Crossfire (22 page)

It was only nine, still too early to go and visit J's
Bar. At least, that was what I thought the Serb
had scribbled on my hand. I'd have to wait at
least another couple of hours to find out for sure.
After dropping me back at the hotel, Magreb had
gone to see his family. He was picking me up
again at 0215. Maybe.

The plan was to get a weapon, then stake out
AM Net until whoever was sending the emails
showed up.

I sparked up the laptop and searched for J's Bar
on my map, Google and Google Earth. There was
no reference to it anywhere – no blogs from journalists
talking about the city, no mention of it in
news articles, no nothing. I wasn't surprised. It
was probably illegal, and that would have nothing
to do with being able to obtain a weapon from the
place. It would have to do with it selling alcohol.

The address was in the Kartayi Seh district, a
couple of Ks south of TV Hill, and a block or two
the other side of the Kabul river. According to my
map, the Russian embassy was down there too. I
wondered why Putin's boys were so far away
from the rest of them. Maybe there just wasn't
much call for their services, these days. After all
their years of liberating the country, they would
hardly be flavour of the month. Only a matter of
time before the Brits and Americans moved in
next door, then.

I'd done as much checking as I could. Finally I
could eat, and room service was just snacks.

The only restaurant open downstairs was the
Silk Route. It served South East Asian food. I
could see from the doorway that almost every
table was packed with the élite. Afghan
businessmen and diplomats were easy spots.
And even in suits and ties instead of uniform, the
senior military looked like senior military. This
was where the country was being reinvented.
This was where the aid, arms and oil clans
gathered and had a chat over a couple of
hundred dollars' worth of noodles and stir-fry to
make sure the reinvention suited the West. I
wondered how many multi-million-dollar
contracts were changing hands, and how much
of the proceeds was getting kicked back under
the table.

I was shown to a table for two. The spare white
napkin and cutlery were whisked away, and they
asked if I wanted the little flower to stay. I didn't,
so they took that too. My Pepsi arrived very
quickly with some bread.

Three middle-aged women were at the next
table, talking to an Afghan man with a Donald
Trump-style comb-over. He was dressed like he
belonged to the MCC, in a blazer, striped tie and
white shirt, and maybe he did. He spoke slowly
and carefully in that I'm-foreign-but-I've-been-to-Oxford
sort of accent.

The three women wore neatly tailored trouser
suits, and tackled their clear chestnut soup like
woodpeckers. I knew that was what it was
because they'd spent so long discussing it
that my green curry had turned up before they'd
even made their decision. I also couldn't help
overhearing that they had another friend coming,
who'd told them to carry on and order. He'd
be there when he could.

I concentrated on the table so I didn't have
accidental eye-to-eye. In environments like this,
everybody thinks they're all part of the same club
and wants to draw you into their conversation –
even if you're wearing a long-sleeved blue
T-shirt and jeans. It can lead very soon to 'Who
are you?' and 'What do you do?' and you can
find you're digging yourself into a hole.

Two of the women were American, the other a
Brit. The Yank at one end of the table had a shock
of white hair, more through stress than age by the
sound of it. 'I still find the mere sight of a gun so
. . . painful and so . . . upsetting.' She looked like
she was going to burst into tears. Fucking hell,
if she'd been here more than a week no wonder
she'd ended up with Albert Einstein's barnet.

I got among the curry as the waffle next door
went off the pain-in-the-arse scale. They went on
about the 'big building project', the 'big factory
project' and then the 'big road project'. Mrs
Einstein nodded earnestly. 'The sooner they learn
our way of doing things, the sooner we can go
home.'

Donald sat there nodding and agreeing, but
deep down all five of us knew no one was going
anywhere in a hurry.

