He glanced approvingly at Omorova.
‘I’m right aren’t I, Katya?’
Dima realised he hadn’t even found out her first name. Hopeless. She projected her best smile at Bulganov. If anyone could persuade him to stay in Moscow it was her. But Bulganov was loving every second.
‘You know, I envy you Dima.’
This is getting ridiculous, thought Dima. Maybe he’s showing off in front of her.
‘You do these things. You don’t give a shit about the money. Having money’s a burden. It doesn’t leave you alone. It’s like a baby. Needs twenty-four/seven attention. You – you don’t have a thing to worry about. You’re free.’
Dima decided not to engage. There was too much on his mind right now. Solomon was taking up more and more of his headspace. By the end of Monday, all their problems and disappointments could be dwarfed by unimaginable catastrophe – and there would be no one for him to find in Paris.
There was also one other matter on his mind: Blackburn. He’d paid a high price for saving Dima’s life. He leaned across to Omorova. ‘You think the message will get through?’
Omorova sighed.
‘I can’t guarantee it. It’s been a long time since anyone’s used that channel. We’ll just have to hope.’
The Rolls swept through the airport VIP gate and on towards Bulganov’s waiting jet.
76
Fort Donaldson, USA
George Jacobs had worked on the base for longer than anyone could remember. In fact, he was the longest-serving civilian staffer on Donaldson. He’d arrived there at the age of sixteen and now he was fifty-eight. He worked hard, kept out of trouble, had always been helpful. ‘No job too menial, that’s me,’ was his trademark response to any request. Always willing, always positive, he usually went about his work with a song on his lips, often the classics. He knew the whole of Cole Porter and everything Buddy Holly ever sang, and Sinatra too.
He had tended the gardens until his handlers decided that it would be more useful if he worked inside, so he got himself transferred to cleaner. But because he was so handy they upgraded him to maintenance. From then on, he toured the whole facility fixing window catches, sticking down sticking-up floor tiles, unblocking blocked air-conditioning ducts. And he went about his business with so little fuss that most times people didn’t even notice he was there. Exactly as he’d been told to do by the group of people he knew only as Cousin Hal.
Everything he’d done in his entire career was just so he could watch what was coming in and going out. Planes, hardware. He had an encyclopaedic knowledge of all forms of military transport. He could look at a Humvee fifty yards away and quote the chassis number to the nearest hundred. He could tell a Seattle-made C-130 from a Missouri-made C-130.Who wanted to know? He never asked. Don’t ask, just deliver. That was the deal. What made George so good at his job was that he never asked: he just did it.
So when the latest Hal called him and they met at the Taco Bell on 45 he wasn’t prepared for what was coming.
‘Something a little different’, said Hal. ‘You up for it?’
‘You know me,’ said George, tucking into caramel apple empanada, his favourite.
‘There’s a guy in the stockade. You ever go in there?’
‘Sure but I can’t see him. He’s in solitary.’
‘You pass by his cell?’
‘Sure.’
‘There anyone in the corridor when you pass?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘They pay you much attention?’
‘Nope.’
‘You like singing, yeah?’
When Hal said one of those things it creeped him out that they knew so much about him.
‘Sure I like to sing.’ He was about to list his top ten when Hal cut in.
‘Got a new song for you to sing.’
And Hal told him the words.
77
Blackburn lay on his pallet, listening to the sound of nothing. The only interruption came about every half an hour. There were footsteps but he never saw whose. The meal trolley was the most exciting sound of the day. Its squeaky wheels stopped only once as they progressed down the corridor: he was the only detainee.
The humming was different. So different, he decided it was just another voice in his head. Da de da de dad a. Dad de da de dad a. An old voice. It reminded him of his grandfather. It was accompanied by a scraping sound – and then steps – a stepladder. Da de da de dad a. Dad de da de dad a. Then some words.
I’m flying to Paris, I’m keeping my promise. I’ll be there tomorrow. Da de da . . . Do not, repeat, do not despair.
George didn’t think it was much of a song. April in Paris, now that was a song. But he sang it like he was told, as he examined the aircon ducts that ran along the ceiling of the corridor. He was a bit unsure about cleaning them because he knew they’d not been touched in years and once he got started – well, it could be one of those jobs that went on and on. But that’s what Hal wanted. Reasons for him to be there more than once. He was due some overtime, so he told the site manager he’d try and get as much as he could done over the weekend.
78
Paris
It was two a.m. when Bulganov’s Lear descended through thick cloud into Paris airspace. The cloud was emptying its load on to Charles De Gaulle runway number two as they thumped on to the ground, and the pilot coaxed the brakes to bring them to a halt.
The airport VIP crew met them with umbrellas and escorted them to the waiting VIP coach. When you travelled with Bulganov it was VIP all the way. His first step on Parisian terra firma and Dima’s pulse shifted up a gear. The clock was really ticking now. He and Kroll were in matching black Hugo Boss suits, borrowed from Bulganov’s Moscow security detail. Dima’s fitted better than Kroll’s, which was a little short in the leg and with his loping gait made him look like a gangly, prematurely-aged adolescent.
