Crossfire (17 page)

'This your first time in Afghanistan, mate?'

The Australian in the aisle seat to my left was
in his late fifties, with grey, well-groomed hair.
He'd been dressed from head to toe by Brooks
Brothers. The hand that took a gin and tonic
from the permanently smiling attendant was
manicured. He had 'diplomat' written all over
him.

One look at my T-shirt and unbooted feet
should have been enough to tell him how I fitted
into the picture. There would be thousands of
guys like me in-country, and our two lives
wouldn't overlap. No invitations to the
ambassador's party would be heading in my
direction.

Nonetheless, he held up his glass. 'Cheers.'

I nodded. 'Yes, first time.'

He took another sip, then dipped into our bowl
of cashews. 'So what do you do? What brings
you here?'

'Travel writer. I do guidebooks. We call them
"Outside the Comfort Zone".'

He laughed, then threw a few more nuts down
his neck. 'You really think people will want to
come here?'

'Dunno. That's what I've come to find out.'

I sat back in my very comfortable seat, reclined
it a bit more and picked up one of the Indian
business magazines to fuck him off as nicely as
possible.

The alias cover address and alias business
cover linked me with Outside the Comfort Zone,
a small independent publisher in the East End
whose niche was extreme travel. The Firm had
probably set it up donkey's years ago. The books
it brought out featured all sorts of places the Firm
was interested in. I was now one of their freelance
employees. My passport had had to go
through all the normal channels. The visa application
had been handled by a commercial
company in London, and still had their sticker on
the back.

The laptop told me I had a girlfriend, Kirsty. I
could never remember her new number, which
was why it was right there for me. If anyone
called it, she would back me up as part of the
ACA. No wonder I loved her.

I flicked through the mag. Uncle Sam wasn't
exactly flavour of the month. Nor was Uncle
Tony, come to that.

I flicked through some more and saw a picture
of Dom alongside a piece about 'Veiled Threats'.
He was sitting with the woman I'd seen on
screen in Dublin, on the bonnet of a 4x4. He was
dressed in a safari vest and had an earnest
expression. She was wearing the same gear as in
the documentary, a white headscarf and long
black dress. Her name was Basma Al-Sulaiman.
Basma. Baz . . . A few blue pepper-pots stood
around in the background to give the shot some
depth. Well done, Pete.

The article was about the plight of Afghan
women and the safe-house Basma ran in Kabul.
She was talking about the promises made after
the Taliban were kicked out. Their lives were
supposed to get better once they were 'liberated'.
Local women were supposed to be running
multinationals by now, yet they were still third-rate
citizens. Some of the girls in her refuge had
been shot up with heroin at an early age to make
them dependent, then used as mules by dealers
to move drugs from around the country. It was
perfect cover. Nobody paid any attention to
them, and there was a lot of spare room under a
burqa.

It sounded as if nothing much had changed
since my last time there.

When the girl Farah died, I'd carried her body
a short way from the village that night and
buried her. I found out from Ahmad a couple of
weeks later that her husband had managed to get
over his loss. He'd gone out the next day and
bought himself a replacement.

'We've started our approach, sir.'

The attendant was giving me a gentle shake. I
hadn't even realized I'd fallen asleep.

I looked down at the vast mountain plain, six
thousand feet above sea level, which held the
capital. I'd never set foot there. Last time round, it
was full of guys with red stars on their hats goose-stepping
about with vodka bottles in their hands.
We'd stayed in the mountains that hemmed them
in.

The Australian didn't waste a second. 'Kabul
has swollen from less than a million to nearly
three million since the Russians left, and now the
Taliban are back in the mountains, refugees from
there are pouring in.'

To dodge any more waffle, I studied the
parched landscape ten thousand feet below.
The city was a giant mosaic of low-level,
grey-brown buildings, not more than a couple of
storeys high.

He didn't get the hint. 'Do you know what the
Australian government advice is about this place?
Don't go. And if you're there, get out.' He smiled
to himself as he leant forward to share the view.

'Welcome to sunny Kabul.' He laughed. 'Who in
their right mind would want to come to this Godforsaken
place?'

I kept looking out. 'Who knows? I file a first-person
account exactly as I find it. It's more like a
travelogue for their website, really.'

I sat back in my seat. He nodded, not believing
a word. Private contractors wouldn't tell other
private contractors what they were doing.
Different bits of the military wouldn't tell each
other either. In a place like this, everyone had op
sec. Or bullshit.

We thumped the runway. Flashing past the window
on our left were more fixed-wing aircraft
than I'd ever seen parked in one place, military or
civilian, then every size and shape of helicopter.
HESCOed compound followed HESCOed compound,
each flying a different national flag, but all
part of the International Security Assistance Force.
More than thirty countries supported ISAF, from
Finland and Norway to Portugal and Hungary,
but only four were doing the actual fighting: the
Americans, Brits, Dutch and Canadians.

