Battlefield 3: The Russian

by Andy McNab

  The senior guard, Halberry, didn’t help matters by calling her Little Lady. He may have been twice her age and old enough to be her father and all that crap, but this was the twenty-first century and he needed to get with it.

  Eventually they came to an understanding whereby the inmate would be transferred to the medical unit secure room for observation and to undergo rehydration. He would have to be shackled. That was non-negotiable and Jackie conceded that yes, she didn’t know anything about this young man and that was one battle that she wasn’t going to win. But life in the Donaldson MedCenter had suddenly got a whole lot more interesting.

  Eventually she shooed all the guards away and they were alone. She gave him a proper examination. Suddenly he spoke.

  ‘Doctor Douglis.’

  Jackie was still not used to being addressed like that, but it sounded good. She looked at the young man whose name was Blackburn and smiled. His eyes came alive.

  ‘You smiled.’

  ‘I did.’

  She smiled again.

  ‘Thank you,’ said the young sergeant. ‘I didn’t think I’d ever see one of those again.’

  Four hours later, her head spinning from the tale she had just heard from the shackled soldier, she reluctantly left him in the care of the night shift. She went to bed to the sound of his story in her head, a story of nuclear bombs in suitcases, of Russians and terrorists. . Two hours later, still unable to sleep, she decided to call her father.

  ‘I’m sorry honey, his committee is pulling an all-nighter,’ said Senator Joseph M. Douglis’s PA, Sheila Perkis, aka Bulletproof — because nothing got past her. So now she seemed to have control of his private number — well, Jackie would see about that.

  She emailed him to call. Emergency!

  Two seconds later he called.

  ‘Honey, you okay?’

  Thank God for his Blackberry addiction. Jackie told him what Sergeant Blackburn had told her.

  ‘I hate to tell you, Hon, but the world is full of folk with all kind of stories. Guys out there in the war zone — it can get to them.’

  ‘Then I’m calling the New York Times: “Senate Security Committee member’s daughter discovers bomb threat to New York, but her Dad didn’t want to know”. Kind of a mouthful, but I guess they’ll get a headline out of it.’

  Joe Douglis felt a tap on his shoulder from the usher. They were back in session. He let out a long sigh of defeat. She was headstrong all right — even worse than her mother.

  ‘Just leave it with me, okay, honey?’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘Promise.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘I’ve said I promise.’

  When Jackie Douglis returned to Donaldson next morning, Sergeant Henry Blackburn was gone. All she could discover was that a special team had arrived unannounced by air and flown him out. Destination unknown.

  85

  Paris

  This time Dima drove while Kroll and Vladimir tried to brace themselves. He hurled the Xantia at the Paris streets, throwing it into extreme broadsides and drifts rather than so much as touch the brakes. He didn’t know for sure that Rossin still lived at the same address and he doubted he would still be there, but right now he didn’t have a better idea.

  Timofayev could have tipped off Solomon, but Rossin?

  Solomon had been his best pupil, bar none. He soaked up everything Dima could teach him as if he already knew it and was just getting a refresher. He had answers before Dima had finished the question; he grasped techniques first time and never needed to practise. He could stab kick and punch more accurately and with more force than any other trainee. He solved whatever challenge Dima threw at him with an effortless ease that was intimidating. More than once it felt to Dima as if Solomon could see into his head and anticipate just what was coming. And right now he felt it again. Solomon, always a step ahead.

  Dima brought the Xantia to a halt broadside in front of Rossin’s Espace. He was out of the car before it had stopped, wrenching open Rossin’s door and pulling him out on to the pavement. Before the Frenchman hit the ground Dima had a knife at his neck. Rossin’s eyes bulged like they were about to pop their sockets. Dima caught a glimpse of the Espace interior. It was stuffed with luggage.

  ‘I think your trip’s just been called off.’

  ‘Dima, please. I–I don’t understand.’

  Dima gripped the Frenchman’s throat with one hand and applied the knife with the other. ‘You don’t understand why we’re still alive?’

