the side-table was minus one of its jars of Marmite.
Then I became the world's greatest admirer of Martini-Henry rifles. I went over to the rack and almost caressed them. Each one had been lovingly restored; there wasn't a speck of rust to be seen.
I checked the corridor for bodies and CCTV before realizing my bootlaces needed retying. I bent down, and quickly shoved the slim bundle behind the rifle rack, right at the bottom where it met the floor. I wedged it in deep, but all it would take to retrieve it was a bent coat-hanger.
Sitting on the steps again, I watched as wagons rolled into the compound, their occupants looking forward to a good night out.
56
Magreb took just one glance at the map and we were off. He knew exactly where he was going, even if he didn't know what was there. I left him to it and sifted through the bundle of Gunga Din gear he'd left on the back seat. It was perfect. I wondered if a certain SIM-card salesman had gone home tonight a few dollars richer but bollock naked under his three overcoats.
We passed Flower Street. It was all lit up and packed with people.
'Thanks for these, mate. I think I'll go local from now on.'
He turned his head and gave me a big, long smile. The Hiace swerved. I'd have preferred him to keep his eyes on the road.
There was no street-lighting as we drove through the embassy area. Vehicle headlights and the security lights on the walls and inside the compounds were doing that job.
'How much do you get paid a day?'
'Eleven dollars, maybe.'
We passed another compound. This one was protected by a sangar, and probably stuffed with Filipinos and CCTV. It didn't look military or diplomatic. Maybe it was one of the private security companies. The big lads might be back hitting the weights in there later if they didn't score.
'OK, here's the deal, Magreb. One hundred a day.'
We swerved again. His face lit up and he took a breath to say something but I raised a hand. 'But only if you concentrate on the fucking road, OK?'
He grinned, but his brow creased as he turned back to the road. 'But what about my work?'
'I'm only going to need you from time to time, and for a couple of days. We'll do it at night. I'll pay for each night whether I use you or not, OK?'
An emphatic nod said fucking right it's OK. And not just maybe.
'Make sure you have your phone with you all the time, so if I'm desperate I can call you.'
He nodded again.
A couple of police 4x4s screamed past, the kind of Toyota flatbeds the muj and later the Taliban had liked to cruise round in. These ones were straight from the showroom. They'd had seats installed on the back so four or five police could sit with their weapons pointing out.
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