Deep Black - Andy McNab [89]
‘We got to the house, carrying the woman between us. The driver was up for it so we threw the back seats down and got her in. Jason and I got in with her; the kid and the grandmother sat in the front.
‘We’d only driven a mile or two out of the village when we ran into a Serb patrol. They told us to turn back – this lot were all of “fighting age”, even the grandmother. Luckily there was one carton of cigarettes left, and Jason did the deal.
‘Within half an hour, we were at the base. The boy’s name was Fikret, and he wanted to play for Manchester United when he grew up. He was a good kid.’
By now the empty Coke can was resting on my chest. His voice faded, and I turned to see him staring at the floor. ‘That it?’
‘The doctor said the mother’s only chance was to get to a proper hospital. She’d have to be evacuated in one of their APCs, but Fikret and the grandmother couldn’t travel in the APC as they weren’t wounded. UN regulations. Fuck that. He could have allowed them to travel if he’d had the balls.
‘I didn’t have the heart to tell Fikret. He was busy. His mother was swinging in and out of consciousness, and he was holding her hands, stroking her hair.
‘The APC turned up, and that UN fuck still wouldn’t let them travel with her. I gave him a hug. He cried on my shoulder for a bit, then he got himself together and explained what was happening to the grandmother.
‘As soon as the APC had left, we were all escorted off the base. We couldn’t drive them back to the village because we had nothing left to trade if we ran into the Serbs again. He knew that, and just took his grandmother’s hand and headed home. My last shot was of their backs as they walked up the road.’
I threw the Coke can at the waste-bin and just clipped its edge. In the old days I’d have lobbed it to the nearest Muslim so he could make a hand grenade. It seemed a waste of metal to follow UN regulations and crush it so that I didn’t break the arms embargo. ‘And that’s when you picked me up?’
‘Yup. And I know you don’t want to hear it, but I need to say thanks for saving my life.’
‘Thank-you accepted.’
He smiled. ‘I know you don’t mean it, but it makes me feel better. You want a coffee or something? I’ll go down.’
Jerry strapped on his bumbag. One of the downsides of being a photo man is the kit always has to be with you.
‘Yeah, why not? Frothy, no sugar.’
I watched him leave, and as the door closed behind him my eyes were drawn to the emergency-information sheet pinned to the back of it. I got up and studied the diagrams, but none of them seemed to show me what to do if I needed to run away from people armed with AKs. I dug around for my room card and went out on to the landing.
The coffee area was hidden under its stripy canvas canopy, but Jerry hadn’t got there yet. He was pacing up and down just outside the main doors, the Thuraya against his cheek. He wasn’t just testing for a signal, he was talking. The conversation ended and he disappeared under the tent.
I was back on my bed, channel-hopping for CNN or BBC World, when he came back with a cup and saucer in each hand. His coffee was black, with several sachets of sugar sitting in the saucer.
‘You sure that’s healthy?’
‘Few extra calories never hurt anyone.’ He handed me mine.
‘I meant all that phoning. You’re going to end up with a brain tumour.’
‘Just a quick one to DC. He’s got nothing new.’
It was eleven forty-three. The second prayer of the day was some time after midday. Times changed, depending on where you were in the world and daylight saving, all that sort of stuff. ‘Maybe we could make Zuhr?’
Jerry called down to Reception. They’d know prayer times, which would probably be in the papers anyway. Even if we missed the Salkic guy this time round, we could hang about, have a brew and something to eat, and try again