The chat switched to ISAF and its success or
failure in the war being waged just a couple of
hours away in the mountains. I loved armchair
generals. I could listen to them all day. The Brit
one even threw in a mention of the Great Game.
So many people loved to trot out that old line to
illustrate the region's geographical significance
and their suddenly acquired detailed knowledge
of it. Whatever, there was no disputing Kabul
had become one of war's latest boomtowns.
Apart from the rebuilding contracts, the whole
world knew they were already prospecting for
oil up in the north.

I managed to finish not only the curry but also
apple strudel and a coffee quicker than they did
their starter, and they'd been there when I
arrived. I'd often wondered if I had a bit of Arab
in me. When it came to food, I just wanted to eat,
belch and fuck off.

I also had to prepare and pack my Bergen for
tomorrow. Once Magreb picked me up, I
wouldn't be back until Saturday. By the morning,
I'd either have got Dom back or he'd be dead.

'Hello, Nick, this is a strange place to write
about being' – the Australian who'd sat next to
me on the plane put his fingers in the air to make
the quote sign as he sat and joined them –
'Outside the Comfort Zone . . .' He gave me one
of those knowing nods that diplomats do in
films.

I left him with his friends. I felt more at home
with Magreb.

Kartayi Seh District
Friday, 0243 hrs

Magreb had parked the Hiace between two truck
containers while I checked my map. We were
looking out over a sort of village square a couple
of hundred metres wide. In the middle stood a
small 1950s Russian anti-tank gun with a steel
plate at either side of the barrel. The rubber tyres
were decaying; it seemed to be there as decoration.
Maybe the people of Russia couldn't afford
to donate a shiny new Toyota.

The road we'd taken off the main drag south
was tarmac and pothole-free. The two-storey,
flat-roofed concrete houses either side of it
seemed a lot more upscale than round Basma's
way. All of them sheltered behind walls, security
lights and rolls of razor wire. Many had plywood
guard huts. A couple looked like they'd been on
the wrong end of a B52's payload, but even
so, the rubble had been neatly swept up and
piled inside their remains.

Headlights came up the road behind us and
carved through the square. The beam bounced
along the different-coloured walls before eventually
reaching the gates of the corner house. They
swung open.

'That has to be J's, mate.' I showed him my
hand. 'House fifty, blue gates, in the corner.'

The area might be high-rent by Kabul
standards but Magreb didn't like being there. 'Mr
Nick, I hear about this place. Is dangerous,
maybe. Bad people come here. Very bad. I wait,
maybe, take you back to hotel, be safe.'

Two silhouettes moved round the vehicle to
check it before it drove inside.

'Don't worry about it, mate. Just drop me off
and I'll give you a call later, yeah?'

The headlights splashed across more vehicles
inside the compound, and I saw house lights still
further on. The gates closed as I pulled out three
hundred-dollar bills and tried to hand them over.
'This is for tonight and the next two. Remember,
I said I'd pay you anyway.'

He took them, but gave two back. 'You pay me
when I work, Mr Nick.' He pocketed the equivalent
of nine days' pay and the rest went back into
my jeans.

I climbed out and lifted my Bergen from the
footwell. 'OK, mate. But in my book, if you're on
standby for a call, that's working.'

He held out a hand to stop me closing the door
just yet. 'You really not want me wait and take
you back to hotel? Your friend look too nice be
with man who go to this place.'

More headlights bounced towards us from the
main.

'I'll call you tomorrow. Go on, mate. Go and
get your head down.'

I closed the door gently and took the Hiace's
place between the containers as Magreb drove
off.

An Italian armoured-vehicle two-ship
trundled into the square, probably a neighbour-hood-watch
thing to make the residents feel safe.
Two guys on .50 cals stuck out of the tops. They did
a lap before heading off to look good elsewhere.

I had a quick scratch of the sutures, swung the
Bergen over my shoulder, then moved out of the
gap and made my way across the packed-mud
square. At the gate of number fifty, I could hear
the steady thump of music. I gave it a couple of
bangs.

A small peephole slid open. It was too dark to
see eyes.