  It was all Dima could do not to plunge the knife right into his neck but he’d made enough mistakes for one night. Rossin needed to get the message fast. He flicked the blade up and sliced off an earlobe.

  Rossin squealed like a pig until Dima put the flat of the blade against his mouth, the point half up his nostril.

  ‘Where is he — NOW!’

  Saliva was running down Rossin’s cheek mingling with the steady course of blood oozing from his ear.

  ‘Headed for the airport. He’s going to New York.’

  ‘What about Paris? What about the Bourse?’

  He shook his head. ‘The Bourse is under extra guard. They had a tip off.’

  ‘The nukes. Have they been shipped?’

  Rossin nodded. Then stopped.

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t—.’

  ‘What flight’s he on?’

  ‘Atlantis — it’s one of those all business class—.’

  ‘Why should I believe you?’

  Dima pressed the knife harder against his ear.

  ‘He told me. He said it was leaving at seven a.m.’

  Kroll was already on the phone to Omorova, checking the flight.

  ‘Under what name?’

  ‘I don’t know. That’s the God’s truth.’

  Dima put his face closer.

  ‘OK, last question: why?’

  Rossin swallowed, tears saliva and blood messing up his shirt.

  ‘Please. He made it impossible for me. Dima — you know what he’s like. You can’t refuse. You understand, Dima. You know me. I’m not cut out for the hard stuff. Surveillance — that’s me.’

  It was a huge effort of will not to shove the knife right into his neck and have done with it but that would just mean more mess to clear up. He let go and Rossin crumpled to the ground. He looked at his watch — broken in the blast. He lifted Rossin’s. Five-fifteen. An hour and forty-five minutes.

  He turned to Kroll, who had his cellphone pressed to an ear.

  ‘You want the passenger manifest?’

  ‘No time. You sort this lot out. Get his laptop — everything on it. Grill him for all he’s got. Kill him if he doesn’t co-operate. I’m going to the airport.’

  ‘You’ll never get past security.’

  ‘I’ll take Bulganov. I knew he’d come in handy.’

  86

  ‘What is this?’ A look of disgust suffused Bulganov’s face when he saw the scuffed Citroen. Having just been dragged from his bed after three hours’ sleep he was not at his best.

  ‘It’s what us ordinary mortals use for transport. Get in.’

  Dima brought him up to date as he drove.

  ‘Where do I fit in?’

  Bulganov’s appetite for the chase seemed to have cooled overnight.

  ‘Just use your magic cards to get us through security. He’s going to be in the Atlantis VIP lounge and if we miss him there we’ll find him at the gate.’

  ‘But I’m not booked in.’

  ‘You are. Omorova sorted it. Plus one bodyguard. Except we’re not going to fly.’

  Dima had also helped himself to some of Bulganov’s wardrobe. Even with a famous oligarch in tow he couldn’t have got past security covered in plaster dust and Rossin’s blood.

  ‘Have you thought how you’re going to stop him?’

  ‘They still have metal cutlery in VIP lounges? Otherwise I’ll have to disarm some airport security.’

  ‘We’ll make ourselves terribly un
popular.’

  ‘So? We’re Russians. We always get to be the bad guys.’

  87

  Department of Homeland Security, New York City

  The last thing Blackburn remembered was Jackie’s smile. He clung on to the memory like it was a lifebelt that kept him from being sucked back into oblivion. After her smile, there were other faces. Then nothing, then the sensation of travel — on a stretcher still, but in the air, because he felt his ears pop. Now he was in a wheelchair, dazed from a chemical sleep, going up in a lift. He had heard traffic, horns, growling diesels, a city definitely.

  Someone slapped his face. Not hard, but enough to feel hostile. But he was well used to hostility now. Maybe he was immune. He had heard that song. It was a message from Dima. He was on the case. He wanted me to know.

  The room had windows but the lower glass was frosted. Two yellowy fluorescents gave the grey-green walls a sickly glow. There was a strong smell of cigarette ash.

  ‘Okay, Henry. Good flight?’

  Blackburn focused on the man who had appeared in front of him. Grey, close-cropped hair, light stubble that seemed to cover his head and half his face. Thick neck, big shoulders. A quarterback’s build.

