‘You are going to tell me exactly who you are, and why you’re here, or Yin will drown you.’
‘Ah, so it was Yang I killed then. You boys really do look alike.’
‘Do it.’
Down he went again. Okay, start counting. The water was tepid, sort of stale. Dima knew what to do. He’d trained for this, come first in his Spetsnaz group for lasting the longest. It was all a matter of relaxing. The more relaxed you were, the less energy you used. Keep counting. Entire extra seconds could be gone without that next lungful. Learning how to suffer through all the misery and punishment of his training, being thrown naked on to the hard frozen snow and made to fight, the beatings, the humiliation, all about controlling pain, managing anger, channelling it into patience, kneading it into raw aggression, conserved for just the right moment.
The trick was not to care, to keep counting but just give in to it. So I’ll die: so what? I’ve had my moments. The record for staying under water was eleven minutes thirty-five seconds. His best was just under eight. But that was after a really good sleep. I should have fucked that receptionist, he thought: she had red hair and smelled of apples. That would have been a good memory to go out on.
Three minutes. He had glimpsed the pool, seen that this was the deep end. What else could he use? Focus on the surroundings, the hand pressing down, where Yin’s weight on top of him was distributed, the knees on his shoulders, not his lower arms which were free. Dima inched them round until his hands could grasp the edge of the pool. Four minutes. Not as good as he was. He needed that lungful of air right now.
He let his muscles go, stopped resisting, and used the weight of his head, which he had been pushing against the twin’s hand, to pull him further down, boosted by the leverage from his hands on the edge. With an extra pull he pushed himself deeper. Yin lost his balance, keeled over Dima and hit the water: not what he was expecting. Dima plunged a hand down, grabbed the knife from his pudgy hand, brought it straight up under Yin’s flailing ribcage and plunged, then twisted, then plunged again. He felt a wall of muscle, withdrew and plunged once more.
46
There was a collective shout of pain in the Osprey as they felt the jolt. The AA fire took the tip of the starboard rotor off, stalling the engine before the flames started. The ramp doors were already opening for a fast exit, but the door gunners had been blown away. Not by a hail of fire but by short sharp bursts expertly aimed. The F-16s had reported the AA guns neutralised. Mistake. So many mistakes in warfare, Blackburn now understood. It was a miracle anybody survived, let alone triumphed.
The port engine revs rose as it sucked at the air, trying to compensate, but the Osprey was halfway through its transition from flight to hover. Blackburn felt the craft climb and then hang for a tantalising few seconds before it gave up the fight and started its progression downwards. The pilot did what he could but the ground rushed towards them. Men frozen into position clung to the grab handles on the fuselage interior. Futile. Blackburn lurched towards the open ramp, tripped and slid headfirst. He smashed through several trees he never had time to identify, but boy did he love those trees. The arms of angels breaking his fall. His arrival back on earth was still painful though and he blacked out for several seconds. Further down the hill, he saw the Osprey roll on to its side: the wings, with their still-spinning rotors, snapped off like bits of a plastic kit.
He looked up at the chalet, the plans of which he had memorised down to the last room. But at first sight it was unrecognisable, the whole facade and all of the verandas smashed off by the rocket. If there’s anyone alive in there it will be a miracle, thought Black. But he knew there were rooms far into the rock. He had to get there. He didn’t think about the casualties. If he went back to the Osprey and tried to help, Cole might accuse him of flunking out again. Well fuck you, Cole, if you die because no one helped you, it’s your fault. In fact I hope you do die.
Where had this come from? At school he had been the mediator, the breaker-up of fights. The one willing to see the other side. On this assignment – excess baggage. From now on he was travelling light. He picked up his M4, checked it and took off for the rubble.
47
The bodyguard’s vast form turned slowly as he sank, the blood pumping out of him forming fine curls as it gradually turned the water from blue to pink. Dima hauled himself out of the pool, gasping for breath. He sucked it in, the stale underground air reeking of chlorine – the best he had ever inhaled. Kaffarov stood over him, holding Yin’s Uzi. He may have bought and sold guns – a lot of them – but the way he held it showed that he wasn’t in the habit of using one. That was the trouble with delegating: you could become seriously deskilled.