The Stars and Stripes fluttered over a collection
of stadium-sized tents. I bet some of them were
bowling alleys and movie houses with milkshake
bars.

The British compound would be the one with
the Portakabin, a small TV, the boxed set of
Only
Fools and Horses
, and a couple of teabags for the
kettle. It was probably on the other side of the runway,
where the husks of bombed-out buildings sat
alongside the occasional intact concrete block, like
a row of old man's teeth. Beyond, it looked
like dustbowl all the way to the mountains.

Flags everywhere flew at half-mast. These days,
they were probably like that permanently.

As we taxied past acres of armoured vehicles
and steel containers, economy passengers were
already surging forward to disembark. They
chattered away on their cellphones as the aircraft
still rolled.

The Australian had a suit-carrier handed to
him. When the aircraft stopped and the seat-belt
lights were switched off, he stood up and held out
his hand. 'Well, nice to have met you. I hope it
goes well.'

'And you.' I pulled my Bergen from the overhead
locker. All it contained was the laptop and a
bit of washing kit.

I detached myself from him in the crowd and
walked down the steps into the blistering heat and
blinding sunlight.

A pair of helicopters lifted off and cleared our
aircraft by no more than thirty feet. Two Humvees
armed with .50 cals roared along the runway and
pulled up at the bottom of the steps. I guessed
they were just there to look mean and keep us
from straying.

Razor-wired compounds flanked the terminal.
It was a small, two-storey, regional-airport-type
building, but with so much concrete involved it
had to be a Russian legacy. Handpainted signs
told me there was just about nothing I was
allowed to do but stand in line and await
instructions. To keep it that way, bearded men in
thick grey serge uniforms and high-legged boots
stood glowering at either side of the doors, AKs at
the ready.

We filed inside. It was dark, and it took my eyes
a while to adjust. The place was wrecked. I was
just thinking it must have taken a major hammering
at some stage when I spotted a poster. There
was a major refurbishment under way, courtesy of
the US and EU. Fluorescent lights dangled from
the ceiling. Guys in overalls drilled away at the
concrete floor. A guy in a blue suit and tie was
having a go at a pillar with a hammer and chisel.

An Indian passenger at the front handed out
immigration forms to the rest of the queue. They
were poor-quality photocopies. Two forms had
been reproduced on the same sheet of A4, then
torn in half. I didn't have a pen.

Another bearded man in grey serge sat in a box
at Passport Control, surrounded by handpainted
signs saying
No photography
and
No smoking
. He
didn't even look at the form I hadn't filled in, just
glanced at the visa in my passport, stamped it and
waved me through.

I had to put my day sack through another X-ray
machine. Once I was clear, I dug out my sunglasses,
slipped the string round my neck, and
exited the building.

This time I really did find a bombsite. We must
have been on the fucked-up side of the runway.
All I could see was rubble and dust, and the shells
of buildings. There was a strike mark in every
square inch of rendering.

Traders had set up shop in the back of old
Russian trucks without wheels. They sold the two
essentials: cigarettes and tea.

Beyond them, on a dustbowl the size of a football
pitch, were scores of cars, trucks and 4x4s. A
couple of boys in UK desert DPM, Osprey and
sunglasses stood next to a filthy Toyota 4x4. Six or
seven clean and shiny ones were parked nearby.
Their drivers were also sunglassed-up and had all
the party gear on, trying to out-cool the military.

I'd called the hotel from a phone box in Delhi to
organize a car. I didn't know the score on taxis.
Would there even be any? And, if so, would I be
driven off to some quiet little corner of town and
persuaded to hand everything over?

It had been a nightmare trying to get through.
I'd had to dial the number so many times it was
etched into my brain. Then it was even more of a
nightmare trying to communicate what I wanted,
because the notion was so alien to them. But in
the end they laid one on especially for me, the
mad Brit who didn't have his own vehicle and
protection.

I squinted into the sun. They'd said a driver
would pick me up in Car Park C. That was a joke.
There wasn't any Car Park C, just a big dustbowl.

Three locals hit on me with baggage trolleys.
They rattled over the rubble and the first guy to
arrive tried to grab my Bergen. I shook my head.
He tried again. 'Yes – it is law.' In conflict zones
most speak at least a little English. It's the
language of war.

No way was I letting it out of my hands. I gave
him a dollar as
baksheesh
and carried on walking.
You couldn't blame them for trying. There was
fuck-all else going on for them.

Crowds of people milled round the area, being
regularly checked by AK-toting men in grey
serge. I carried on past the contract guys in wraparound
sunglasses and thigh holsters, and finally
spotted 79 9654 000 in shaky letters on a sheet of
A4. I'd asked for just the hotel number to be
shown, and on a clear board.

