He leaned his shoulder against the gla.s.s panel of a brand-new bus shelter, behind which a poster told us that if we bought a bottle of Coca-Cola Light, we could win an Audi.

'Romeo and Juliet?'

'f.u.c.king nightmare, man. I was with Jason before the enclaves blew up. We were just cruising, looking for something different to shoot. But everywhere you went in Sarajevo was the same, wasn't it? We decided to check out the front line a bit before going back to the hotel.

'There was a stand-off, city guys against a group of Serbs just over there. This Serb tank appeared from nowhere and started firing. We ended up with the city guys. Next thing I knew, one was yelling at us to get our cameras. He was pointing at a young couple running towards the far side of the bridge.

'They got the guy first. The girl was just wounded, and I got a shot as she crawled across to his body and put an arm round him before she died. Turned out she was Muslim, he was Serb...' He had the sort of expression I probably showed every time I caught myself thinking about Zina or Kelly. 'f.u.c.ked up or what, man? It was the first time I ever cried doing this s.h.i.t. First time I ever wanted to put down my camera and pick up a gun.'

It was business as usual these days. Cars crossed the bridge, people walked around with bags of shopping. On the steep rising ground immediately the other side of the river, all the roofs were shiny, and all the mosques had new minarets. There seemed to be one every two hundred metres or so. It was easy to spot a Muslim house: its roof was pyramidal while the rest were gabled. Satellite dishes sprouted from just about every wall; these guys must have been as keen on The Simpsons The Simpsons as the Iraqis. as the Iraqis.

Just to the right of the bridge, flags of every description fluttered over a new steel and gla.s.s building. I pointed it out to Jerry. 'That must be where our friend the general takes his meetings about meetings. I wonder how Paddy puts up with him.' The Right Honourable Lord Ashdown was the UN's High Representative in Bosnia. It was the sort of t.i.tle you only expected to find in Gilbert and Sullivan, but in effect he ran the country.

We turned left and followed the river towards the city centre, but we hadn't gone far when there was the dull thud of an explosion up on the high ground.

Everyone in the street looked up. A small plume of grey smoke floated above a square of trees, surrounded by rooftops. Two old women coming towards us, weighed down with carrier-bags, tutted to each other as if this was an everyday annoyance.

'What do you reckon, Nick? A mine?'

'Had to be.'

When the Serbs withdrew, they left hundreds of thousands of the little f.u.c.kers in their wake. There was no need for Keep Off the Gra.s.s signs in Bosnia.

70.There was some reconstruction in progress along the riverbank, but most buildings still hadn't been patched up. A few of the places immediately facing the Miljacka had all but collapsed. Others had done so long since, their rubble cleared to make room for muddy car parks. At least the river was nice and picturesque these days. The last time I'd seen it, there'd been bodies floating downstream.

A tram stopped just ahead of us, brand new with a sign announcing it was a gift from the people of yet another guilt-ridden country that had done f.u.c.k-all to help when it was really needed. Pa.s.sengers jostled to get on and off with their shopping, a very few in headscarves, some in grey raincoats, briefcases in their hands and cellphones to their ears.

Soon we couldn't move for people and cafes. A coffee shop seemed to have sprung up every ten paces, but these were indigenous. George would have given Sarajevo the thumbs up: there wasn't a Starbucks or skinny latte latte in sight. A lot of them had outside tables with canopies and butane heaters so the punters didn't have to stem their nicotine and caffeine intake even when the temperature dropped. in sight. A lot of them had outside tables with canopies and butane heaters so the punters didn't have to stem their nicotine and caffeine intake even when the temperature dropped.

Most of the buildings were still peppered with shrapnel and bullet scars, but at street level it was all plate gla.s.s and stainless steel, bright lights and rap. We even pa.s.sed a Miss Selfridge, where women were holding up the new season's collection against themselves, and teenage girls lounged around in Levi's, smoking and listening to their Walkmans.

Our first stop was to buy us each a coat. We didn't think that the Sunday Telegraph Sunday Telegraph would stretch to Versace so we headed into one of the old local boys' shops. I settled for a brown three-quarter-length number that didn't look or feel remotely like leather, despite what the salesman said. But, then, what can you expect for about twelve dollars? Jerry spent about the same on a waterproof with a fleecy lining. We looked like d.i.c.kheads, but at least we were warm. would stretch to Versace so we headed into one of the old local boys' shops. I settled for a brown three-quarter-length number that didn't look or feel remotely like leather, despite what the salesman said. But, then, what can you expect for about twelve dollars? Jerry spent about the same on a waterproof with a fleecy lining. We looked like d.i.c.kheads, but at least we were warm.

