stairs. 'It's you I need. I want you to track a mobile phone for me. It's in the city somewhere.'
'I'm sorry, I wouldn't know how to do that.' He headed on up, but I held his arm. 'Look, mate. You're a fixer. The only reason you can do the job is you know the Taliban – you might even have been one. Otherwise you'd get fuck-all fixed, wouldn't you?'
'I have to go—'
I held up the cash so it was level with his eyes and close enough to smell. 'I got two hundred for you now and two hundred more when you tell me where the number is. Get one of your Tali mates to do the same for me as they do for the guys in the mountains.'
He didn't think too much about it before the wad disappeared into his jeans.
'Do you want the name?'
'No. I know his fucking name. He owes me money and I want it back. How long will it take?'
I kept a grip on the fixer's arm to make sure he came with me. I guided him up the gravel and towards the glass entrance.
'Maybe half an hour.'
As we started up the steps the guy with the brown teeth swung the gates open and a wagon rolled into the compound.
Next to the Martini-Henrys was a table with newspapers, postcards and pens. I copied Basma's number from the mobile on to a hotel business card.
'Talk to your mates. If they get a location, you'll get another two hundred.'
He took the card and disappeared into the dining area. His mobile was already to his ear.
I went to the desk at the other end of the hallway. My white-shirted mate was there, studying the computer. 'I'm sorry, sir. No Polish man. He hasn't been here for over one year.'
He got another ten dollars. 'Thanks anyway.'
A side-door took me out into the garden. The two big Serbs were still sitting and enjoying their cigarettes. Small bats darted about over a tiled veranda overhanging a set of rooms along the side of the lodge. The ducks rooted in the long shadows cast by the lights.
Serbs are to war as Jocks are to kilts and whisky. They'd finished their own in the 1990s, but had had a finger in everyone else's ever since. They weren't the type to lay down their arms and take up bookkeeping positions in a Belgrade bank.
As I walked across the grass towards them I gave a nod and a smile. 'Evening.'
They stared, waiting to find out what the fuck I wanted while they sucked away at their cigarettes and admired the red glows in front of their faces. They were ready for a night out by the smell of them. It was heavy cologne all the way.
'I need a weapon. I'm heading south. Do you know where I can get one, and quick? I'll pay.'
Top Lip couldn't have been less interested. Mr Sheen looked me up and down as if I shouldn't even be near them, let alone talking. 'Cowboy or newsman?'
'Cowboy.'
I hated that shit. They'd been watching far too many films. They waffled between themselves. It wasn't intense; it wasn't as if there was a law against having guns here. Top Lip was just telling Mr Sheen to fuck me off. But there seemed to be a good enough reason for helping me. Top Lip finally shrugged and Mr Sheen pulled out a pen. He beckoned for my hand. He gripped it with his rough and massive one and wrote straight on to the skin. If he'd pressed any harder it would have turned into a tattoo. 'Don't go until early hours. No one will let you in. Tell him I sent you.'
'What's your name?'
He blanked me. 'Just tell him. If you can't find it, you shouldn't be allowed to ride.'
I nodded my thanks and left. I could see the fixer in the dining area as I headed for the bar. He'd just finished his call.
55
Back in the pub a waiter walked past me with two heaped plates of steak, chips and peas, and a bottle of ketchup. An early dinner for the big lads, who were now flexing away at the girls' table.
More drinkers had arrived. All three of the thirty-something males propping up the bar looked like they'd gone native. Their faces had maybe three months' growth, and they wore all the local gear – baggy trousers, waistcoats, cowpats and shirts down to their knees. They weren't taking the whole thing to extremes, though: