Deep Black

91

Salkic had said the forestry block was just over two Ks long, and the next marker to look out for was a firebreak.

I glanced at Jerry, who was so close to the heating vents he nearly blocked off the supply. ‘We’re going to hit it soon, a group of “bomb-blasted” trees on the right.’ I’d liked Salkic’s description.

I slowed down and he wiped his side window with his wet sleeve, but there wasn’t just a group of devastated trees, there were scores of them; some splintered trunks were five or six feet high, some no more than stumps. Salkic had been wrong – they hadn’t all been blown up: most looked as if they’d been flattened by tanks.

We both spotted the break at the same time. I stopped just short of it so we could use the headlights to check things out. There was a rush of even colder air as Jerry opened the door. He was so frozen he hobbled rather than walked over to the treeline, and I knew just how he felt.

He waved me on, jumping up and down to try to get some warmth into his aching limbs. I put the gearshift into first and chugged towards him. The narrow opening in the trees certainly wasn’t a firebreak; it was just wide enough for a vehicle.

Jerry got himself back into his seat and we edged forwards. It was like driving into a cave. The trees were just a couple of feet either side of us and the canopy above shut out the stars.

Jerry leaned over the dash and did his best to look through the windscreen.

After a hundred metres or so the track opened up a little, and the van juddered as I put it into second. There was no frost in here: it was too enclosed. The ground was soft, and I hoped it wasn’t going to turn muddy. The VW was a long way from being a member of the 4x4 club.

Jerry gave the screen another big wipe. ‘What’s this fucking guy live in? A tepee or a tree-house or something?’

I checked the instruments again. We’d driven about eighteen hundred metres from the road. Ahead of us, at about the two K mark, was a junction left. After bouncing through another couple of pot-holes, the headlights picked it out.

I turned and looked at Jerry’s silhouette. ‘Fuck knows what’s going to happen now. We’ve just got to play it by ear.’

‘Can’t wait.’

We started down the track.

‘If it gets really fucked up and we have to split, we’ll meet up where we turned into the forest. For fuck’s sake, don’t go too far into the treeline – it could be mined. I’ll do the same, see if we can link up. If that doesn’t happen in six hours, we’re on our own.’

Jerry nodded slowly. ‘In the cave, I never thought I’d get this far, man. I’m still shitting myself.’

I delved into what was left of my PVC coat pocket. ‘You still got the pistol mags?’

He nodded as I passed him the Daewoo. ‘Seeing as your old mate Osama has obviously shown you how to use the fucking thing.’

Salkic’s directions were spot on. Six hundred metres later, the track was blocked by two giant wooden hedgehogs. ‘Heads up, here we go.’

As we got closer, Jerry spread both his hands on the dashboard. Good move. We wanted them in full view of any nervous people with weapons.

I followed Salkic’s instructions to the letter; stopped, left the lights on, engine running.

The two hedgehogs had been laid out to create a chicane that would just about take the van between them. I couldn’t see a thing ahead of it, just the track continuing a short way, then disappearing into the darkness.

Jerry stared into the void. ‘What now?’

‘Just as he said. We wait.’

I began to wind down my window. Before I even got half-way, there was movement in the treeline to my left. A powerful torch beam hit the side of my face. I kept my hands on the wheel and my eyes straight ahead.

‘Ramzi?’

‘No Ramzi. Nick Stone.’

The voice from the trees was immediately joined by others, muttering a whole lot of stuff I didn’t understand. I could feel the engine chugging away through the steering-wheel, and made sure my hands didn’t move off it.

A group of men stepped out of the forest. They were dressed in a ragbag of uniforms: American BDUs, German parkas, tall leather boots, a variety of furry hats. Every one of them carried an automatic weapon.

Both doors were pulled open. We were hauled out of our seats and round the front of the vehicle, where they could have a good look at us in the headlights. But it didn’t feel like we were prisoners: we were controlled rather than dragged.

I kept my arms straight out in a crucifix position, and started shaking with the cold as they removed my bumbag and ran their hands over me. I saw my AK lifted out of the VW. A voice kept talking to me in Serbo-Croat, but the only word I understood was ‘Ramzi’.

I tried my best to explain. ‘Hospital. Boom! Bang! Doctor.’ I didn’t know what the fuck they thought I was talking about, but I didn’t want to risk any sudden movements to help make things clearer.

Jerry’s pistol and mags were taken off him, along with his bumbag. My hands were pulled down by my sides and the guy who’d done it seemed to be telling me to relax. They were now containing, not controlling.

There were four of them. They were all much older than Salkic, more Nasir’s vintage. They were old enough to have been through the war, and it showed. A couple had scars on their faces, and the sort of look in their eyes that said they’d seen and done things they didn’t need to talk about. I wondered if any had fingers missing.

Their weapons were clearly well oiled and maintained; some AKs and a number of Heckler & Koch G3s, a 7.62mm assault rifle with a twenty-round mag.

One of them – who seemed to be calling the shots – had big curly hair that fell way past his shoulders from under his Russian fur hat. A Motorola crackled somewhere in his thick sheepskin glove. There was some quick-time gobbing off, with ‘Ramzi’ and ‘Nick Stone’ making regular appearances. Eventually he passed it over to me, and pointed at the pressle.

‘Hello? Are you Nick Stone?’ The voice was male, educated, authoritative.

I hit the pressle. ‘Yes. I’ve got someone else with me, Jeral al-Hadi. The photographer.’ I thought it sounded a bit better having a Muslim in tow.

‘Where is Ramzi?’

Didn’t they know what had happened?

‘He’s alive. So is Benzil. They’re back in the city.’

I rattled through what had happened at the cave.

‘Wait one minute, please wait.’

I hoped it wouldn’t be much more than that. I was freezing.

I gave the radio back to the glove and just stood there, the cold biting into every inch of me. It was like being back in the sheep hollow. I stamped my feet together and so did Jerry. Whoever was on the end of the Motorola gobbed off at one of the crew, who disappeared as the long-haired one offered us both a cigarette. I’d never smoked in my life, but I was almost tempted, just so I could cup my hands round a match.

Two green German parkas were produced and neither of us needed to be told twice to get them on, hoods up. These boys knew what it was like to be wet, cold and hungry, and only wanted that for their enemies. They’d be taking them back before first light, then.

We stood there for another ten minutes or so before the Motorola sparked up again, then we were herded into the back of the VW, alongside the spare diesel. I’d been right, it was much warmer. The long-haired one got behind the wheel and manoeuvred us through the chicane.

The track went straight for a while, then bent to the right and led towards a dirty white wall, about three metres high. Set into it was an archway, blocked by a pair of heavy wooden coach doors that were opening inwards as we approached.