Sarajevo isn't big, but it's teeming with different ethnic neighbourhoods. We moved into another Hungarian quarter. The pedestrian area, once cratered by mortar rounds, was now paved with flat stone.

The old black and red board was still where I remembered it, inviting us to visit the Cafe Bar Muppet. The Firm had had a room above it, which was very apt, I'd always thought. There was an archway through into a very small square, and the cafe was just off to the right. Even at the height of the war it had felt protected. A direct hit wouldn't have been too healthy, although it would probably have been better than a bullet in the back. I'd preferred the Bodyguard Cafe up the road, for the simple reason that it was in a cellar. But you had to be quick, because every other f.u.c.ker wanted to get in there too.

The smell of cevapcici cevapcici, grilled sausages served with pitta bread, drifted through the streets, signalling that we were coming into the old Turkish area, Bascarsija. The Gazi Husrev Bey mosque, or 'Gazzer something' as Rob had called it, was the largest in the city, and now close enough to spit at.

71.When a mortar round explodes on a hard surface like a road or pavement, it creates a characteristic pattern. We came across a lot of strike marks that had been filled with red cement as a memorial to whoever had died on that spot. Bascarsija, a warren of narrow cobblestoned streets, alleyways and dead-ends, had more than its fair share of 'Sarajevo roses'. The Serbs had been particularly fond of busy places like markets and shopping arcades.

The area was dotted with mosques and lined with tiny interconnected one-storey wooden shops, selling leatherwork and bra.s.s tea-sets, postcards of bombed-out buildings and pens to write on them made from spent .50 cal cases. I didn't see any tourists haggling with the owners. Most customers, when there were any, seemed to be in uniform with SFOR flashes.

We turned a corner and the ma.s.sive Gazi Husrev Bey mosque was suddenly there in front of us, pristine and white. They'd really gone to town on the renovation. Elevations had been re-rendered, strike marks in the stone had been removed, and there were brand new his'n'hers washrooms in the courtyard area.

The arched entrance was protected by a stone portico. Big carpets were laid out beneath it, perhaps for those who wanted a quick prayer without going inside, or to cater for overspill when the mosque was full.

There are different lengths of prayers for the different prayer times, and shorter prayers if you're travelling or ill. They can be said alone, or in congregation. It's pretty much a pick 'n' mix affair to suit the individual. You can even combine a couple of prayer times, like some Catholics do on a Sat.u.r.day night to save them having to get up early the following morning.

A lone man in his mid-sixties, wearing jeans and an Adidas windcheater, was kneeling and offering Salah [prayers]. His shoes were tucked into the racks provided. We made our way towards the side door, past a small shop window decked out with a lifetime's supply of Qur'ans and other religious paraphernalia and two stone shrines to a couple of high-rankers in the Muslim world. Jerry couldn't remember exactly who they were and actually blushed with embarra.s.sment because he felt he should: after all, this was the most historic mosque in Europe.

We took off our shoes before going in. Non-Muslims are welcome in mosques; they don't like you trying to take part if you're not one of the faithful, but you can stand at the back and watch if you want, it's no big deal. The two religions I had most time for, Judaism and Islam, both managed to create this sense of everyone being part of one big family.

The interior was cavernous, with a dome at least twenty-five metres high. Chandeliers hung down on cable and chain. The walls were decorated with beautiful framed quotes from the Qur'en. The entire floor was covered in intricately woven Oriental carpets.

Four old women had their backs against the wall to our right, heads covered and mumbling to themselves. I smiled, gesturing for their permission to enter. They smiled back and ushered me in. They gave Jerry a strange look, which made me smile: in a world of Muslims, he was clearly the weird-looking one.

The moment we stepped out of the hustle and bustle of the street, there was a sense of tranquillity I could almost touch. People seemed to glide across the carpets; voices were hushed.

I looked down and could see my socks were leaving sweat marks on the highly polished tiles. I shrugged an apology to the women.

They all smiled back.

Encouraged, I moved closer to them. 'English? Speak English?'