Even so, sprawled there like the catch of the day, Dima was an easy target. Kaffarov might not have had much practice with the Uzi, but he could pick him off no problem. There was nothing Dima could do – except play for time.
‘Nice place you’ve got here. Must be useful having the old panic room to retreat into at times like this.’
Kaffarov didn’t respond. Dima suspected he wasn’t too keen on the word ‘retreat’.
As he got his breath back, he got his first proper look at Kaffarov. A slight man, drooping shoulders. A pointed, foxy face with a couple of days’ stubble. Thick eyebrows furrowed in a permanent frown that betrayed a lifelong disinclination to compromise.
‘Kristen was pretty badly hurt out there. I don’t know if she’ll make it: I’m sorry.’
He didn’t respond: not even a flicker of regret. But what did he expect from the man who refused to pay the million dollar ransom for his wife, who repeatedly armed every evil or misguided combatant the world over, right down to the child soldiers of Darfur? How lucky for him that the Americans had devoted so much time and money going after Osama, allowing the real monster to spread his weapons of mass destruction unhindered.
‘By the way, the Matisse and the Gauguin: I hope you didn’t pay too much for them.’
Now he had his attention: money was what mattered to him, not people: of course.
‘Why?’
‘They’re fakes.’
‘Bullshit. Who cares what you think?’
‘I used to live in Paris: spent a lot of lunchtimes in the Musée d’Orsay: it has a better collection than the Louvre, and fewer tourists.’
Could he appeal to the man’s love of art? Doubtful. The paintings were only there because he’d believed them valuable. Kaffarov smiled, a sinister approximation of a smile with no warmth.
‘Ah, Paris. Beautiful city. Such a pity.’
What did he mean?
‘Look,’ said Dima, trying to keep still and look unthreatening. ‘I’m not your enemy: I was sent to rescue you and stop the nukes falling into the wrong hands. When we got to the compound, you weren’t there. I’m Dima Mayakovsky: one of the good guys.’
‘Mayakovsky? You don’t look Russian.’
There were definitely pros and cons to that.
‘My mother was Armenian. No, really. I am. The Kremlin hired me to keep you safe. Is that so hard to believe?’
‘And you have the credentials from them to prove this?’
On a deniable black op? The man was joking. Mind you, he didn’t look like someone who enjoyed a laugh.
‘A man in my position arouses envy. I have to keep track of my enemies. You have to watch your back all the time in this business.’
Well, you did choose to become an arms dealer, thought Dima. If you want to sleep well at night sell eggs, or oranges.
‘By the way, I passed the US Marines on my way in. And I don’t think they’re here as customers.’
Kaffarov’s smirk now twisted up at one end.
‘Yes, the Americans seem to think they should have a monopoly of the world’s armaments market. So narrow-minded of them. And –’ he adjusted his grip on the Uzi ‘ – out of date.’
‘You know, those guys have had quite a bit of practice at this stuff. It’s only a matter of time before they
figure out how to get in here.’
For a man who had the US Marines knocking on his door he wasn’t breaking into much of a sweat. Dima glanced at the dead North Korean, turning his pool pink.
‘And who’s going to guard you now?’
‘Do you want to apply for the job?’
It should have been a joke, but his face said otherwise. A rat in a hole too deep to dig his way out alone?
‘I can offer very attractive terms.’
Keep humouring him, Dima thought.
‘Well, it’s the first time I’ve been offered a job at gunpoint.’
No smile was forthcoming.
‘Farouk Al Bashir is dead. I heard it on CNN so it must be true. So I guess the PLR’s finished.’
Kaffarov shook his head.
‘On the contrary. With Bashir out of the way, the true force of the PLR will be unleashed: 9/11 will just be a footnote in history after what’s coming.’
Dima hoped this was an empty boast. He feared it wasn’t.
‘You don’t know it, Dima Mayakovsky, but you’re quite naive. I know your exact type. Steeped in the Spetsnaz folklore, never quite able to shake off that old Soviet bullshit.’
