one was in the process of ordering them Guinnesses and shots of Famous Grouse. Until I heard them shooting the shit, I couldn't make up my mind whether they were serious players or members of a ZZ Top tribute band.
Cigarettes came out as they perched on stools and waffled on about being down south, and how they were coming up against the Taliban and getting some awesome film. Everything was fucking awesome, man – and I mean awesome.
They lifted their shot glasses and toasted each other, then tilted back their heads and wiped their beards with the back of a hand in true Afghan fashion. With their suntanned faces, they certainly looked the part. They would have passed as Taliban at a glance, and that was probably all they needed.
I wandered over. 'How long you guys been back from Helmand?'
'Five days, man.'
The one who'd ordered the drinks had the longest and bushiest beard of the three. Cigarette ash distributed itself generously across it as he bounced a Marlboro up and down on his lips. 'We go back in another two.'
'You seen a Polish journo about? Dominik Condratowicz?'
'Shit, man, I know who he is – he's like a fucking superhero. He here now?'
'You seen him?'
'No, but you know what? Two fucking guys came here last week, maybe Saturday, who knows? Anyways, they were high, man, up on H, and they were shouting for him. Pushing every fucker around saying they know he's in the city, wanting to kill the guy or something fucked-up like that.'
'American?'
'Yeah, well, one of them, anyways . . .'
He pointed over at the two guys flexing, eating and chatting up the two women, all at the same time. 'Some of those contract guys? They had to run to their wagons and draw down to get them outta here.'
'You know who they were? You seen them before?'
'No, man, no one knew them. The American, big guy – and a Brit. They were like just fucked-up and crazy.' His eyes lit up and he pointed his cigarette at me. 'You know what? He talked like you.'
'What did he look like, the American? You said he was tall.'
'Yeah, like six six, fucking huge ginger guy, fucked-up skin. But, hey, they'd really gone local, know what I'm saying?'
'What about the Brit? He's smaller, right?'
'Yeah, your size. His hair and face, man, it was like matted and fucked-up.' He turned to his mates and grinned. 'We're like fucking dinner-party guests compared to those guys.'
All three got into their cans and drank to that. I said my goodbyes, good luck down south and all that shit, and headed back upstairs. The only sound was the crunch of my boots on the gravel.
American spelling . . . American looking for Dom . . .
The fixer was waiting by the rifle rack. 'The phone is in Khushal Mena. Well, it was when it was located. It might have been in parked car, or maybe the owner was in friend's house.'
'Where's this Khushal?' I dumped my Bergen and took out the map. I grabbed another pen and let him show me.
'On Ghazni Street, where it meets Sarak Street.' He circled the map. 'There.'
It was on the west side of the city, near the polytechnic. If it was still standing.
He got his other two hundred and left without a thank-you. Fair enough. He hadn't got one either.
It was just before seven as I sat on the steps and watched him climb into his Honda 4x4 and head out of the gates.
I put a new Thierry Henry into my mobile. Just like a soldier's weapon and Pete's camera battery, it also needed to be fully loaded.
Magreb's phone was soon ringing in my ear. He answered quickly.
'Hello, mate, it's Nick.'
He was a very happy bunny. Maybe there would be some work. 'You found the Gandamack OK, Mr Nick?'
'No drama, thanks to you. Can you pick me up? You'll be finished by about three in the morning. That OK?'
'Of course, Mr Nick. I sleep in kitchen.'
'Listen, I need you to bring some stuff. I want a set of local clothes. You know, hat, waistcoat, shemag, like the SIM-card seller but without the overcoats, yeah? I want to look like him.'
'Not be clean, maybe.'
'No problem, mate. I'll pay you for them. I'll wait for you inside.'
'Good idea, Mr Nick.'
I closed down and went into the deserted dining room. I took my Nick Stone passport from my boot and slipped ten hundred-dollar bills inside. When I left again a few seconds later,