Andy McNab - Deep Black

We twisted the caps off the bottles. Jerry had gone quiet again: maybe he didn't like me talking about killing. It was time to get off the subject.

'If we get lifted by the flat tops tonight we're going to have to think on our feet, big-time. There's no way out of here except by jumping on to the coffee-bar canopy, just like in those Jackie Chan movies.'

Jerry gave a nervous laugh. He didn't fancy plummeting straight through the canvas and ending up bent round the cappuccino machine any more than I did. But if the wrong guys came calling, it might be the only option. 'If we do get away and have to split, we'll meet in the car park by the Romeo and Juliet bridge, OK? Wait there for two hours. If I don't turn up, you're on your own. I'll do the same if I'm there first. You got that?'

Jerry nodded calmly enough, but I knew he was flapping. I patted his shoulder. 'Listen, I doubt that'll happen. If it's Nuhanovic the flat tops want, they'll wait and see if we lead them to him.'

I got up and went over to the window. It was now dark and headlights pierced the rain along Snipers' Alley. 'Well, I think the condemned men deserve to have their last meal, don't you?'

Jerry smiled and reached for the bedside phone. He ordered us both the house special, Sarajevo burger and chips, and loads of extra bread and red sauce for the butties.

'Tell them to call us when they bring the food up. Say we're both going to be in the bath, and you want to make sure one of us is able to get the door.'

The last thing I wanted was to open up for what we thought was room service, and get a trolleyload of flat top-with-Goatee instead.

Jerry rang Reception, found out the time of first prayers, and booked a five thirty call. I imagined we'd be the only ones there. Salkic hadn't looked the sort who'd be in the mosque before daybreak, but I could be wrong and we had to be prepared.

Both of us stayed as we were, fully dressed, boots on, kit packed and ready to go. I lay on the bed with my hands behind my head, staring at the ceiling. Jerry got up, grabbed the remote from the top of the TV and started to channel-hop. I watched the screen, not thinking about much, just picking at the scabs on my hand. I'd known I wouldn't be able to resist it for long.

Jerry rested the remote on his stomach as he pressed the buttons and the screen flickered from station to station. We finally settled for Law and Order, just the way we liked it: dubbed into German, with Serbo-Croat subtitles. We didn't have a clue what was going on. Everybody nodded a lot, pointed at dead bodies lying on the floor, and jumped in and out of cars by hot-dog stalls.

The phone rang and Jerry answered. The food was on its way.

I checked the spyhole and saw the waiter leaning over the trolley. No Goatee. I opened up. He came and laid everything out on the table, took the two-euro tip I offered him, and left.

We tucked into our Sarajevo burgers and chip butties, downed the Cokes, and went back to watching TV. Our favourite channel ran out of steam after midnight, and we lay on our beds reading. Jerry had a Herald Tribune he'd bought at the airport in Vienna. I just scanned the label on the back of my Coke can a few hundred times. We put the lights out at about one in the morning but Jerry carried on channel-surfing. We watched Baghdad and Fallujah getting the good news from a few RPGs and a handful of suicide bombers on BBC World, then moved on to a German news quiz. I scored one point for recognizing David Hasselhoff in the picture round.

There was a gentle knock on the door. In the glow of the TV screen, Jerry and I exchanged a glance. Too late for room service to be collecting the dirties.

He turned the sound down with the remote, we both sat up and I hit the bedside light. His eyes were bouncing between me and the door, trying to see through it. He bit his lip. There was another knock, a little louder this time.

I got to my feet, checking my bumbag to make sure it was secure round my waist. Jerry started to get his on as well.

Through the spyhole, I could see a couple of new, serious-looking faces dressed by World of Leather. Their heads were close enough to kiss the lens.

I glanced back at Jerry. He stood there, checking the zip on his bumbag one last time before nodding a 'ready'.

I hoped he was right: I suddenly had the feeling that he'd be better off strapping on some body armour and making ready a decent-sized assault rifle. Just because these were new faces, it didn't mean they belonged to Nuhanovic.

There was only one way to find out. I slipped off the chain and turned the handle.

I took a couple of quick steps back into the room, then turned and tensed, ready to take the hit. The horror on Jerry's face was plain to see. He fell back on to the bed and curled up in a ball.

I closed my eyes, clenched my teeth, and waited.

Nothing happened. I sensed rather than heard somebody walking into the room.

Then I heard a voice like a 1950s BBC newsreader. 'It's all right, Nick, it's me.'

I spun round and opened my eyes. The leather boys had stayed outside in the corridor, but Benzil was right there in front of me. His face was badly scabbed. It looked as if the slightest glimmer of a smile would crack the scabs and restart the bleeding.

He was wearing a black overcoat over a white shirt that was undone at the collar, and a white crew-neck vest. 'It is not the first time enemies of Mr Nuhanovic have tried to kill me, and I hope it will not be the last time they fail to do so. Robert's death, however, is a terrible price to pay.'

'I heard them firing into the wagon.'

He lifted his hands to the sky. 'That might have been them shooting at a very fast-moving target. By the grace of God, I got out of the car quickly and into a house. The people were very kind. It was so sudden – our security is always so tight. I believed you were our only link with the outside world, but Robert vouched for you – and, of course, you would hardly have wanted to ambush yourself.'

'No, no idea.'

I heard Jerry rolling off the bed behind me. Benzil's eyes moved over my shoulder. Jerry muttered, 'Hi.'

Benzil nodded. 'Jerry?'

'Yes.'

Benzil had more urgent things on his mind. 'We have to move quickly. Mr Nuhanovic wants to meet us both. The gentlemen outside are going to take us.'

'They with Salkic?'

'Yes. I just missed you at the mosque, but I know you attracted a lot of attention towards Mr Salkic today. As a result, I suspect that the Serb slavers have made the link between him and Nuhanovic. The situation here is dangerous now. If you could get your things together, I'll meet you downstairs.'

Jerry stepped alongside me. 'What about our passports? We coming back here?'

'I'm told that's all taken care of.' He paused and managed just a hint of a smile. 'Maybe you will get to take your photograph after all.'

The leather boys were anxiously scanning the landing as we came out with our kit. Their jackets were undone, pistol grips within easy reach.

Nothing was said as we walked to the lift. Jerry stared straight ahead, his hands on his bumbag, checking its contents as if he expected the camera gypsies to strike at any moment.

Down at Reception, there was another familiar face. Salkic presented us with our passports without ceremony or emotion. 'Follow me.'

Two midnight-blue Audis with smoked glass and alloy wheels were waiting outside, engines running. Benzil was sitting in the back of the lead vehicle, his window down. His fresh-faced driver indicated, with a wave of the small radio in his hand, that we were to get into the one behind. Its boot clicked open.

The leather boys also peeled away from us to go with Benzil, one in the back beside him, the other beside the driver. Salkic climbed into the front seat of ours as we threw our bags into the boot and got into the back. A driver in his forties was at the wheel. His crewcut was just cropping out to show the grey on the sides, and his face was peppered with small scars. His stubble only grew where the skin wasn't marked. As he ran his right hand over the wheel I could see that his index and ring finger were missing.