He shook his head. ‘And here you are, struggling to make a living doing other people’s dirty work. There are hundreds of you out there, bitter and twisted after having served the Motherland so faithfully. You should have grasped the opportunity when it was there. I saw the writing on the Berlin Wall. You know what it said? Every man for himself.’
Kaffarov was getting into his stride now. He pulled the Uzi in towards him a little: were his arms getting tired?
‘I know exactly why you’re here. Because some apparatchik in Moscow got to hear that yet another item of supposedly top secret weaponry had found its way on to the open market. You know what his first thought was? How do I cover my ass? Sack someone. Find a scapegoat, make them take the fall. Wait. Even better: tell the person you’re about to sack to organise a search and rescue operation. It’s bound to fail. Then sack them. Unfortunately the person you’ve chosen isn’t such a stupid jerk as you hoped: he brings his own men. But you still give him the wrong intelligence. Then boom! Sound familiar?’
Dima felt a surge of rage. Kaffarov knew all along, just as he had suspected. He nodded, pleased with himself.
‘I have many friends, Dima. I am a very popular man. Being rich makes you very popular. You should try it someday.’
Dima could feel his patience wearing out. The Uzi was still pointing his way but Kaffarov seemed to have got absorbed by his own smugness. He could see the inferior officer who lurked underneath, who had never succeeded in the military, who had probably taken a fair amount of shit from his more successful peers. How sad that a man of his wealth and influence was wasting time bragging on like this. More than sad: stupid.
Dima kept up a pensive expression, as if he was gratefully absorbing his wisdom. Standing over him, Kaffarov had overlooked the fact that while he was talking, Dima, slumped at the edge of the pool, drenched but no longer out of breath, was slowly letting his left hand slide in the direction of Kaffarov’s right foot.
There was a loud blam from the other side of the reinforced door. Kaffarov’s eyes darted left and Dima lunged, hooking his hand round Kaffarov’s ankle and pulling it forward with such a jolt that Kaffarov landed on his back, the impact knocking all the wind out of him. The Uzi flew out of his hand, arced through the air, dropped on to the poolside and, like a lethal game of spin the bottle, revolved several times and came to a stop just out of Kaffarov’s reach.
There was another loud thud outside the door. He hoped it might be Kroll and Vladimir, but feared it was the Marines.
Dima sprang up and bent over Kaffarov, a hand tightening round his neck.
‘Show me where the nukes are. Now.’
Kaffarov’s mouth was moving but no sound was coming out. The complacency had gone, replaced by a look of dismay, as he absorbed what had just happened.
‘I told you they’re gone.’ He nodded in the opposite direction to the door. Dima released his grip so he could get his breath.
‘Don’t fuck with me. I will most definitely kill you.’
It was an empty threat, because he needed to get him back to Moscow alive. That was the deal. But his skin had turned grey.
‘Gone where? Who has them? Talk. Now!’
Kaffarov stretched a hand out as if trying to point further into the bunker. His mouth opened again as if in protest, but his body had surrendered. His chest went rigid as his head flopped forward. Dima locked his hands together, found the correct spot at the base of the sternum and pushed down, hard. Indelibly lodged in the back of his mind was the song they sang during first aid training, to get the rhythm right: In-out, in-out, my woman likes it hard. They were meant to sing For-ward, for-ward! For the Motherland with joy! but locked up in those huts for three years they had come to prefer the unofficial version. He opened Kaffarov’s mouth, held his nose and breathed in three times, then pushed down again. Nothing. There was another explosion outside, bigger this time, and all the lights in the bunker went out. He was in complete darkness.
All that firepower from the greatest forces in the world and the quarry had died of heart failure.
48
As he moved towards the blasted chalet, Blackburn had one thing only on his mind: Solomon, the last word uttered by the expiring Bashir. He didn’t even know if it was a name at all. He could have been trying to say something else. It hadn’t registered with his interrogators. Cole had been unimpressed. Nonetheless, it was the name he had given to the figure he’d seen on the bank’s security screen, and to the swordsman he had seen decapitate Harker. Solomon. He repeated it over and over. It expanded to cover everything that had conspired against him over the last three days.
