I guess I’m still an Englishman.’ I sat back down and moved my chair a little to get right under the canvas with Jerry. ‘So I guess that makes you the mad dog.’
I saw movement up by the doors. Rob stepped out on to the terrace, AK in hand. He squinted as he looked around for us.
‘Heads up, mate, here we go.’
I didn’t want him to come over to us. We’d be within earshot of the Australian, who was now standing in the shade of a big sheet of cardboard rigged up in the corner where the external wall met the building.
We got to him as he was coming down the steps. We shook hands. ‘I need a favour.’
‘Haven’t got that much time, mate. I’m off again soon.’ He paused. ‘But what’s all this about me having a big nose?’
He was wearing exactly the same clothes as yesterday, only now his shirt-tails were hanging out. They were probably covering a pistol in his jeans. His back and armpits were soaked. Sweat covered his face and chest.
Jerry shook his hand. ‘I saw you at the party last night.’
‘Yeah.’ Rob turned back to me. He didn’t know Jerry, so why talk to him? It’s just how it is.
‘Tell you what, let’s go up.’
‘Which floor?’
‘First.’
Of course. I bet the crumpled shirts came to him without being asked as well.
A news crew, laden with cameras, cables and body armour, was waiting by the lifts, so Rob turned right for the stairs. ‘I heard the Palestine got hit this morning.’
‘Yeah, RPGs. Danny Connor’s dead.’
‘That’s a shame.’ His tone was matter-of-fact. ‘At least his boy’s a bit older.’
‘Yeah. Nineteen, at university.’
‘I hope he sorted his pension.’
‘Connor? As if.’
And that was it, subject closed. There never was too much said about these things.
We got to the first floor and turned down a narrow corridor. The walls were covered with the same lumpy concrete finish as the Palestine, and painted white.
‘What are the Aussies doing