‘Will you look at that?’
Kroll was suddenly a kid again, revitalised by the sight of a cornucopia of Cold War hardware. Surrounded by a flock of Mil helicopters of all types were half a dozen Tupolev-95 ‘Bears’, that would have spent their lives annoying NATO up and down the North Sea, and maybe as many as twenty MiG-15s, the first Soviet jet fighter with Rolls Royce-inspired engines. How considerate of the Brits to share their knowhow. Dima felt the mixed messages of Soviet nostalgia. In retrospect he knew the Soviet Union was fucked, but it seemed like a good idea at the time.
‘Surely with that lot we really ought to have won the Cold War,’ said Kroll, peering at the graveyard below.
‘We did: it was just the wrong “we”.’
‘Well, let’s hope they’ve got some decent wheels down there.’
Dima put the Kamov down in a gap between some corrugated iron sheds and a giant wingless Ilyushin II-76 transporter. A gang of labourers were slicing at the fuselage with chainsaws, like ants consuming some huge prey. Three men wearing tattoos and oil-stained overalls emerged from the sheds, with AKs at the ready, one prominently out in front.
‘Jesus,’ said Kroll. ‘Get a load of this.’
‘I’ve had warmer welcomes.’
Devoid of government markings and battle scarred as it was, the shiny new Kamov still reeked of officialdom.
‘Turn round and fuck off back to Moscow unless you want a bullet in the bollocks!’ yelled the largest of the three, an unlit cheroot flapping between his brown teeth.
‘Maybe Mad Max here thinks we’re from the tax office.’
Dima and Kroll lowered themselves slowly on to the ground, hands raised. A cocktail of rust, engine oil and unwashed bodies wafted in through the gap where Dima had shot off the door.
‘Mmm-hmh!’ Kroll inhaled appreciatively.
‘It smells a lot better than that car you live in,’ said Dima.
‘We’re just passing through,’ said Kroll, ‘and we wondered if—.’
‘Shut up and stand over there.’
Dima nudged Kroll as they went.
‘They don’t call it the Wild East for nothing’.
63
Azerbaijan
Mad Max looked them up and down, taking in Dima’s torn and blood-spattered shirt.
‘Who the fuck are you?’
‘Doesn’t matter. We’re looking for a trade,’ said Dima neutrally.
Surrounded by the rusting hulks in various stages of dismemberment, the shiny Kamov looked entirely alien. Some of the crew chipping away at the Ilyushin switched off their chainsaws.
‘Very funny. Do we look like a street market?’
But Max was leering at the chopper as if it was a lapdancer. For all the bluster, his eyes were saying ‘Come to me, baby.’
‘We need a change of transport. Something more – grounded. Two fast, reliable vehicles and the Kamov’s yours. You’ll never get another deal like it.’
At this, one of the others started towards the chopper. Kroll waved a finger.
‘Ah-ah. Look, don’t touch.’
Max had caught sight of Amara sitting in the rear, looking blank. His eyes widened even further. He circled the chopper, not sure whether he was believing what he was seeing, then took the cheroot out of his mouth and rolled it ruminatively between two oily orange fingers.
Dima glanced at Kroll, who said: ‘My sister.’
Max laughed. ‘A man can look, can’t he?’
‘She’s very shy: doesn’t like to be stared at.’
‘It’s a hell of a deal,’ said Dima. ‘You could retire. Get a nice villa somewhere.’
‘I live for my work: why would I want to retire?’
Kroll tried another tack.
‘The Chechens would kill for one of these.’
‘I think you could have put that better,’ Dima said.
‘Back to fucking work, you useless shites!’ yelled Max. The whole place had ground to a halt at the sight of Amara.
Just visible behind the shed was an S-Class Mercedes: metallic blue with contrasting red front fenders. Dima nodded at it.
‘Got any more of those?’
‘It’s my own personal runaround. But – throw in the sister and you’ve got a deal.’
Amara looked terrified. Max pulled his head back out of the Kamov, which he’d been checking over. He looked at the row of horrified faces and laughed.
