out a lot, mainly at night. He didn't want to be recognized. He said he was seeing fixers, trying to find somebody who could get him a meeting with the main Taliban dealer. I don't think he did – he was getting quite frustrated. Then he went out on Monday night and never returned. I've been worried sick. I didn't know whether to report him missing . . . I didn't want to go to the embassy because of the connection . . .'
Her voice trailed off and her hand came up to her mouth once more. This time the shock was genuine. 'Oh, Nick, do you think the British have him in one of their secret prisons? We hear about them . . . People never come out of those places.'
'Stop there – no, they definitely don't have him. He's been kidnapped. I'm here to get him out.'
A heli rattled high over the city, its navigation lights flashing like strobes. I waited for its noise to fade.
'Basma, there's an American and a Brit been looking for him. They've gone totally local – beards, Afghan dress. The American's very tall, and has ginger hair. You know anything about them?'
Her eyes widened. 'James. Noah James. An animal.' She looked away. She was no longer scared or sad, she was angry. 'They're the scum that sprang up after the Taliban. They use the city like some big anarchy theme park.'
'Why would they be looking for Dom? Are they dealers?'
'Of a kind.' She put both hands together and rested them on her chest. 'The documentary he did about the refuge . . . he exposed them for what they are. Dominik found some of the girls they'd been keeping high on heroin and brought them here to safety. They hate him, they hate me. We've had to move the safe-house twice because they tracked us down.'
'Where do they hang out?'
'I don't know. They closed down after the film came out, but they'd have started up again somewhere else. Bringing young girls off the hills, turning them into addicts, making them prostitute themselves or carry drugs round the city . . .'
'How many of them?'
'Sorry, I don't know. They find each other. They gravitate together like pack animals.'
I risked a hand on her shoulder. 'Listen, Basma, it's going to be OK. Nobody knows I'm in the city. Nobody knows I've come to see you. Don't tell anyone. I'll contact you soon. I will get him back.'
I ran back to the Hiace, climbed in next to Magreb and closed the door gently. 'Back to the hotel, mate. We've got a while before we go out again.'
He turned his head. 'The lady – she is . . . special friend, maybe?'
I laughed. 'No, mate, maybe not. I'm just trying to arrange a reunion, that's all.'
57
It was only nine, still too early to go and visit J's Bar. At least, that was what I thought the Serb had scribbled on my hand. I'd have to wait at least another couple of hours to find out for sure. After dropping me back at the hotel, Magreb had gone to see his family. He was picking me up again at 0215. Maybe.
The plan was to get a weapon, then stake out AM Net until whoever was sending the emails showed up.
I sparked up the laptop and searched for J's Bar on my map, Google and Google Earth. There was no reference to it anywhere – no blogs from journalists talking about the city, no mention of it in news articles, no nothing. I wasn't surprised. It was probably illegal, and that would have nothing to do with being able to obtain a weapon from the place. It would have to do with it selling alcohol.
The address was in the Kartayi Seh district, a couple of Ks south of TV Hill, and a block or two the other side of the Kabul river. According to my map, the Russian embassy was down there too. I wondered why Putin's boys were so far away from the rest of them. Maybe there just wasn't much call for their services, these days. After all their years of liberating the country, they would hardly be flavour of the month. Only a matter of time before the Brits and Americans moved in next door, then.
I'd done as much checking as I could. Finally I could eat, and room service was just snacks.
The only restaurant open downstairs was the Silk Route. It served South East Asian