Crossfire

I crossed the road as casually as I could, heading towards the nearest alleyway. As soon as I was out of sight, I broke into a run. I took the first left, then a right down a rubbish-filled gap between two buildings. I wanted to put as many angles between them and me as I could. I jumped a low wall and landed in a small square. I was losing my bearings as I ran into another street, but at least it was quiet, just closed doors and growling dogs.

Shouts bounced off the houses behind me.

I charged down another alleyway, not looking back, just trying to make distance. The shouts seemed to follow me. My sun-gigs bounced even higher as I took a right between two mud buildings. I spotted a mountain of firewood and burrowed in behind it.

My throat rasped as I lay there gulping air.

Woodsmoke and the sound of Bollywood wafted from the house above me.

I fought to control my breathing as I heard more shouts and the slap of sandals and boots on what was left of the tarmac.

I moved my head very slowly and peered round my cover. Three or four were running, searching, sounding more and more pissed off at not gripping me.

It was getting close to last light. I would have to sit it out and wait. This wasn't the time to get out my map and play tourist.

52

I wondered if it was the Indian guy with the beard who'd been singing and dancing on their television for the last thirty minutes.

It was fully dark, and the crowd had dispersed. I pulled the mobile carefully from my jeans and powered it up, shielding the glow of the display with my hand.

'Magreb, mate. It's Nick. The Gandamack — do you know where the Gandamack Lodge is? The hotel?'

Pots and pans clanged in the background as the Serena's answer to Gordon Ramsay yelled orders at his sidekicks.

'Yes, yes. You want me drive you there, maybe?'

'No, I want you to meet me there after work. But right now I need you to tell me how to get there on foot.'

His voice took on a strangulated tone. 'Not walk, Mr Nick. Very bad men there. Wait until I finish work, maybe—'

'Too late, mate. Listen, if I describe where I am could you get me on the right road? I know I'm not that far away from it.'

He didn't sound too happy. I wasn't sure if he was concerned for my safety or for lost income if I got lifted.

I extricated myself from the woodpile. 'I'm looking at a big road just ahead. By the junction I see a sports shop — Gym Tonic. The windows are full of running machines, mate. You understand, multigyms? Punch bags?'

It seemed so out of place. I'd have thought the last thing the locals would be worried about was toning up for the beach.

'OK, OK.' He was thinking. 'Mr Nick, walk past sport shop and go right, then—'

'I'll stop you there, mate. I need to keep on the side-roads. The bad men have already found me. I'm hiding from them. I don't want to be under those shops' lights, do I?'

It took a few seconds to sink in. Either that or he couldn't hear me above the din of Gordon's latest wobbler.

'OK. You walk away from sport shop, maybe, the other way, and tell me what you see.'

I did what he said. I walked for the next ten minutes without hitting a landmark. At last I found a handpainted street name and spelt it out for him.

We worked our way down streets where occasional slivers of light forced their way between shuttered windows. Traffic groaned incessantly on parallel roads. I imagined the pavements full of angry young men in cowpats.

'What can you see now, Mr Nick?'

I stood between two trucks. 'There's a crossroads. On the far side there's a high wall with razor wire, maybe an embassy. I might be at the start of the diplomatic area.'

'Yes, Mr Nick. What is in the middle of road? Concrete, maybe?'

The road had a central reservation of scabby bushes. 'Bushes, mate. Not concrete. To the right I can see the lights on TV Hill.'

'Go left, Mr Nick. Left and you will come to the Gandamack.'

I jumped the junction and headed left, hugging the wall. Headlights caught me in their glare but there was fuck-all I could do about it.

'Go up the road, Mr Nick. Walk more. You see computer shop, maybe?'

'Yes.'

The little fucker was spot-on.

'The Gandamack is on this road, on same side as computer shop.'

There were shouts from behind me. I spun round to see cowpats, maybe five or six of the fuckers, running my way.

'I'll call you later.'

I closed down as I legged it, and within a few strides I could make out the shapes of guard huts sticking out from the line of buildings.

The cowpats were gaining on me but I was getting closer to the huts.

Bodies spilled out to investigate the commotion. They couldn't have been sure what the fuck was coming at them out of the dark.

A couple had their weapons up. Another two were already checking their safety catches.

I held up my hands as I ran. 'It's OK, it's OK! Gandamack!

My hands stayed up. I got to within about fifteen metres of them. 'The Gandamack! Where's the Gandamack?'

One pointed down a dark gap that loomed on my left. I couldn't tell if the building behind had been bombed or was being repaired, but these guys had to be guarding something.

Their weapons lowered. I checked behind. The cowpats weren't that brave.

My hands dropped to my knees as I fought for breath. 'No need to shoot me. I won't complain about the food, honest.' I held out my hand and they shook.

I picked my way over rubble and bricks. Plastic buckets full of the stuff sat waiting to be moved.

There was a pedestrian door to the right of the gates. Set into it was a sliding peephole.

I gave the gate a couple of punches. The steel rattled. The slide was pulled back and a set of dark brown Afghan eyes wanted to know what the fuck I wanted.

53

I gave him a big smile as the door swung open and I got a big row of brown teeth back. He was dressed for winter warfare in a thick black polo-neck jumper beneath an even thicker stripy tank top. Me, I was wiping sweat off my face. On the floor of his plywood gatehouse were a bedroll, bottled-gas burner, kettle, teapot and glasses. He was set for the night.

A dozen or so dusty 4x4s were jammed against each other in the courtyard. The house was large, with additions all over the place. I followed the gravel path across a patch of garden to a set of concrete steps that led up to the glass-fronted entrance.

The first thing I saw in the hallway as I stepped inside was a long rack of old Martini-Henry rifles, probably relics from the last time we tried to control the area and got fucked off big-time. The Khyber Pass to Pakistan wasn't that far away.

The reception desk wasn't manned. A card told me the name Gandamack had come from the fictional home of Harry Flashman, the nineteenth-century answer to James Bond. It was also the name of the village that had seen the slaughter of about sixteen thousand British troops by the Afghans in 1842. I wondered if some of the gear in the racks had seen action there.

I wandered into the eating area. The tables were laid for dinner later tonight, with starched white cloths and china. All the breakfast stuff — jars of marmalade, jam, honey and Marmite — were stacked ready on a side-table, just like in a B and B. The walls were decorated with hunting and fishing prints. Stuffed parrots flew around in a glass-fronted cabinet. The only thing to remind you that you weren't in an old Surrey inn was the neatly stencilled sign on the door: Only side-arms allowed in the restaurant.