The Knives Read Free

dark-browed, many bearded and with chequered keffiyah wrapped around heads, shrouding faces. Some wore fatigues, camouflage trousers and jackets, others were in loose khaki pants, embroidered waistcoats, banded turbans. Several appeared to be nursing assault rifles, others yet more hefty weaponry.
    This was not regular Bosnian army. In wash-ups the liaison officers had spoken of ‘irregular forces’, mercenaries – mujahedin . Blaylock knew in his gut that he was looking at them now.
    ‘ Bloody hell, boss, Ali Baba and the forty thieves …’ Cookie’s vision of the road ahead from his driving seat, magnified ten times by the Warrior’s powerful raven sight, far outran Blaylock’s.
    As the Warriors slowed up to stop thirty feet before the checkpoint, one of the guards hefted his weapon to his shoulder.
    ‘Geezer’s got an armed RPG there, boss.’
    Blaylock swallowed, hoisted himself out and clambered down the slope of the Warrior’s glacis plate, trying to execute the move with assurance. Tamara hastened along beside him, her eyes notably wide. They passed a large muscular African man, staring at them from his perch on the grassy bank beside a heavy machine gun on a tripod. He wore a bullet belt draped across his chest, and a machete stood propped against one of his fatigue-clad legs. That knife troubled Blaylock – it was a spade-like blade of dull silver, maybe fifteen inches long, surely intended for the slaughter of beasts.
    As he drew near, a handful of guardsmen jostled forward in themanner of confrontation. One, with prominent teeth, close-cut dark curls and the gaunt mien of East Africa, came furthermost, shouting irately. ‘ Kuffar ’ was the word burning through the air.
    Tamara looked anxious. ‘I can’t … what he’s saying?’
    Blaylock, keeping eyes front, touched her arm lightly. Another man shouldered forward – bearded, eyes very blue, cheeks pockmarked under an Afghan hat of reddish felt. Blaylock extended a hand. But it only hung there, met by a stare, until he withdrew it.
    ‘My name is Captain Blaylock. United Nations protection force.’
    Tamara began to translate. The Afghan put out a flat peremptory palm in her direction and shook his head at Blaylock.
    ‘Her, no, she not speak, she go.’
    Blaylock looked steadily into his translator’s eyes as he addressed her. ‘Go back to the Warrior, Tamara, it’s okay.’
    As Tamara trooped away Blaylock turned again to the Afghan. ‘We have to pass through here, my friend. Get on our way, yes?’
    His antagonist again shook his head and took a hand from his rifle to wave it disdainfully at the retreating Tamara. ‘On your way, yes.’
    ‘You have no right to stop the UN. We’re not part of this conflict, all we do here is observe and carry aid.’
    ‘All you do. Yes.’
    Just as Blaylock began to fear his words would merely be volleyed back at him, the Afghan made a more expansive gesture in the direction of the guard-hut. ‘This, you see? This is ours. You no go as you want. You go back. This is ours.’
    ‘Yours? You are Bosnians, are you?’
    ‘We are Muslim .’
    Now the Afghan made a beckoning gesture of sorts, clapped his hands, and his fellows began to draw closer. Two who had sat on a mound of earth rose and sauntered over as well. As the Afghan continued to clap Blaylock realised with a start that he was being treated to sarcastic mock applause. And now he was confrontedby a cordon of men, bristling with bullet belts and knives worn at the waist.
    ‘Crusaders, uh? Crusaders! They come!’
    Blaylock’s pistol was holstered inside his flak jacket. He fought the urge to reach and feel it. ‘Our mission’, he said, ‘is peacekeeping.’
    ‘No fight?’
    ‘No, no fight! Peacekeepers!’
    ‘You too late! Too late!’ The Afghan prodded a finger at Blaylock’s epaulette. ‘You look, you look, uh?’ He mimed the bewildered shaking of a head. ‘Where is peace? Where? You don’t fight, what good are you?’
    Blaylock