'No car? You no car?'

'I live just round the corner, mate. No need.
You letting me in or what?'

The gate opened just enough for me to slip
through. A Tilley lamp hissed away inside yet
another plywood guardhouse. Blankets were
heaped on the floor. A kettle steamed above a
portable gas burner.

The music got louder and light spilt from a
door fifty or so metres away. Vehicles looked
more abandoned than parked, like the place was
so hot the punters couldn't wait to get in.

The two guards were bearded lads in their fifties.
They toted AKs and had Osprey, but without the
collars and bat-wings.

They shone their torches to draw my attention
to a couple of printed signs, covered with dirty
plastic and pinned to the plywood of their
hut.

One said:

Two more killed last week. No more weapons
allowed in the house. Leave them in your vehicles.
We will search you.

And the other:

If you have a gun or no folding money, you get
no drink or fun with the honey.

They pointed at my Bergen. 'In here, leave
here.'

I smiled as I dropped it from my shoulder. 'No,
no, mate, I'm going to keep it with me. You can
search it here, yeah?' I stepped inside and
unzipped the top. 'See? No guns.'

One knelt and had a rummage while I held up
my hands for the other to frisk me. It wasn't a
very good search: Afghans don't like touching
strangers that intimately. They hold hands with
each other as they walk down the road, but they
aren't too keen to feel someone's bollocks to see
if there's a little revolver nestling between his
legs.

My Gunga Din gear came out and was piled on
the floor, along with my map, my bum-bag, now
stuffed with money instead of toilet paper, and
the Yes Man's phone wrapped up in a black-and-white
shemag
, the sort the two girls in the
Gandamack should have had. None of it raised
an eyebrow. All they were interested in was
weapons.

Next out was my jar of Marmite. The guy held
it up like he thought it was high explosive.

I smiled and squatted down next to him. I
undid the lid and mimed digging in with an
imaginary spoon. 'Mmm, yum-yum.' I dipped in
a finger and gave it a suck. I offered him some.
He took a sniff and recoiled. The other lad had a
taste, and looked like he was going to throw up.

'You either love it, mate, or hate it.' I packed it
away as if I'd been given permission to go.

I shook them both by the hand before I turned
and left.

The music got even louder as I picked my way
round the vehicles and towards the large two-storey
house.

Two more beards sat cradling AKs on the
doorstep. They had no body armour, and looked
bored. They waved me through.

I pushed open the heavy wooden door and felt
like I was about to step into a Wild West saloon.
A thick fug of cigarette smoke hung in the air,
but this being Kabul, it was sickly sweet. Instead
of a pianist on a honky-tonk, Justin Timberlake
yelled from invisible speakers. Or maybe
Justin was actually there – it was impossible
to see much beyond the end of your
nose.

The whole of the ground floor seemed to consist
of one huge room. Old sofas and armchairs
were dotted around on bare, beer-soaked floorboards.
Dining- and coffee-tables had been
stained and bleached by years of spillages and
cigarette burns.

There was a sea of faces, and every guy was
white. The girls looked Pakistani. Some were
dressed in green Russian uniforms with
drunken-sailor type hats. Some were in saris. The
rest catered for other tastes as they tottered
round serving drinks in high heels, ripped
fishnets and tight mini-skirts.

There were lots of wide eyes, sunk behind
gaunt cheeks, just like in any other opium den on
the planet.

I ventured further in and found it wasn't just
whores and punters having fun. Small monkeys,
about a foot from head to tail, jumped about the
place dressed in little camouflage uniforms.
Miniature plastic AKs were strapped to their
backs. They jumped on tables and grabbed
drinks or cigarettes. One was smoking a joint.
Another soaked its face fur with beer as it tried to
drink from a can.

I headed towards the one boy who looked as
though he still paid fleeting visits to my planet.
He had a straggly beard that came down to his
chest and made him look like he should be taking
over Middle Earth from the Good Wizard. His
hair was tied back in a ponytail. He stood behind
a makeshift bar in the corner.

