Deep Black

72

There were cafés everywhere, and each one was a bigger lung-cancer factory than the last. Bosnians smoked like chimneys. Last time I’d been here the running gag was that if the Serbs didn’t finish you off, the Drinas certainly would. Health and safety probably worked in reverse here, like so much else. If they found out you had an extractor fan or a no-smoking policy, they’d probably shut you down.

We walked into one with lots of glass and chrome, cutting through a curtain of nicotine. We sat down and ordered a couple of cappuccinos. Apart from the smoke, we could have been in London or New York. The spectrum was the same, from teenagers sipping hot chocolate and obsessively checking for texts, to old boys on their own trying to make a small coffee last a lifetime.

The brew finally turned up just as Adhan, the call to prayer, sounded across the rooftops. Quite a few customers got up and headed for the till. We joined the queue, trying to get the hot liquid down us before we made the thirty-metre trek back to the mosque.

We walked through the wrought-iron gates, past men and women lining up in their separate, segregated areas. Little kids ran in and out of the legs of middle-aged men in business suits. Teenagers stood chatting to grannies.

Quite a few guys were already on mats in the drive-through outside, getting the prayers in early. Jerry and I mingled with the rest of the crowd, smiling at everyone as they waited in line at the washroom to perform Taharah, purification. You didn’t have to wash at the mosque: it could be done beforehand. Some just chatted as their kids ran riot. I’d decided we should split up to cover more ground.

Most of the people I asked about Salkic responded with a little English and a big smile, but they couldn’t – or wouldn’t – help me. Jerry worked another section of the crowd about fifteen metres away. He looked like a bad impression of Inspector Clouseau, and so did I, probably. I caught his eye and shook my head. He did the same.

The Qurŕān vendor was standing outside his premises, watching the crowd hopefully. Maybe he was anticipating a big run on his religious merchandise today. Then I looked at him more closely and realized he was actually studying faces. He was looking for someone.

I decided to up the ante. I stopped a young guy in a black-leather overcoat. When I asked him if he could help me, he replied in very good English.

‘I’m looking for a cleric, a man called Hasan Nuhanovic. Do you know what mosque he goes to? Is it this one?’

His smile faded and his eyes dropped to the floor as he shuffled past me. ‘No, I don’t know. I’m sorry. Excuse me.’

Jerry was near the washrooms now and I worked my way towards him, asking as I went. The next one I tried was a suited, briefcase-toting businessman who looked like he’d just come out of an insurance office. ‘I’m looking for a holy man, a Hasan Nuhanovic. Have you—?’ Before I’d even finished the sentence, he’d walked away without answering.

Jerry was immediately at my side, looking concerned. ‘What’re you doing, man?’

‘Rocking the boat.’

I spotted the shopkeeper talking urgently to a young guy with brown hair, and not about the weather. There was a lot of pointing into the crowd.

Jerry was still agitated. ‘Shouldn’t we stick to the plan? We’re here for Salkic first, right?’

I was already on my way towards the shop. The young man had a neat short back and sides and the kind of raincoat that wouldn’t have looked out of place in DC. I closed on him as he headed for the main entrance. ‘Ramzi Salkic?’

I knew it was him, the moment he tried to sidestep me and didn’t look up.

‘No, no, no. I’m not—’ His eyes never left the ground.

I found myself speaking to the top of his head. ‘I need to get a message to Hasan Nuhanovic. Can you do that for me? Have I got the right person?’

He pushed past me and I decided not to create any more of a scene by trying to stop him. Instead, I followed him to the shoe racks, where he slipped off his smart loafers.

‘Please leave me alone.’ He had to talk loudly to make himself heard over the murmurs of the faithful. ‘You have the wrong person.’

We were getting quite a few disapproving glances from the direction of the mats.

‘My mistake. I’m sorry.’

Their attention switched to me as I turned and moved back against the tide.

I headed for the shop. When he saw me coming, the owner scuttled inside and turned the lights off. ‘We are closed.’ He disappeared into the gloom without a backward glance.

For some reason I’d been expecting Salkic to be a lot older. It takes time to build trust with a principal; the middle man is normally someone they’ve grown up with, a contemporary with shared history and experience.

Jerry joined me. ‘What do you think? Is that him?’

‘For sure. He didn’t look confused, he didn’t look at me. He just wanted to get away.’

‘You fucked that up, then, didn’t you?’

But that was the least of our worries.

‘There’s two guys over there by the washrooms.’ Jerry kept eye-contact with me, as if I might take a look. ‘They didn’t look too pleased to see you. You’re gonna think I’m crazy, but I think one of them was at the Palestine.’