They smiled even more, nodded and said nothing. I thought I might as well start asking about Salkic. I wanted as many people as possible to know we were looking for him. With luck, the bush telegraph would swing into operation. He'd either run for cover, or get curious and come looking.

'Mr Salkic? Do you know him? Ramzi Salkic?'

They looked at each other and gobbed off, then just smiled and nodded again.

I had another go, but got exactly the same response.

I shrugged my shoulders and thanked them, then started to back out with Jerry. We put on our shoes and left.

'You did well there, didn't you?' At least Jerry thought it was funny.

'C'mon, then, we'll go in the shop. Let's see you do better.'

It turned out to be little more than a table covered with a jumbled selection of books and ca.s.settes and other religious bric-a-brac. Maybe this was where the airport's minibus driver had bought his greatest-hits collection. A guy with a grey beard stood behind the display, in a black tanktop over a white shirt b.u.t.toned all the way up his neck. He smiled at me and I smiled back.

Jerry tried his luck. 'Speak English?'

He looked almost offended. 'Of course!'

'I'm looking for Ramzi Salkic. We were told he prays here. Do you know where we can find him?'

He didn't even give it time for the name to sink in. 'No, no. I've never heard that name. What does he look like?'

'That's the thing, we don't really know.'

He opened his hands, palms upwards. 'Then I am sorry.'

'Never mind, thanks a lot.'

Dark clouds were scudding across the sky as we emerged from the mosque, and it had turned noticeably colder. 'We've got thirty-five till Zuhr.' I shoved my Baby-G under his nose. 'Let's get a brew. Pointless hanging around.'

We left the sanctuary of the courtyard and moved back into the hustle and bustle of the streets. A guy in a fluorescent vest was holding a fat hose over a blocked manhole while his truck sucked noisily. Paddy obviously hadn't got round to sorting out the sewers yet. It probably wasn't top of his list of priorities because, according to the waffle on its side, this s.h.i.t-clearing vehicle was a gift from the German Red Cross. I wondered if they were being ironic.

72.There were cafes everywhere, and each one was a bigger lung-cancer factory than the last. Bosnians smoked like chimneys. Last time I'd been here the running gag was that if the Serbs didn't finish you off, the Drinas certainly would. Health and safety probably worked in reverse here, like so much else. If they found out you had an extractor fan or a no-smoking policy, they'd probably shut you down.

We walked into one with lots of gla.s.s and chrome, cutting through a curtain of nicotine. We sat down and ordered a couple of cappuccinos. Apart from the smoke, we could have been in London or New York. The spectrum was the same, from teenagers sipping hot chocolate and obsessively checking for texts, to old boys on their own trying to make a small coffee last a lifetime.

The brew finally turned up just as Adhan, the call to prayer, sounded across the rooftops. Quite a few customers got up and headed for the till. We joined the queue, trying to get the hot liquid down us before we made the thirty-metre trek back to the mosque.

We walked through the wrought-iron gates, past men and women lining up in their separate, segregated areas. Little kids ran in and out of the legs of middle-aged men in business suits. Teenagers stood chatting to grannies.

Quite a few guys were already on mats in the drive-through outside, getting the prayers in early. Jerry and I mingled with the rest of the crowd, smiling at everyone as they waited in line at the washroom to perform Taharah, purification. You didn't have to wash at the mosque: it could be done beforehand. Some just chatted as their kids ran riot. I'd decided we should split up to cover more ground.

Most of the people I asked about Salkic responded with a little English and a big smile, but they couldn't or wouldn't help me. Jerry worked another section of the crowd about fifteen metres away. He looked like a bad impression of Inspector Clouseau, and so did I, probably. I caught his eye and shook my head. He did the same.

The Qurn vendor was standing outside his premises, watching the crowd hopefully. Maybe he was antic.i.p.ating a big run on his religious merchandise today. Then I looked at him more closely and realized he was actually studying faces. He was looking for someone.

I decided to up the ante. I stopped a young guy in a black-leather overcoat. When I asked him if he could help me, he replied in very good English.

'I'm looking for a cleric, a man called Hasan Nuhanovic. Do you know what mosque he goes to? Is it this one?'

His smile faded and his eyes dropped to the floor as he shuffled past me. 'No, I don't know. I'm sorry. Excuse me.'

