Deep Black

67

The Holiday Inn had been forced to close before the war because it was bankrupt, but as all the other hotels in the city were bombed out one by one, it reopened. Even though the prices rose higher and higher the longer the siege went on, it was never short of guests. It didn’t seem to matter that its upper floors were constantly hammered by Serb artillery, rocket and mortar fire: just like the Palestine, it existed to make cash, and it remained the HQ and doss-house for the world’s media.

Sometimes the power was on, sometimes it was off. Sometimes the rooms were freezing cold, sometimes they were too hot. Whatever, it had to be the only hotel in the world where the most expensive rooms were those without a view. The golden rule of survival was: if you see the sniper, the sniper sees you, and he wouldn’t necessarily be a Serb. This war had attracted weirdos from all over: the neo-Nazis, anyone else who didn’t like Muslims, and the ones who just liked killing people. They all came for a bit of war tourism, were escorted into fire positions on the high ground, and had a crack at anything that moved. There was even some avant-garde Russian writer caught on camera, sniping into the city.

The Firm’s operations room above the café was about twenty minutes’ walk away – in peace time – but as much as two or three hours during the siege if the snipers were active and people were backed up on the street corners, waiting for the courage to make a run for it.

When we checked in, the guys behind the desk took our passports as security, just like in the old days. I’d always hated that. I always wondered if it was going to be the last time I’d see it.

The décor hadn’t changed much: still lots of grey ersatz marble covering just about every surface. Even the reception staff still behaved as if a smile of welcome would get them carted off to the gulags.

The Holiday Inn was a lot quieter now that no one was getting shot at and no artillery shells were landing in the lobby, but just as busy. I wondered if it was still a haunt for journalists. Probably not. Sarajevo wasn’t that sort of place any more. There were new wars, new stories. Most of the people milling around looked as if they were here on business. Germans and Turks on cells headed for the lifts, wheeling their smart carry-ons behind them.

A coffee area covered most of the ground floor, with square leather-and-chrome chairs huddled round low tables. In the far corner, the coffee-cum-drinks bar was trying hard to look like a large tent with a stripy canopy above the cappuccino machines and bottles of whisky. The hotel was hollow in the middle. All the rooms were built around the outside walls, so the ten-floor atrium looked like the inside of a state penitentiary. It reminded me of a trip I’d taken to Alcatraz with Kelly.

We got into the lift and pressed for the first floor. Jerry and I were sharing a double this time. The only available singles were on the top couple of floors.

Jerry was still in his own world as we got out and followed the landing. He had to start talking soon.

Room 115 could have been any room in any chain anywhere in the world. It had been redecorated since the war, but dark-wood veneer was still king. And, just like the old days, I found myself looking straight out on to the wreckage of another burned-out building. Not too far beyond it lay the green slopes of Mount Trebevic, the sky above it a flinty blue.

Before the war, Sarajevans used to escape the city heat by cable car to picnic on the mountainside. Then the Serbs came, and they covered Trebevic in land mines. Either I’d read this or seen it on the Discovery Channel, but I knew that most of it was still off-limits. It was known as ‘the lost mountain’.

Jerry threw his new Istanbul bag on to the bed nearest the door. The canvas holdall was a lot smaller than the one he’d arrived with in Baghdad, that was for sure. His bumbag followed.

I stretched out on the other and thought about finding this Ramzi Salkic guy.