8
Nana’s eyes devoured the remaining pages, and she had to keep wiping her face with the back of her hand to stop more tears from falling and smudging the ink.
Colour bars flickered to life on all three screens as Paata rigged up the dish just outside the barn doors. Koba sparked up behind us. I guessed he wanted to know the same things as the rest of us – what was wrong, what did it say?
The screens flickered. A woman in a blue jacket materialized in front of us, sitting at a desk in an empty studio. She pulled on her set of headphones and the speakers crackled. Sure enough, we were going live. ‘Nana? Nana?’
Nana cut the sound and pulled on her own set of earphones and boom mike. She took a moment to compose herself, then started talking in low, urgent tones. Baz’s name came up again and again as she looked down and quoted long chunks from the document. The woman in the studio looked horrified. Behind us, Koba was building himself into a rage. This wasn’t good; Baz’s text was supposed to help us.
When she reached the bottom of the last page, she closed the folder with a snap and shoved it into the side pocket of her Gore-Tex.
She exchanged a closing word or two with her colleague in the studio, who got up from the desk and disappeared off-screen.
Nana’s eyes were still full as she removed her headphones. ‘We planned to address parliament with Zurab tomorrow.’ She was trying hard not to break down. ‘We were going to film him presenting the contents of this document to us in front of his government colleagues, in front of the very men he was going to expose.’ Her head shook slowly from side to side. ‘But none of us had any idea . . . no idea that these revelations would be so . . . so . . .’ She really had to search for the word. ‘Abominable’ was what she came up with, but I could see from her expression it still didn’t fit the bill.
The word seemed to hang in the air, then her hand came up to her mouth again. I didn’t know what to say – how could I? I hadn’t a clue what it was she’d just been reading. All I knew was that Nana was a tough one, but Baz’s stuff had turned her into a mess. And that it didn’t look as though the document was going to help us get off the dirt and away from here.
‘Nana, you believe us now? You need to let us go before the police come. Nana?’
She still wasn’t listening. ‘He wouldn’t tell me . . . He thought it would put me in too much danger . . .’ She turned to face us again, with red, hate-filled eyes. ‘Believe you? Why? Why should I believe you? Explain it to the police. See if you can persuade them.’
‘Listen, lady. I wasn’t there. I just got told to deliver the bag. Don’t you lump me in with these murdering f*cks.’ Bastard was nothing if not persistent. I almost found myself starting to admire him.
‘You! Shut the f*ck up.’ Charlie clearly didn’t feel the same.
We had to try to convince her before the uniforms arrived. It was unlikely they’d be speaking our language. ‘Nana. Why would we give you this stuff? We’ve told you what happened. Did you see me kill him? No. All we were there for was the papers. If we were part of it, why would we tape this fat bastard?’
It wasn’t working. She turned back to the monitors. They were rerunning the bulletin. The girl in the studio was talking, but there was no sound. At least, not from the screen. But we’d all heard the noise outside.
‘Police.’ Nana sounded relieved.
Paata came running back into the barn, screaming in Paperclip. I only managed to pick up one word, and it didn’t sound good news to me.
I turned my head. Koba was still behind us. He looked like he hadn’t enjoyed hearing Akaki mentioned any more than I had.
The scream of engines got louder. Koba got more and more agitated. Three or four wagonloads of militants, by the sound of it, and only one of him. I could see his dilemma.
Nana tried to calm him down, but it wasn’t happening. The Desert Eagle was still pointed at us, safety off, and the muzzle waved alarmingly from side to side. His eyes brimmed with tears of rage.
Bastard just lay there. He seemed to be almost enjoying it. What the f*ck was the matter with him?
Charlie turned onto his back.
‘Calm down, Koba lad. Or point that f*cking thing somewhere else . . .’
I double-checked under the van, along the rear wall. No sign of a back door.
The vehicles were on top of us now. Charlie was the first to see them. ‘Taliban wagons!’
I glanced back towards the doors.
Guys in black masks and green combat jackets, some with ponchos, swarmed out of Toyota pickups, laden with AKs, light machine guns and belts of 7.62 short.
Koba ran straight for them, screaming, sobbing, going ballistic.
I leaped up and grabbed Charlie. ‘Let’s go, go, go!’
The heavy-calibre .357 kicked in Koba’s hands. I heard screams from both sides of the barn doors.
Charlie and I ducked down behind the van. F*ck knows where the other three had got to; I didn’t care.
Bastard materialized behind us as two bursts of AK put an end to the Desert Eagle. Angry shouts echoed round the barn.
I looked under the van. Koba was writhing in the mud beside one of the wagons. Blood pumped from the holes drilled into his torso.
A big guy with wild hair and an Osama-style beard walked across to him, the butt of an AK in his poncho-draped shoulder. He leaned in and squeezed the trigger. The weapon kicked, and Koba’s head exploded like a melon.