Deep Black - Andy McNab [96]
Jerry and I weren’t the only ones who had stopped to watch. Maybe the flat tops’ surveillance drills were shit; maybe they wanted us to know that they were there. Either way, they never took their eyes off us.
Jerry was still switched on and avoided getting eye to eye with them. He walked and talked as if he was totally unaware.
The more I thought about it, the more I agreed with Jerry that the flat tops were on to us because of Nuhanovic. Like everyone else on the planet, they’d want him dead: a moral crusade would be bad for business – probably always had been, even during the war. I wondered if the girls at the cement factory had been held so they could be sold on, until Nuhanovic managed to get them released. Well, most of them. The bastards had still managed to keep hold of Zina and the other three or four.
A parade of small shops at the end of the square had a scary number of Sarajevo roses sprinkled across the pavement in front of them. A different pop or rap tune blared from each doorway and all sold either cellphones or hair-dryers. ‘About half an hour left till Asr. What do you reckon?’
He had the correct answer. ‘Coffee.’
We went back to the place we’d had to abandon our cappuccinos, and got a table. I couldn’t see the flat tops through the windows, but I was sure they’d be out there.
I took one of the paper napkins and borrowed a pen from the waiter as Jerry delivered a sit rep. ‘They’re outside, still together. Standing in a doorway.’ He turned back to me with a grin. ‘Don’t they know they should be watching our reflection in a big silver samovar? They obviously didn’t see Spy Game.’ He looked down at the napkin. ‘What are you writing?’
‘I want to make sure Salkic at least knows where to find us.’
74
Adhan sounded round the streets once more. A few people got up, but not as many as before. We lined up at the till with them and filtered out into the courtyard.
This time we didn’t mingle with the crowd, but leaned against the courtyard wall behind the washrooms. We watched everyone coming in, waiting to get a glimpse of Salkic. I wasn’t feeling hopeful. It was mainly an older crowd this time. The women grouped themselves together and moved under the portico. Several men were already praying at the drive-through.
This session had a sort of market-day feel about it. Everyone seemed to know each other. The Qurŕān seller appeared in his doorway and had an even bigger scout round than the last time.
Jerry scanned heads as people went into the male washroom. ‘Flat tops – they’re staying outside.’
I looked to my right. They weren’t in the courtyard, but out on the street, chatting and smoking.
Moments later, the man I’d pegged as Salkic entered the courtyard via the shrine gates. He seemed to be glancing warily around him as he walked.
‘You gonna approach him again? Want me to do it?’
I shook my head. ‘We’ll go inside. We’re going to pray with him.’
‘Fuck me – you know what to do?’
Salkic disappeared into the washroom this time. He would be out within a few minutes: Taharah didn’t take long. The routine is hands, mouth, nose, face, forearms, wet hands over head to the back of your neck, ears. Then, once your feet get the good news, you’re ready to roll. It doesn’t always have to be water, either. In deserts, Allah lets you use sand.
‘Of course I know what to do – I just don’t know what to say. You hum it, I’ll play it.’
Salkic emerged with his shoes in his hands and a pair of flip-flops on his feet, and headed towards the carpetloads of kneeling men.
I checked my watch. It was exactly four thirty.
We waited for Salkic to rack his shoes and walk up the stone steps. Jerry drew a few odd looks as we followed and took our boots off, but at least he knew what he was doing once we were through the door.
The hushed tones around the drive-through had been replaced by the low, all-pervading rumble of people talking to God. There’s no middle man when Muslims pray, no vicar or priest with exclusive access to God’s cell