Deep Black

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The hushed tones around the drive-through had been replaced by the low, all-pervading rumble of people talking to God.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 number. Islam offers the worshipper a hotline to his creator.

Salkic had settled himself on one of the rugs off to the right, about half-way along a row of worshippers offering Salah.

Some stood with their palms upraised; some were already bowing; others were on their knees with their foreheads and noses pressed to the floor. Some were addressing Allah aloud; others mumbled quietly to themselves.

Salkic had his back to us and was standing with his hands open each side of his head. This was the first stage of Salah, I knew that much. Most of the guys around him were well into it.

I scrunched up the napkin in my hand and knelt on Salkic’s right; Jerry did so on his left. He eyed us both but didn’t look concerned: he just carried on with his devotions. He was very well dressed. The shirt looked Italian and expensive, and so did the silk tie and jacket.

Jerry’s palms went up by his head. Salkic had finished that bit and lowered his arms to his sides. I followed suit and began to speak to him, keeping my voice low. ‘We tried to make contact with Hasan Nuhanovic in Baghdad.’ I checked to see if this was registering. ‘I was with the Jew, Benzil, when he got killed. Nuhanovic knew he was in the city – does he know he’s dead?’

Salkic bowed and muttered a few more things to Allah. His green eyes closed a little; he was trying to look as if what I had said meant nothing to him. But my words had struck home. He knew Benzil: we had the right man.

‘Tell him we need to see him as soon as possible.’ I turned to face him as he straightened up. ‘Tell him I was at the cement factory. I saw it all, even what happened to the girls once he left. Does he know they kept some back? I saw what happened.’

Jerry leaned forward and shot me a quizzical look as I slipped the ball of napkin into Salkic’s pocket.

‘This is where we are. There’s no time to test commitment – we’re being followed by slavers. We might have to leave the city quickly.’

Salkic remained silent as he went down on his knees, then mumbled into the rug, ‘Go back to your hotel and wait.’

There was no point staying: I’d said what I’d come to say. A few people glared at me as I eased my way out, but most were too bound up in what they were doing to pay much attention.

The flat tops were in here as well, over by the side entrance we’d used earlier in the day. They must have seen everything. Fuck it, so what? I had more than enough to worry about. Regardless of what he’d said, Salkic, the gatekeeper, would either pass on the message or not. It wasn’t something I could control. And if Nuhanovic received my message, he’d either say yes, or he’d say no. I had no control over that either.

I’d find out soon enough. If Salkic didn’t do the job, or he did and Nuhanovic didn’t want to play, it was going to be a long, boring business trying to follow, cheat or threaten Salkic to find out where his boss was. Fuck it, I hadn’t come all the way here for nothing.

Jerry was at my shoulder as we walked back towards the river. There were no flat tops in sight yet.

A couple of German SFOR 4x4s had pulled up on the pavement. The troops were haggling with a stallholder over some pirate DVDs.

We sat on a bench in a kids’ play area, which butted up to a squat and ugly concrete block of flats thrown up in the seventies. If we were still being followed, we’d find out soon enough.

I could see two Sarajevo roses from where we were sitting, one near a set of swings, another near a curly slide. The Serbs always said that the children killed during the siege were the unintended victims of shellfire, but the Sarajevans knew better. Around two hundred and fifty kids were killed by sniper fire alone and there’s never anything unintentional or uncalculated about what a sniper does.

The concrete facings were still scabbed up and covered in graffiti. Beyond the slide and seesaw was a mosque about the size of a two-bedroomed house, with a stone minaret.

Jerry put on his happy face. ‘What was that about Mladic? Were you really there? The factory? Shit, I told you that story, but you knew all along?’

I nodded, checking again for company. I didn’t need to tell Jerry to do the same. His eyes roamed left and right.

‘Is it true, you know, he saved all those people?’

‘Something like that.’

‘You get any film – shit, that would be amazing if—’

‘No, no pictures. I’d had my kit stolen. I was trying to get back to the city and hid near the factory when I heard the wagons heading my way.’

It started to rain.

‘No good sitting here now, we’ll look right dickheads.’ It would be obvious to the flat tops what we were doing. We got up and followed the river back to the hotel.