Bottles were stacked on shelves. Pictures, flags,
college pennants, all sorts were plastered across
the wall: Union flags, Stars and Stripes, soccer
teams, American-football sides. A poster showed
Mel Gibson doing his
Braveheart
thing. His face
was peppered with 9mm holes. The ceiling was
the same. There were so many strike marks it
looked like a dartboard. This room had seen a
few party-size bursts, that was for sure. Either
the president was too shit scared to shut the place
down or he was a regular.

I could hear Brits, Americans, French, Italians.
There were other languages I couldn't make out
over the music, but then I heard one I did recognize,
even with Justin going full blast.

The Serbs sat on a sofa; each had a whore on
his lap. Mr Sheen's fifteen-year-old wore a sari
that was up round her waist. Top Lip's was in Red
Star gear. She kept stroking his long greasy hair
away from his sweating face. Mr Sheen pushed his
girl out the way so he could gob off to his mate.
Then he leant back and shouted at a group of three
guys I took to be Americans. He jabbed a finger at
them and repeated himself, but they ignored him
and carried on laughing and drinking.

The whole lot were probably freelancers,
bounty-hunters drawn here from all over the
world like gold prospectors to the Klondike.
Only here the prize was Osama, al-Qaeda and
any of the Taliban leadership. There was
still a price of something like fifty million
dollars on bin Laden's head, but most of these
guys wouldn't have a clue where to start.

I'd played with the idea of coming here myself
for a while, until I did a little digging. It soon
became clear I'd be hanging around like this lot.
Some had resorted to séances in one of Osama's
old houses in the city, the one he'd used to
accommodate wives number one and two.
They'd legged it when the Americans started
bombing, leaving behind just an old bra and a
kettle.

Their landlord, the next-door neighbour,
wasn't happy. Bin Laden owed him five hundred
dollars in rent so he had to make up the cash
somehow. He came up with the ingenious idea of
installing a few local Mystic Megs, lighting a
couple of candles and charging bounty-hunters
through the nose to come and get guidance from
the other side.

Nobody challenged me. In a place like this
nobody asks you your business, and nobody
gives you eye-to-eye. Not that most of the guys
there tonight could have focused that well
anyway.

A couple of monkeys sat and licked at puddles
of beer. Maybe they'd had their cans confiscated.

Pictures ripped from magazines were stuck to
the wall. The Tora Bora caves getting the good
news from a squadron of B52s. Members of the
Northern Alliance grinning as they propped up
dead Taliban. A double-page spread from a porn
mag of two guys and a girl, with Bush's and
Musharraf's heads stuck over the men's at either
end, and Blair as the meat in the sandwich.

The bar was built entirely from old steel
mortar-round containers. They were a bit rusty,
but the Cyrillic writing was still visible. The top
was a couple of beer-soaked planks.

A couple of girls in laddered fishnets took
drinks away on trays. My eyes stung from the
smoke. The wizard behind the bar took a long
look at my Bergen. 'You planning to stay
the weekend, man?' The shelf behind him was
packed with whisky bottles. A monkey, either
drugged or drunk, lay flat out on his back, an
arm and a leg dangling into space. The bottles
had been relabelled with pictures from magazines.
Hitler stood in the Bavarian mountains.
Mussolini looked dead hard with his helmet on.
Bin Laden, in his robes and combat jacket, nursed
his AK beneath the CNN logo.

'No, mate.' I had to lean across the bar and
meet him half-way to make sure I could be heard.
'I was told I could buy protection here. I'm heading
south and I need at least a short.'

He certainly had enough protection at his feet.
Parked on the lowest shelf was an HK53, a sort of
5.56 version of the MP5. It was loaded with a
thirty-round mag and two more, taped together,
head-to-toe, sat within easy reach.