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Good. Glad to see you’re still able to think. Just gone two p.m. Welcome to the Big Apple.’

  He leaned down.

  ‘I’m Agent Whistler, with Homeland Security. I’m hearing you’ve got an idea someone’s going to nuke the world’s favourite city.’

  Blackburn didn’t respond.

  ‘Eight hours ago I get a call says there’s a Marine in detention in the brig in Donaldson for taking out his CO, and he’s got one crazy story to tell. And this is coming from a US Senator no less. Friends in high places, Henry.’

  ‘I don’t know anything about that part.’

  ‘Well, that’s the part that matters because we sure as hell wouldn’t of wasted tax dollars air-freighting you to New York if the Senator hadn’t told us to. So now you’re here we may as well kill a little time going over your story.’

  Each time Blackburn told his tale he thought it sounded less believable. An evil mastermind, a former CIA asset gone rogue, bent on the destruction of the West, with simultaneous nuclear detonations in Paris and New York, together with the sum total of his and Dima’s pooled information — Blackburn’s sighting of the maps, the name on Bashir’s dying lips and Dima’s knowledge of Solomon. All the time he was speaking, Whistler stared out of the unfrosted half of the window, the morning sun bouncing off his glistening forehead. Blackburn couldn’t tell if he was paying attention or not. Maybe he was just going through the motions because someone had told him to. When he was done, Whistler turned and faced him.

  ‘So here’s what I’m getting from this. Stop me when I go off piste. You saw two maps in a Tehran bank vault: Paris and New York. Paris one’s got a big ‘X marks the spot’ right over the stock exchange.’

  ‘It was an inked circle.’

  ‘Whatever. And there’s another mark on New York, right on Times Square. Any dates, times?’

  ‘Two bombs the same day — maximum chaos. Like 9/11.’

  ‘Your theory.’

  ‘Dima’s.’

  ‘And he’s the expert right? He’s the one spun the yarn about this scheming devil. This ain’t a comic book and you sure ain’t no superhero, Blackburn.’

  ‘I saw him slice the head off an American Marine. I saw his face, I saw his eyes. I saw the same man leave the Tehran Bank with a pair of nukes.’

  Whistler looked down, studied a broken fingernail, then picked at it.

  ‘Some story son. And your Russian pal, Dima. Why you covering for him, huh?’

  ‘I’m not covering for anyone.’

  ‘You killed your own CO to save his neck. I call that covering.’

  Blackburn felt what little patience he had left draining away.’

  ‘Hey Whistler, why are you guys covering for Solomon?’

  Whistler wheeled round, his lips almost curling with distaste.

  ‘Son, we ask the questions.’

  ‘Well I’ve got no more answers. Why doesn’t anyone go and check out Solomon? Does having been a CIA asset make him an untouchable?’

  ‘Son—.’

  ‘I AM NOT YOUR FUCKING SON.’

  ‘Solomon is a deep cover CIA asset. There is no question—.’

  ‘Is that how you’re going to explain it to your Senator when a nuke goes off on Wall Street? “Sir, there was no question in our mind so we DIDN’T FUCKING CHECK”.’

  The outburst made Blackburn feel faint, but he kept his eyes fixed on Whistler. Something had to give. He owed it to Dima. He owed it to himself.

  88

  Paris

  Dima’s driving had shot Bulganov’s nerves but he was wide awake when they pulled into the VIP parking area. Two heavies came forward to wave them away but Bulganov’s ID and VIP card did the trick. ‘Pardon, Monsieur.’

  ‘Only trying to do their job,’ said Bulganov.

  ‘Aren’t we all?’ said Dima.

  An Atlantis steward was waiting with their tickets.

  ‘The flight leaves in twenty minutes. Do you have bags to check?’

  ‘We’re travelling light.’

  Dima told Bulganov to hang back. He needed to do this alone and he needed full concentration. His heart was thumping. He was Doctor Frankenstein seeking to reclaim his monster. The lounge was all grey leather and glass tables. A lot more restrained than Bulganov’s penthouse, but this was France not Russia. Twenty or so passengers, almost all men, several hunched over laptops, some at computer terminals, several on the phone, a few lounging in comfy chairs. All this at five in the morning. When do people sleep? thought Dima. When did I sleep?