‘I’m joking, you idiots! Lost your sense of humour or what?’
‘Yeah, good one,’ said Vladimir.
‘I’ll take it. And there’s a nice Volvo here. Hardly any miles on it.’
‘Just one old lady owner, yeah, I know.’
In spite of himself, Dima smiled. Maybe they were going to get out of this okay. They wrapped Darwish in a tarp and loaded him gently into the rear of the Volvo.
‘I was hoping to get the Merc,’ said Vladimir.
‘You’re taking Amara and her father home. Then I’m going to need you in Paris.’
Vladimir’s eyes widened. ‘We’re really going to do this?’
Dima shrugged. ‘No choice.’
Although it was not yet nine a.m., Max produced a bottle of vodka from an old-fashioned chest freezer.
He poured the fiery liquid into shot glasses with ‘A Gift From Chernobyl’ embossed on the sides.
‘Valuable antiques, those.’
‘Bit early for me,’ said Dima, ‘But it’s the thought that counts. None for you: you’re driving,’ he said to Vladimir.
There was no time to waste. It was two thousand ks to Moscow. Dima took Amara aside.
‘You saved our lives back there. And your father gave his for us. If I get through this—.’
Amara put a slender finger against his lips.
‘No promises.’
‘Did your father say anything before he—?’
She smiled, the tears welling up.
‘Just that he was “very proud”.’
They embraced briefly and she got in.
‘See you in Paris. Be there by tomorrow night.’
Vladimir nodded. ‘Adios Amigos.’
Dima turned to Max, who looked as if Christmas had just come early.
‘You never saw us, right?’
‘Do we look like informers?’
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to insult you.’
‘No problem. Take care out there. And take these.’ He opened a drawer. ‘They might come in handy.’
He handed over a set of jump leads.
64
FOB Spartacus, Iraqi Kurdistan
Two MPs stood at the door. What a waste of their time, thought Blackburn. He could barely stand, let alone make a run for it, but they had still shackled his feet. He was a prisoner now, maybe for ever.
Andrews and Dershowitz had been joined by a third man in combats and a Bruce Springsteen T-shirt. He wasn’t introduced, but the other two addressed him as Wes. He had brought with him a field laptop with a hi-def screen.
They played the satellite footage for the third time. The full image included the chalet and the tunnel entrance, but each time they played it Wes zoomed in closer. And with each zoom it seemed to get more, not less, clear.
‘Okay, let’s see them groundhogs pop out one more time.’ Wes had a Texan drawl that was full of the wide outdoors, not suited to a stifling Portakabin full of perspiring men. They watched again. First Dima exiting the tunnel, recceing the hill, turning back to the tunnel, beckoning. Then Blackburn, shielding his eyes from the sudden glare. Dima lifted the phone to his ear.
‘Left-handed. Interesting.’
The other two glanced at Wes.
‘Guys from those parts save their left for when they’ve taken a shit.’
He fast-forwarded through Dima and Blackburn’s walk to the camo-covered remains of the shed.
‘Kinda touching they threw that camo over the Land Cruiser, ain’t it, like we’re gonna miss it.’
All three of them managed to find that qu
ite funny.
The screen zoomed in on Vladimir and Kroll.
‘Kinda hesitant, that greeting. Maybe Doofus here’s saying “What the fuck ya gone an’ dragged out that there tunnel, boy? Looks to me like you gone and got yourself one United States Marine”.’
Dima’s hands moved rapidly as he responded.
‘And Goofy here’s probly sayin’, “Uh-uh. This here’s a traitor to his country. He ain’t no US Marine. Fact is, this here fella ain’t even human. He’s one great big log of dawg do”.’
Wes looked up at Blackburn and laughed appreciatively at his own improvisation.
‘Sheesh, we sure get some shit to deal with, these days.’
He shook his head at the screen. ‘So “Sergeant” Blackburn. You can if you wish remain silent. What good it’s going to do you, I ain’t rightly sure, since our people will go on analysing these here bird shots till we pretty much know just exactly what you-all are sayin’ down there.’