They had their Iranian passports ready – there hadn’t been any time to prepare fresh ones, but such was Bulganov’s clout that they were greeted by the French immigration team like old friends. They weren’t even asked to remove their preposterous dark glasses.
‘For a minute there I thought they were going to kiss us on both cheeks,’ said Kroll.’
‘Don’t get too used to it,’ snapped Dima.
‘No need to snap,’ scolded Kroll.
For all the drive into Paris Dima said nothing. He sat staring out of the window into the rainy night, memories flooding back, mixed with anticipation about what was without doubt the assignment of his life. So much at stake, failure wasn’t an option. The photographs, tantalisingly thrust in front of him by Paliov. No name – just the place his son worked. And the cruellest irony of all, that it was Solomon’s target.
Bulganov’s apartment was just off the Champs Elysées. As the Rolls came to a stop Dima saw it. Parked up on the kerb, a dogeared Renault Espace people-mover with smoked glass windows and no hubcaps. Rossin might as well have had the words ‘Danger – Surveillance’ stencilled along the side.
‘So when do we start?’ said Bulganov, rubbing his hands.
‘You get some rest while we hook up with our local fixer.’
Bulganov looked a little disappointed, but given the late hour and the weather, it didn’t seem like a bad option.
‘There’s a keypad there,’ he pointed out. ‘Just tap in 7474 if you change your mind and want somewhere a bit more comfortable to stay.’
‘What does he think this is,’ said Kroll under his breath. ‘A weekend break?’
Bulganov disappeared into the building and the side door of the Espace slid open. Rossin leapt out and embraced his old friend, kissing him on both cheeks.
‘It’s been too long.’
‘That’s not what you said on the phone.’
In the ten years since Dima had seen him, Rossin had aged twenty. He had put on about thirty pounds. His dark French-Algerian features had shrivelled a little but the lively eyes suggested he hadn’t lost his
appetite for the game.
‘Step into my office. I have interesting things to show you.’
The interior of the Espace smelled of coffee, garlic, cigarette ash and mildew.
‘First let me say I have been extremely careful, in view of your current status. Naturally, any whiff of our previous association could prejudice my investigations.’
Dima felt the same impatience he always experienced in his dealings with Rossin.
‘Let’s just cut to the chase, okay?’
‘There have been some significant developments but I must warn you – there is a great deal of danger associated with this mission.’
‘I think I’m aware of that,’ said Dima.
‘Your man is very, very clever. This you must know. As you are aware, I have the very best channels with which to access files of the DGSE, the DCRI, the DPSD . . .’
Dima headed him off.
‘And all their files on him are wiped.’
Rossin nodded and wagged a finger.
‘In fact there’s no evidence any of themever had any record of him. He’s done an extremely good job of covering his tracks. However!’ A light came into his eyes. ‘The Service Central de la Sécurité des Systèmes d’Informations—.’ He interrupted himself to grab a quick breath. ‘They showed me a link to a North African extremist group, Force Noir, which he supposedly infiltrated in the late ‘90s up in Clichy-sous-Bois.’
‘Nice part of town.’
Dima remembered it: grim anonymous towers of substandard housing decked in graffiti and satellite dishes. And no white faces.
Rossin nodded, his mouth turned downwards in a Gallic show of distaste.
‘One of the worst – on fire through most of the summer of ’05. Not so bad now since Sarkozy cracked down on them.’ He opened his laptop. ‘So we did a little surveillance of a couple of blocks where we knew they were active.’ He struck a key like a concert pianist at the start of a concerto. ‘Et – voilà!’
Dima peered at the screen: Solomon. Exactly as he remembered him and exactly how Marine Sergeant Henry Blackburn had described him. A tall figure, heavy brow, high cheekbones and dark empty eyes. Hard to put an age or nationality to. The perfect twenty-first century triple agent turned terrorist. He felt his pulse accelerate again and the muscles in his chest tighten.
‘That’s him.’
He turned the laptop towards Kroll, who bent his head close to the screen. Rossin eased it back towards him.
‘There’s more.’
Rossin scrolled slowly through shots of three more men coming either in or out of the same block.
‘Bernard, Syco, Ramon. They don’t seem to have surnames. They’re all on file.’
‘Syco’s my favourite,’ said Kroll, looking at the biggest and ugliest of the three.
‘When were these taken?’
‘Yesterday.’
‘Good work. You have a log?’
Rossin opened another window and read off the times.
‘Solomon – enters at three-thirty, shortly after the other three have arrived. They are all believed to be inhabiting an apartment on the ninth floor. Solomon leaves at eight. We followed him to a small hotel in the Rue Marcellin Berthelot, about four ks from there. He’s registered there as Zayed Trahore, good Algerian name. But he goes back to the apartment an hour later and I’m betting he is still there.’
Rossin allowed himself a small triumphant smirk before he ploughed on. There’s a man, thought Dima, who loves his work.
‘Now comes the most interesting part. A Citroen van with the livery of an air freight company called Cargotrak made a delivery there at nine-thirty last night. Not a good time to be out on the streets there, I might add. Syco and Ramon carried a box about the size of a small fridge into the building.’