Jerry was near the washrooms now and I worked my way towards him, asking as I went. The next one I tried was a suited, briefcase-toting businessman who looked like he'd just come out of an insurance office. 'I'm looking for a holy man, a Hasan Nuhanovic. Have you-?' Before I'd even finished the sentence, he'd walked away without answering.

Jerry was immediately at my side, looking concerned. 'What're you doing, man?'

'Rocking the boat.'

I spotted the shopkeeper talking urgently to a young guy with brown hair, and not about the weather. There was a lot of pointing into the crowd.

Jerry was still agitated. 'Shouldn't we stick to the plan? We're here for Salkic first, right?'

I was already on my way towards the shop. The young man had a neat short back and sides and the kind of raincoat that wouldn't have looked out of place in DC. I closed on him as he headed for the main entrance. 'Ramzi Salkic?'

I knew it was him, the moment he tried to sidestep me and didn't look up.

'No, no, no. I'm not-' His eyes never left the ground.

I found myself speaking to the top of his head. 'I need to get a message to Hasan Nuhanovic. Can you do that for me? Have I got the right person?'

He pushed past me and I decided not to create any more of a scene by trying to stop him. Instead, I followed him to the shoe racks, where he slipped off his smart loafers.

'Please leave me alone.' He had to talk loudly to make himself heard over the murmurs of the faithful. 'You have the wrong person.'

We were getting quite a few disapproving glances from the direction of the mats.

'My mistake. I'm sorry.'

Their attention switched to me as I turned and moved back against the tide.

I headed for the shop. When he saw me coming, the owner scuttled inside and turned the lights off. 'We are closed.' He disappeared into the gloom without a backward glance.

For some reason I'd been expecting Salkic to be a lot older. It takes time to build trust with a princ.i.p.al; the middle man is normally someone they've grown up with, a contemporary with shared history and experience.

Jerry joined me. 'What do you think? Is that him?'

'For sure. He didn't look confused, he didn't look at me. He just wanted to get away.'

'You f.u.c.ked that up, then, didn't you?'

But that was the least of our worries.

'There's two guys over there by the washrooms.' Jerry kept eye-contact with me, as if I might take a look. 'They didn't look too pleased to see you. You're gonna think I'm crazy, but I think one of them was at the Palestine.'

73.We walked out of the courtyard together, smiling and chatting as if we didn't have a care in the world. 'What's he look like?'

'Remember the pool fight? With that Lats guy? The one with the goatee, I think it's him.'

We exited the gates near the two shrines, turned right, out of their line of sight, carried on down the road, then took another right to get us behind the mosque. The narrow road was lined with bars and cafes.

We sat down outside a cevapcici cevapcici shop, on a long wooden bench under an awning. The doors were open and we were hit by a blast of warm air from the grill, where an old boy was frying meat. shop, on a long wooden bench under an awning. The doors were open and we were hit by a blast of warm air from the grill, where an old boy was frying meat.

I got Jerry to sit facing the shop because I needed a better view of the road. All the cafes were pretty quiet. It wasn't really time to eat yet.

Seconds later, the two flat tops rounded the corner. I looked at Jerry and smiled as if we were enjoying a joke. 'Both of them were in Baghdad.'

They were in pretty much the same kit, too; the only additions were the black-leather bomber jackets. Goatee caught sight of us and they ducked into a bar more or less opposite.

'Won't be long before at least one of them comes to the window.'

'Why the f.u.c.k were you going public about Nuhanovic, man?' He managed to give me a big smile and a b.o.l.l.o.c.king at the same time. 'That's what's got us in the s.h.i.t. What we going to do?'

'Nothing, yet. Chances are it's nothing to do with Nuhanovic; maybe they just recognized us. I'd be curious if I b.u.mped into someone here I'd seen in Baghdad.'

Jerry leaned forward. 'Me too.'

A waiter appeared with ears that stuck out far enough to have held ten pens instead of just the one, and we both ordered cevapcici cevapcici. 'Five or ten piece?'

I asked for ten and Jerry nodded. 'You have any Zam Zam?'

The waiter looked puzzled.

'Or Mecca? You got any Mecca Cola?'

He looked as if he thought Jerry was taking the p.i.s.s.

'OK, maybe Fanta?'

He nodded and walked away, shouting our order to the old guy who, going by the size of the jug handles each side of his head, must have been his dad.

Jerry was rather good at this acting-normal-while-really-doing-something-else routine. Maybe it was a photojournalist thing.