Blackburn’s stomach took another lurch. There wasn’t much left in it. He hadn’t eaten or drunk anything in six hours, but whatever was left he vomited into the waste bin, over the burger and Coke that Dershowitz had dropped in it.
Wes closed the laptop. The other two sat back. Dershowitz picked something out of his nose and examined it.
‘It’s a crying shame, Sergeant Blackburn,’ said Dershowitz. ‘All that expensive training, son of Private Michael Blackburn, US Marine and Viet Vet, grandson of Lieutenant George Blackburn, decorated hero of World War Two: good men who gave themselves in service to their country. So what happened Henry? Where’d it all go wrong?’
65
The Road to Moscow
‘So nice to be back on terra firma, and in the bosom of Mother Russia,’ said Kroll.
Kroll was driving, one hand draped over the wheel, a can of Coke in the other. They were five hundred ks into the drive to Moscow. Another fifteen hundred to go.
‘You know, I think these S-Class W220s are my favourite. This or possibly the W126. I didn’t much like the one in between – you know the one that Princess Di—.’
Dima reached a hand round and pressed it against his mouth.
‘Two things, friend. One: shut up. Two: you’ll be taking off for Paris tonight or tomorrow, so don’t get too settled. Concentrate on the road and try not to get pulled over by the cops. They see the Azeri plates they’ll think we’re human traffickers.’
It was time for Dima to make his first call to Paris. Rossin picked up straight away. Dima tried to imagine him at his favourite table in the Café des Artistes in the Marais, a covert roll-up snagged in the cleft of two fingers and his Paris Match and the Economist spread out in front of him, for the two sides of his personality.
‘Bonjour. C’est Mayakovsky.’
He thought he heard the sound of a falling coffee cup.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t know anyone of that name.’
‘Don’t be a prick, Rossin.’
He sighed.
‘Your ugly Russian mug is on all the police and security websites. Apparently you’ve stolen some WMDs and are bent on starting World War Three – mainly for the purpose of shaming Russia.’
Dima tried to sound dismissive. ‘A clerical error. The guilty party is actually an old mutual friend of ours.’
‘Who?’
‘You ready for this? Solomon.’
He expected a silence. The name tended to provoke one.
‘Goodbye, Dima.’
‘Wait! Hear me out.’
‘I’m retired.’
‘You can’t afford to retire. None of us can.’
‘I just did, thirty seconds ago.’
‘One last favour, for old time’s sake. You’ll never hear from me again. Promise, on my mother’s grave.’
‘Your mother died in a gulag. She has no grave.’
‘Just a few shreds of information. A little surveillance. Nothing more.’
‘Solomon’s dead. We all know that.’
‘We were wrong. He was biding his time. This is his big Fuck-You to the West. So just please hear me out. The target’s the Bourse. He’ll be most likely using canteen staff or security as cover – maybe cleaners.’
‘There’ll be over a hundred.’
‘Check them all out.’
‘How long have I got?’
‘Twelve hours.’
‘Ha ha.’
‘I can pay.’
After Dima hung up, Kroll said, ‘Speaking of pay . . .’
‘We weren’t.’
‘Well, I’ve been meaning to—.’
‘Remember about “Shut up”? I’ll remember you in my will.’
‘When’s that going to happen?’
‘Soon. By tonight I’ll almost certainly be dead. Now leave me alone while I talk to Omorova again.’
66
Moscow
There was nothing pretty about the Matruska Bathhouse. It had been built in the 1930s with none of the baroque decor that adorned the other two hundred-odd facilities in the city. But even with its brutalist architecture designed to appeal to the commissariat, Stalin’s claim, just before it was due to open, that hygiene was a decadent bourgeois obsession, ensured that it remained mothballed for decades. Dima was fond of it, not only because it reminded him of his youth, but because it was almost entirely patronised by immigrants and gypsies. Despite being at the top of the world’s ‘Most Wanted’ list, he stood as good a chance here as anywhere of going unnoticed.