Dima looked at Kroll. ‘Jesus. He flew it in on a cargo plane.’
Kroll let a slow breath out.
‘Better bet than excess baggage, if you grease the right palms.’
Rossin raised a finger.
‘Cargotrak has a long standing contract with the CIA for shipments to Afghanistan and neighbouring destinations. As I say, your man is a clever one.’
Kroll booted up Shenk’s scanner.
‘What’s that?’ Rossin looked suddenly worried.
‘Just our insurance.’
Kroll compared the co-ordinates with the map of Paris on the iPad he’d borrowed from Omorova.
‘Looks good.’
Dima frowned into space.
‘Right. Better get on with it. Where’s Vladimir?’
‘At the hotel.’
‘I hope it’s near Clichy.’
Rossin smiled. ‘Three blocks from Solomon’s. And full of local atmosphere.’
‘Has he got the necessary?’
‘All sorted.’
79
‘Do you never sleep?’
Vladimir gave a good look through the spy hole before he let them in.
‘I put my head on the pillow forty-five minutes ago.’
Dima gave his comrade a brotherly hug. ‘What’s a pillow?’
He looked round the room. A small lightweight arsenal awaited them: three Glock 9 mm machine pistols, a pack of stun grenades, three high-power torches, night vision goggles, Vladimir’s favourite rappelling kit.
Dima lifted the ropes.
‘Did you need these to get out of Iran?’
‘Amara persuaded me to stay for the funeral. I needed them to get out of her bedroom.’
‘So she’s coming to terms with her loss.’
‘She was quite pissed off that she couldn’t come to Paris with me.’
‘You didn’t tell her anything, did you?’
‘I’m Siberian, not stupid.’
‘You sober enough for this next bit?’
‘If I have to be.’
Dima turned to Rossin. ‘If we need you—.’
Rossin shook his head. ‘I’m out of town the next couple of days.’
‘I thought you said you’d retired.’
Rossin shrugged. ‘It’s as you said: none of us retire.’
They travelled in a grubby Citroen Xantia Rossin had procured for them. A car with three men in it at three a.m. was a potential magnet for police curiosity, even without a trunk load of weaponry. Kroll did his best to observe the speed limit until he realised that at this hour, no one else on the road was paying any attention to it either.
Close to the Clichy tower block they had to hang back while firemen dealt with a burning car. A squad of police were loading a van with protesting young men. Friday night in the small hours was not the best time to be visiting this neighbourhood.
‘Too bad we can’t do the apartment and Solomon’s hotel simultaneously.’
‘It’s the bomb I want first. Check the scanner.’
It was pulsing clearly. Dima should have been more elated, but something was troubling him, something he couldn’t put his finger on.
‘Let’s hope it doesn’t slip away from us again.’
The entrance to the block was wide open, any outer doors it had once had being long gone. So was the lift.
‘Nine stories. Fuck,’ said Vladimir.
‘Do you good. Come on.’
Three floors up they stepped over a couple zoned out on substances. Syringes crunched underfoot. Several apartments were doorless and burned out. Some that did have doors sounded like they wouldn’t have them much longer, judging by the arguments underway inside. On floor eight they were confronted by a posse of young men, their faces covered, each with a pistol.
‘Turn round if you don’t want to die.’
‘We’re busy: fuck off out the way,’ said Dima and, without even raising his Glock, shot the gun out of the leader’s hand.
The man folded into a ball and the others melted into an empty doorway.
Floor nine. Apartment six. They checked the scanner one more time. A bright green pulsing light. Dima put his night vision lenses on. The other two followed. T
hey examined the door carefully. Then Dima and Vladimir stood either side ready to rush in when Kroll shot out the lock.
Dima fired a few rounds as he burst in – high in case he caught the bomb. There wasn’t much to the flat: bedroom, living room, kitchen and bathroom. Every wall was sprayed with graffiti swirls. It stank of urine. There was nobody home.
‘Fuck. We’ve got the wrong one,’ said Kroll.
‘No we haven’t,’ said Vladimir. He was in the bathroom, pointing at a small pulsing green light. It was coming from the bomb’s signaller all right. But it wasn’t attached to any suitcase nuke.
80
Fort Donaldson, USA
The next time he heard the footsteps Blackburn was on his feet. The slot his food came through had a small gap down one side that let a sliver of light in from the corridor. He wanted to press his face up close to it, to see if he could catch a glimpse of the singer. But then there was the camera in the ceiling watching him twenty-four/seven. Schwab told him he was on suicide watch. He was pretty sure he had dreamed the song. How could Dima be sending him a message? How could he know where he was?
But what if the person was giving him a message from Dima? Blackburn could blow him wide open if he tried to speak. So he whistled the tune.
No response. Just the scraping of the ladder, then the steps.
He whistled again.
Nothing.
George went to his truck. He often went back to it during the day to pick up a fresh pack of Winstons. But he didn’t want a cigarette. He took out the emergency use, once only Pay As You Go cell phone and called Hal.
Battlefield 3: The Russian Page 27