Deep Black by Andy McNab

been anywhere near the Middle East. Come to that, he’d not even been out of New York state until he was nineteen. He spoke Arabic at home with his Yemeni parents and some Saturday classes at the mosque, but English at school and in the real world.
    Art Works was like a library. Jerry leaned closer to keep the noise down. ‘Why you here? What’s your story?’
    ‘I was just passing and I saw the sign . . .’
    There was a pause. Neither of us seemed to know what to say next. It had been nine years; as far as he knew I’d just been in Bosnia to take pictures, and that was how I wanted to keep it.
    I was keen to get away from here and hoped he felt the same, but he just stood there, smiling at me. ‘What are you doing nowadays? Still clicking away?’
    I shook my head. ‘That’s all changed, mate. I’ve been doing some advertising stuff until recently. Boring, but it paid the bills. Now I’m just taking a break. What about you? Any of these yours?’
    ‘Actually, they’re good, but not that good, apart from that one.’ He pointed over my shoulder at Zina. ‘And one other.’
    Two of the Donna Karan gang stood behind us, wanting us to move on so they could tick Zina off in their catalogue. They looked us up and down, and one of them sniffed rather pointedly into her handkerchief.
    Jerry had more contempt for them than he could hide. ‘Nick, come and have a look.’
    ‘I’ve got to go, mate, stuff to do.’
    I needed to get away from him. He belonged to Nick Collins, not Nick Stone. But he wasn’t taking no for an answer. ‘Come on, two seconds. This is the other one I wish was mine. It’s going to be really famous one day.’
    We walked back to ‘Chetnik Mama’. He scanned the image, his face alive with admiration.
    A woman wandered past, fanning her face with her catalogue.
    ‘It’s one hell of a photograph. But that’s not what’s going to make this famous. It’s him.’ He tapped on the perspex where the man was helping the women in the background. ‘You know who this is? Go on, have a closer look.’
    I moved in. It was Beardilocks, I was sure of it. Leaning forward, I studied his face, my eyes just inches from his. His pale skin was smooth, stretched over high cheekbones below deepset eyes. He needed to put on a bit of weight to fill out that shirt collar. What struck me most was that, even in the midst of all the death and destruction, his nails were perfectly manicured and his long dark beard neatly clipped.
    ‘No.’ I pulled back from the frame. ‘Not a clue.’
    ‘Exactly. But one day you will. His face will be on as many T-shirts as Che Guevara’s. They wanted some of my stuff here, but fuck ’em, man. I’ve had two exhibitions of my own. I’ll let them have what I want, what I think is important. Not just some stuff to fill this wall or that.’
    One of the staff, a woman with blonde hair over a black polo-neck, came over to us. ‘Could you please be quiet? Images like these deserve respect, you know.’
    Jerry shook his head slowly in disbelief. ‘C’mon, Nick, you want fresh air?’
    We walked outside into the sun. Jerry put on a pair of mirrored wraparounds. ‘By the way, Nick, you look shit. But it’s still good to see you, man. A beer for old times’ sake?’
    We turned left, looking for somewhere. I’d have one beer and go.
    ‘You’re married, then.’ I nodded at the gold band on his finger.
    The smile hit maximum wattage. ‘We just had a daughter. She’s three months old. Chloë. She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.’
    I grinned back at him. ‘I guess she must take after her mother . . .’
    ‘Funny. You?’
    I shook my head. I didn’t want to talk about Kelly. That was private stuff. Even Ezra only got the abridged version. The full story was the only thing I had that belonged just to me.
    We went into a designer bar with low lights and leather settees. There were soon two Amstel Lights on the table between us, and the conversation