He gave the steam room ten minutes longer than usual to shift the various layers of grime that had accumulated over the last few days. Then he leapt into the cold pool, did forty lengths and emerged a new man, ready to save the world. He shaved, had a hair cut and a manicure and, after slipping on the special set of clothes Kroll had procured, stepped out into his favourite city.
He had lived in far more places than your average Russian, been a globetrotter – though the term wouldn’t have meant anything to most of his comrades – but this was one city he loved more than any other. And he hoped that when the time came, and in his business who knew when that was, that he would die here in Moscow.
The cab took him to the Liberia Bank of Credit and Commerce. They didn’t do much in the way of credit, and commerce was somewhat on the back burner too, but they did a nice line in security deposit boxes. And that was where Dima kept his spare life. Passports: EU, Brazilian and Egyptian; Cash: Euros, US Dollars, some Yen; Amex and Visa cards; and a Makarov with enough ammunition for a small skirmish.
The concierge gave him an odd look. But Dima’s mind was elsewhere. He went to the desk and asked for access to his box, giving the name Smolenskovitch, a name he only used at this bank. The bank clerk looked uncomfortable, but beckoned him to follow him into the vault. He had a loose sole on his shoe that slapped the carpet as he strutted ahead. He let Dima into the vault and stood at a safe distance while he watched what was about to happen. Having first clocked the security camera, Dima opened his drawer and found – nothing. Not even his spare French birth certificate. He slammed the drawer shut and marched out past the hapless clerk and past the main desk and the concierge, pushing the revolving door so hard that it was still spinning when he reached the pavement.
He felt a blow to his chest and fell straight down. No one said ‘Stop’ or ‘Freeze’. The team leader had decided to shoot on sight, at close range, to avoid other pedestrians. One to the heart. From a GSh-18 pistol, much noisier than the PSS Silent favoured by the Special Forces, but the operator wasn’t interested in being discreet. The twenty-odd pedestrians couldn’t have missed it.
A female onlooker screamed and screamed, almost blotting out the siren of the unmarked GAZ mid-size van that slewed to a halt beside the body. Though it was all over in a matter of seconds, some wiseass had managed to pull out their cameraphone, capture the incident and upload it on to YouTube before the van was gone. For good measure the phone guy did a separate shot of the pool of blood spread across the forecourt of th
e Liberia Bank.
Inside the van, the shooter pulled off her mask and shook out her hair.
‘I still can’t believe I agreed to this,’ said Omorova.
67
Baghdad Green Zone, Iraq
It was Blackburn’s first time in Baghdad’s Green Zone, not that he saw any of it, blindfolded as he now was. What was the point? He asked the MP who changed his plastic zip cuffs for proper shiny metal handcuffs. ‘The point, son, is that you’re a spy. And we don’t want spies seeing stuff they don’t need to.’
A spy. And a murderer.
They had found Cole’s body. They dug all night and most of the next day, through the rubble, the remains of the chalet and into the bunker until they came upon it. The field pathologist extracted the bullet and the forensic team took about thirty minutes to confirm that the markings on it were consistent with those on several others they had test-fired through Blackburn’s confiscated M4. And just to be sure, they dusted the rifle for prints and found only its owner’s.
Chester Hain Jnr was a different animal from his subordinate, Wes. Hain looked like a well-born Easterner with an Ivy League education. Plus the demeanour of an American who had lived overseas long enough to have learned how to blend in a little and not draw too much attention to himself: handy in his line of work. He had a faraway look in his eyes, which Blackburn imagined had come from a life trying to read between the lines. Perhaps he could read between the lines of what Blackburn had decided to tell him.
He had nothing to lose now.
‘May I talk to you alone, Sir?’
Chester Hain Jnr glanced at the man who Blackburn only knew as Wes, who had never introduced himself, who was chewing on a stick of gum and smacking his lips in a way that Blackburn’s mother had trained him out of before he’d even started grade school.
Battlefield 3: The Russian Page 24