Crossfire

Magreb gestured to his left. 'British embassy, maybe.'

As if I couldn't have guessed. High walls and razor wire weren't enough for the FCO. The set-up looked more like the Old State Building in Basra. HESCOs surrounded it, and a big sangar stuck out on both corners. The barrels of SA80s moved about above the sandbags. Fuck knows how bunkered down the US embassy must have looked.

Magreb wove in and out of the traffic as if he'd receive a bonus if he got there quicker. Maybe he would. Fuck it, it wasn't my money.

I looked behind us at the car seat. 'How old are your kids?'

'Five years, four, three, and two, maybe.'

I slapped him on the shoulder. 'I think you need to spend more time out of the house, mate.'

He didn't really understand but grinned anyway.

We hit a busy junction. Neon glowed. Strings of lightbulbs festooned the fronts of shops selling food, TVs and clothes. Hundreds of locals were out strolling, listening to the music blaring from bootleg music shops, or just sitting drinking tea.

'Where do you live, Magreb? Near the hotel?'

'No, no.' He tapped his window. 'Up there, maybe.'

I looked past him to see headlights climbing steeply in the distance. The two peaks were floodlit, and a couple of mini-lighthouses flashed a warning for short-sighted pilots.

A couple of minutes later, we were almost where we needed to be, maybe. That was what Magreb said, anyway.

We'd driven into an area of dark, narrow residential streets formed from rocks compressed into the mud. Every house hid behind a concrete-block wall. The Hiace lurched in a pothole and we bounced in our seats. There was no street-lighting, and no one about. The only noise as our engine closed down came from a dog going apeshit and the drone of traffic on the main, two or three blocks away.

I sparked up the phone and once more made sure my number would show. 'I'm going to jump out for a while, mate. It could be five minutes, it could be an hour — I'm not sure. You OK to wait here?'

He looked at me wide-eyed. 'For hundred dollar? Maybe!'

I closed the door behind me and stood against a wall. He might be my new mate, but he didn't need to know what was happening, for both our sakes.

The phone rang. I hoped she'd answer. I didn't want to start jumping over walls to find her refuge.

Within five or six rings her voice was in my ear. 'I told you not to call again.'

There was no time to beat about the bush. 'Basma, listen to me — Dominik's in the shit and I need your help. I was with him in Iraq. I was there to get him out of the shit, and that's why I'm here now. You're the only one who can help me do that. I'm outside your house right now. Come out and meet me. I don't want to have to come in.'

There was hesitation. 'Where did you say you are?'

'Right outside. On Ghazni where it meets Sarak.'

More hesitation. 'OK, wait.'

I listened for the rattle of a steel door or to see some light or movement. It took a few minutes, but at last I heard bolts being thrown. The sound came from further down on Ghazni. I ran the fifteen or so metres just to be there the moment she appeared. It was a set of wooden gates, wide enough for vehicles. They were blue, and the paint was peeling.

The right one opened just a few inches. It was on a chain. I moved my face close to the gap. 'Basma, I'm Nick.'

The door closed, the chain rattled, then it opened properly. She came out on to the street and closed it hurriedly behind her, as if that was going to stop me. It wasn't locked.

We stood there awkwardly, like a couple of teenagers on the doorstep after our first date. She came to about chest height, and was even better-looking in the flesh than she had been onscreen.

'Who are you, Nick?'

'I told you, a friend. I was in Basra with him.' Dom seemed to know all the beautiful women. She wasn't local but Arab. 'Dom's missing. He's probably here in the city. Has he made contact with you? Did he come and see you a few days ago? Don't fuck me about, I'm trying to save his life.'

She put her hands to her mouth, but not very convincingly. What I was telling her wasn't news.

She lowered them slowly. 'Do you know what's happened to him?'

'He's been kidnapped. Did he come and see you?' I studied her face. 'He did, didn't he?'

She nodded and sank back against the door.

Now the chink in the armour was exposed, it was time to scream in. 'He came straight here from Basra. You know why? He tell you?'

She tried to look blank. She wasn't very good at this stuff.

I stabbed a finger towards her, stopping just short of her shoulder. 'I've got no fucking time to piss about. I'm here to get him out of the shit. Do you want to help me or not? Did he come and see you?'

She nodded. 'Yes, he was staying here. He wanted somewhere he wouldn't be spotted.'

'Glad we cleared that up. Now, why was he here?'

No more evasion. She gave me eye to eye. 'He's investigating heroin-trafficking. He was trying to fix a meeting with someone from the Taliban. He said they're supplying heroin to the British.'

My finger came up for another stab but she beat me to it. 'No, he didn't say who it was. He didn't want to tell me because he wanted to protect me. All I know is that it's to do with the British. People high up in the embassy, right here in the city. I told him it was madness trying to expose such things, but Dominik said he had a film as security.'

'What did he say about the film? Did he mention Dublin?'

She shook her head. 'I'm sorry, that was all he told me.'

'Tell me about his movements. When did you last see him?'

'He was in and out a lot, mainly at night. He didn't want to be recognized. He said he was seeing fixers, trying to find somebody who could get him a meeting with the main Taliban dealer. I don't think he did — he was getting quite frustrated. Then he went out on Monday night and never returned. I've been worried sick. I didn't know whether to report him missing… I didn't want to go to the embassy because of the connection…'

Her voice trailed off and her hand came up to her mouth once more. This time the shock was genuine. 'Oh, Nick, do you think the British have him in one of their secret prisons? We hear about them… People never come out of those places.'

'Stop there — no, they definitely don't have him. He's been kidnapped. I'm here to get him out.'

A heli rattled high over the city, its navigation lights flashing like strobes. I waited for its noise to fade.

'Basma, there's an American and a Brit been looking for him. They've gone totally local — beards, Afghan dress. The American's very tall, and has ginger hair. You know anything about them?'

Her eyes widened. 'James. Noah James. An animal.' She looked away. She was no longer scared or sad, she was angry. 'They're the scum that sprang up after the Taliban. They use the city like some big anarchy theme park.'

'Why would they be looking for Dom? Are they dealers?'

'Of a kind.' She put both hands together and rested them on her chest. 'The documentary he did about the refuge… he exposed them for what they are. Dominik found some of the girls they'd been keeping high on heroin and brought them here to safety. They hate him, they hate me. We've had to move the safe-house twice because they tracked us down.'

'Where do they hang out?'

'I don't know. They closed down after the film came out, but they'd have started up again somewhere else. Bringing young girls off the hills, turning them into addicts, making them prostitute themselves or carry drugs round the city…'

'How many of them?'

'Sorry, I don't know. They find each other. They gravitate together like pack animals.'