  Dima scanned the lounge, methodically eliminating each passenger until he got to the one who was furthest from the door. His face was obscured by a Wall Street Journal, but there was something about the hands, the frame — indelibly imprinted on his memory. As Dima came nearer the paper was lowered. For the first time in twenty years, they faced each other.

  If anything he looked younger. Perhaps he had had some work done on his face. His hair was a bit longer than before, parted in the centre and still jet black, as were his eyebrows. The cheekbones showed a few broken blood vessels and the whites of his eyes were pinkish and bloodshot. The suit was tailored and the white shirt open halfway down his chest was more consistent with a playboy than a West-hating terrorist.

  Solomon glared at him through half-closed eyes, one eyebrow raised a little as if weary of being approached by yet another annoying interloper, rather than the person who had moulded him into a lethal asset.

  Solomon spoke first. ‘You don’t give up, do you?’

  Dima felt an uncomfortable mixture of hatred and tenderness. It was hard not to erase entirely your positive feelings for someone you once regarded as close. But judging by Solomon’s expression it was all too clear that the feeling wasn’t mutual.

  ‘You know me.’ Dima nodded at the surroundings — the rich men awaiting an expensive flight. ‘You’ve done all right, it seems. Is this what you wanted?’

  Solomon looked away. ‘What I want, Mayakovsky, is something you could not possibly appreciate.’

  ‘Not being a psychopath.’

  He gave a weary shrug. ‘The world is out of balance. Something has to give.’

  He folded up the paper and placed it neatly on the table beside him. Then he folded his hands in his lap. Each movement had a precision that seemed robotic. That’s what he is, Dima thought — a machine, inhabiting a human form.

  He smiled a thin smile. ‘When I heard you were on my trail I was amused. I hadn’t given you a second thought for — oh — longer than I can remember. So I decided to do a little research on you.’

  Over the PA came the announcement that the Atlantis flight to JFK was ready to board.

  Dima found his voice. ‘There’s not much to research.’<
br />
  Solomon’s eyebrows rose. ‘You’ve certainly gone down in the world, that’s true, despite giving up alchohol — or have you lapsed? But there was much you never told me, Dima, when I was your eager pupil. I never imagined for example that you had once loved a woman, that you had even fathered a child.’

  Solomon’s lips curved into a thin smile. ‘So very nearly the family man. How very touching. And how sad you never knew him. He’s at the Bourse, as you know. A nice boy, looks like you.’

  Dima’s heart was smashing against his ribs, as if it was about to punch its way out of his chest.

  ‘Timofayev’s dead. I killed him. So’s Kaffarov. It’s over. You’re on your own.’

  Solomon smirked. ‘You’ve forgotten, Dima, I was always on my own. I’ve never acted otherwise.’

  ‘You’ve missed your chance in Paris. You think you’ll get lucky in New York?’

  He frowned, dismayed, his eyes glinting now. ‘Whatever do you mean? I never miss anything. Surely you remember that?’

  Solomon’s eyes were wells of deathly black. ‘You know what I’m most disappointed about? That I didn’t arrange for an occasion to slice your irritating head off your sad old shoulders with a nice sharp blade. It would have given me such pleasure to watch you die.’

  He started to get up. Dima lunged forward and grabbed his neck with both hands. Solomon’s crushing grip closed round his wrists. Immediately an alarm sounded and out of nowhere half a dozen security goons surged towards them. Four of them lifted Dima off and forced him to the ground.

  Solomon straightened his suit and turned towards the other passengers hurrying away from the melee. Then he stopped and came back, bending down so his face was just inches from Dima’s.

  ‘Poor old Mayakovsky. Always in the wrong place. You should have been at the Bourse trying to save your son.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Too bad you’ll never have that reunion. Ten-thirty and—.’ He snapped his fingers in the air. ‘Au revoir, Paris.’

  89

  New York City