Andy McNab - Deep Black

Nuhanovic looked ready to explode. 'The criminals like Mladic and Karadic are still out there, yet I, not a murderer, am the target of so much hostility from the West… so much that I now have to move country to continue my work.'

Jerry took a chance and pressed the shutter release. The flash made Nuhanovic blink again. When he opened his eyes I could see the oil lamps reflected in their angry gaze.

'I, too, saw the horror on their faces as I left them to that terrible fate. But God will understand. I have Him on my side. What you have heard from Benzil, and no doubt elsewhere, is true. I can, and will, bring Islam together.

'The West and even Islam itself will try to stop me, but I have faith and commitment, the very qualities that make a mother become a suicide bomber, or a husband fly a 747 into a building. They also know that sometimes their own brothers and sisters have to die for greater things to come. It's a faith you will never understand.

'You look surprised again, Nick. You shouldn't be. Today's terrorist is tomorrow's statesman. If Ariel Sharon and Nelson Mandela can be accepted as leaders, then why not Hasan Nuhanovic, a man whose motives are essentially pure? God understands what I have had to do in order to continue and finance His will. I have done more for my Muslim brothers and sisters against the tyrannies and imperialism of the West than any terrorist bomb will achieve – and my work has only just begun.'

Jerry moved the lamps about again, trying to catch his subject's changing mood.

Nuhanovic nodded up at him. 'Jerry, if my face is to appear on a billion Muslim T-shirts, I suggest you just keep shooting. They will be the last photographs for quite a while. I am going to accept Benzil's offer of sanctuary and continue my work from his country.

'I thank God that Benzil is alive. His commitment, and the fact that God has chosen to spare him, has confirmed to me that taking up his offer is the right thing to do.'

'When are you going to Uzbekistan?'

'Soon, once Benzil and I have talked. The last few days have been very fraught – as I know I don't have to tell you.'

The door opened and the two AKs appeared. One stayed where he was; the other went over to Nuhanovic and spoke quietly in his ear.

Nuhanovic looked at the two of us, his brow creased. He nodded at the AK boy and waved him back to his mate, then got up with an expression of regret, and went over to the bowl to wash his hands.

'Our meeting has come to end. It appears it is not only you two who are helping accelerate my schedule. There has been a lot of activity after the incident at the cave and Lord Ashdown seems to think that SFOR are closing in on Karadic or Mladic. I think he would be more delighted to discover I am in fact his target.'

The AK boys were making a show of checking their watches. Nuhanovic held out a clean hand. 'All I now ask is that you escort Jerry back to safety and make sure he gets his photographs developed. And publish my story. Tell your Western friends, whoever they are, that I know they let Mladic go free. They have blood on their hands.'

We shook. He turned to do the same with Jerry.

There was still one more question.

'Our bags, when do we get them?'

'In Sarajevo.'

The AK boys were looking even more agitated. Time for us to go.

Four clouds of breath hung in the cold, still air. The AK boys lit an oil lamp each, then we followed them across the courtyard to the passageway. The sky was still completely clear, the frost now hard underfoot.

Jerry had pulled up the hood on his parka, but I kept mine down. I wanted to take in as much information as I could. A vehicle was ticking over somewhere on the other side of the visitors' building.

Guided by the oil lamps, we went back along the passageway towards the guest courtyard. As we neared the door, Jerry quickened his pace to get level with me. His eyes stared out from inside the hood, shouting a silent question: 'What the fuck are we going to do now?'

The AK boys held the door open and motioned us through. The engine was the other side of the wall. 'Speak English?'

One nodded.

'Our bags? We came with bags. Will we get them back?'

'Of course. No problem.'

'When?'

'Later.'

We crossed the courtyard towards the archway. The vehicle the other side of the double doors wasn't chugging. It wasn't the VW.

They were pulled open and we were blinded by headlights. The wagon was buried in a cloud of exhaust fumes.

It appeared the AK boys weren't coming with us. They stayed where they were and gestured for us to climb in. We stepped into the cloud and discovered a Suzuki Vitara hardtop. The choke was doing overtime to fight the cold.

It was two up, both in front. I opened the back door and let Jerry get in first. I got in behind the driver. The cloud of cigarette smoke was as dense as the exhaust fumes outside.

There was no interior light but I could see the driver in the glow from the dash. Short back and sides, moustache, maybe in his forties. The passenger was the long-haired one. Between his legs, its muzzle resting dangerously against his chest, was a G3. I looked down. The plastic butt was the full-size, not foldaway, version. Much more important was what lay next to it in the footwell: our bumbags.

These guys had changed into black-leather jackets and jeans for the trip. Maybe we really were going back to Sarajevo.

The wagon lurched from side to side as we drove down to the chicane, then the six hundred metres beyond it, before turning right on to the forest track. Neither of them said a word. The driver leaned across and flicked the radio on. It was local phone-in stuff.

We worked our way through the trees. Jerry had dropped his hood, but his eyes were still quizzing me.

I ignored him. I needed time to think. I stared down at the pistol grip of the G3. The safety catch was on the left. First click down was single-shot, fully down was automatic, the opposite of the AK. The cocking piece was also on the left, just over half-way up the stock and, like the MP5 and all the Heckler amp; Kochs of that era, had to be worked with the left hand. The mag was straight, not curved, and held twenty rounds.

There was no way of telling if it was made ready. I had to assume it wasn't.

Hairy lit two cigarettes and passed one to the driver before offering us one from the packet. I leaned forward a little between their seats.

'Bags?' I pointed into the footwell. 'Can we have our bags now?'

Hairy waved his hand testily towards the windscreen. 'Sarajevo, Sarajevo.'

The driver muttered something and worked the wheel. We bounced on to the frost-covered road and turned left, back towards the barns and the city. A press statement by Paddy Ashdown kicked off over the speakers: something to do with law and order, bringing evil men to justice, all the normal bluster, before the interpreter faded in over him.

The forestry block glided past on our left. I was going to have to do something soon. I leaned forward again and tapped Hairy on the shoulder. 'My friend needs a piss.'

He stared at me blankly.

'Piss?' I pointed at Jerry and simulated undoing my fly. 'He wants to go.'

He just waved his hand towards the windscreen again. 'Sarajevo.'

Fuck it, we were Nuhanovic's guests. We could give these guys orders. 'No, we stop! He wants to piss!' I poked the driver. 'Stop!'

While the two of them exchanged a few words, I sat back with Jerry. 'Get out, go down, stay down.'

I leaned forward. 'You stopping, or what?'

As the wagon pulled in at the side of the road, Jerry got out, unbuttoning himself as he went round the front, past the headlights, and towards the treeline, too modest to take his piss within view.

They looked at each other and rolled their eyes.