Even in places far less dodgy than this I'd
never have my name in full display. It's too easy
for someone either to run it through their
BlackBerry or recite down the phone for a mate
to Google, looking for multinational heavy
hitters and other good kidnap fodder. All they
have to do then is fuck over the driver, take his
place and drive you to a world of shit. It would
have been madness to advertise myself on a
Serena Hotel board, even with a cover name. I
had no idea how many big-shot Stevenses there
were on the planet, and I didn't want to be mistaken
for one.

The young guy holding up my board was skin
and bone. His shiny jet-black hair was parted on
the left. Apart from a bum-fluff moustache, he
was clean-shaven. His shirt was untucked over
brown trousers and buttoned all the way up to a
collar that was two sizes too big.

I gave him a smile and offered my hand.
'Hello, mate – you taking me to the Serena?' It
never hurts. Let them have a nice day. Chances
are they're treated like shit the rest of the time.

'Yes,' he said. 'Maybe.' He went to shake my
hand but caught himself in time. He touched his
chest in greeting first, then gave me a semi-toothless
grin as we finally treated ourselves to a
couple of shakes. 'Come, Mr Stevens. Come.'

I followed his dusty black plastic shoes
through the maze of vehicles. Most were white
and yellow taxis of all makes, sizes and stages of
dilapidation. Among them were dusty 4x4s, a
mixture of clapped-out Fords from the eighties
and brand-new Mazda saloons.

He told me his name but I didn't quite catch it
first time; his voice was like gravel and his
English very accented.

'Magrid?'

'Magreb.' He beamed. '
Magreb
.'

I nodded. 'Nice to meet you, Magreb.'

His ten-year-old Hiace people-carrier was
coming to the end of its days. It looked like the
blacked-out side windows were only held to
the bodywork by layers of dust, so it was hard
to hide my amazement when the door was slid
open for me by a smartly uniformed escort. No
grey serge for this boy: his black ball cap coordinated
with his trousers, high-leg boots and
heavy body armour. Only the brown wooden
stock of his AK was off-message.

I climbed into the back, next to a torn and food-encrusted
baby seat. The escort closed my door
and sat up front with Magreb. The air-conditioning
was going full blast.

We only got a few yards before we hit the end of
a queue. A couple of old guys in suits, polo-neck
jumpers and Afghan pancake hats manned a
homemade checkpoint. The drop-bar was two
branches roped together and painted red and
white.

Magreb pulled a dollar bill from his pocket.

I leant forward. 'Police?'

Magreb gave an Italian-style shrug. 'No, no –
police come here later, Mr Stevens. They come to
collect the money, maybe.'

We drew level and he handed over his bribe.
The old men lifted the barrier. We drove out
past the empty shells of bombed-out buildings.

The wrecks of Russian vehicles rusted at the
roadside. Only one bit of Eastern hardware had
stayed the distance. A MiG jet fighter sat at a
forty-five-degree angle in the middle of the exit
roundabout, as if it was about to take off. Its
freshly painted camouflage gleamed in the
sunlight.

We hit an official checkpoint, manned by guys
in khaki serge. They waved us through for free.

We turned south on to a dead straight road.
The sun was on my right. 'How long to the city,
mate?'

'Twenty minutes, Mr Stevens. Maybe.'

'Please call me Nick.'

'OK, Mr Nick.'

His breath stank from too many cigarettes.

Even from this distance, Kabul was clearly
dominated by the mountain at its centre. It was
like London with Ben Nevis instead of Hyde
Park.

Magreb followed my line of sight. 'TV Hill, Mr
Nick.'

It had two peaks of roughly the same height,
with a saddle in between. Two colossal antennae
farms capped the summits. It might be a hill to
the locals, alongside the snow-capped mountains
that surrounded us, but in the UK it would have
been a national park.

I gave him a smile. 'Let's see if this works.'

I waved my mobile, sat back and powered it
up.

The buildings either side of us looked like
they'd been out in the sun too long. Even the
advertising hoardings were like bleached
skeletons.

The potholes were the size of bomb craters, but
that didn't stop the local drivers going for it at
motorway speeds. Instead of a central reservation,
there were just one-foot-high concrete
bollards.

We came to a run of shops and stalls, mixed
with mud houses and stark concrete apartment
blocks. One sold bananas, the next oranges. The
one after that seemed to have cornered the
market in second-hand plimsolls. Old boys sat in
the shade beside them gobbing off into mobiles.

I had five bars of signal, and a text from my
new mates at TDCA welcoming me to
Afghanistan. I tapped the keypad as kids kicked
a football on a dusty make-do pitch with rocks
for goals. A family had set up home in the
bombed-out remains of a one-storey building.
The roof was a moth-eaten tarpaulin.

Everything and everyone was covered with
dust. I could already feel a layer of grime on the
back of my neck, and that was just from the air-conditioning.

There were four or five rings, and then I heard
a familiar voice.