He was going to be first in. Campo and Montes sensed it. Blackburn was a man possessed. They could have hung on, waited for Cole, regrouped. Montes had already radioed for full-on Medevac. If Cole was injured, so be it. All of his energy was focused on Solomon and the nukes now. Nothing else in the world mattered. Campo and Montes were with him, but as far as Blackburn was concerned he was on his own.
‘Hey, I hear something.’ Montes started clawing at the rubble. ‘We got injured here.’ Campo went to help. Blackburn ignored him, kept moving, climbing the steps to the shattered balcony.
The dead man on the first floor was face down. Western civilian clothes – black T-shirt and pants. Blackburn lifted his head: pudgy oriental features frozen forever into a contortion of pain from the fatal wound that had emptied most of the blood out of his system. He checked for a pulse, just to be sure. None. He glanced at the room. Nothing like he had ever seen before. So much wealth and so much damage. A lump of masonry from the front wall fell away, crashing to the ground below. Think. He called up the plans he had memorised, re-orientated himself. The walls were clad in wood panels, doors leading off to the left but none on the right – none that were visible. The plans he had examined at Firefly had shown that a corridor perpendicular to the landing had been cut into the mountain, leading to a cluster of underground rooms. How did you get in there?
Calm and very focused, he pulled off a glove and ran his hand over the surface. All the way down the left side of the landing, each panel ran floor to ceiling, with a narrow three millimetre gap between each one. No handles or apertures. No infrared devices. The door, if there was one at all, had been expertly concealed. He stood back, looked for any signs of wear. Thirty centimetres from the bottom, on the right-hand side of one crack, just discernible, were three red-brown fingerprints. He wiped a thumb across. They made a smear: fresh. How could they have gotten there? Was the panel beside them a hidden doorway? It had to be. He gave the panel a hard kick. Solid. He would have to blow it.
He radioed. ‘Breaching. Stand by.’
Campo came back. ‘Roger that.’
He applied the grenade launcher to his M4, transforming his rifle into a door
buster. The shock could bring down more of the chalet but it was a risk he had to take. The blast seemed to shake the whole mountain: a thick cloud of dust filled the corridor. It minced the wood panels, exposing the door frame. He inserted another grenade and repeated the process. The second explosion felt even bigger. A lump from the ceiling came loose and before Blackburn could move it crashed down on him, knocking him to the floor. Then the left-hand wall caved, in bringing more of the ceiling with it. When he came to he was in darkness, cut off from the others.
‘Blackburn – talk to us! Over.’ It was Campo.
Blackburn didn’t reply. He flicked on his helmet light and in the dusty gloom he could just make out the door – opened by about thirty centimetres. He was quickly up and on it, shouldering it with all his weight, adrenalin pulsing through him, as an instinct stronger than anything he had known before drove him forward into the passage that led to the bunker.
The only light was from his torch. He caught the smell of chlorine, remembered a deep rectangle on the plan which could have been a pool. He paused, trying to hear over the sound of his own pumping pulse. Something. A movement. He kept going forward. He passed a room with screens: presumably the nerve centre. Then ahead he caught the glint of water. He couldn’t hear anything but sensed a presence. He was near now, near to what he had come for. He swept the space with the torch beam. A large corpse in the water, same size as the dead guy outside, a second man down on the poolside. And a third, crouching, his drenched clothes glistening in the torchlight, staring back at him.
49
‘US Forces! Freeze!’ said the voice.
Fuck off, said Dima to himself. Americans are always so melodramatic. He couldn’t see the American, but the American could see him loud and clear. Where were Vladimir, Kroll and the others? He had to assume the worst. He didn’t even want to think about Kristen – or Amara, whom he’d promised to deliver back to her father in one piece. He was alone and soaked; the man he had gone through madness to chase down and take alive was lying dead at his feet. And now he had an over-excited American playing cops and robbers with him. This job just gets better by the minute, he thought.
Battlefield 3: The Russian Page 19