Battlefield 3: The Russian

by Andy McNab; Peter Grimsdale

  The charm wasn’t working. Darwish was sweating, shaking. Showing all the signs of a man who had got himself into something he wished he hadn’t.

  ‘You ask I take photos. For old time’s sake. Fine. It’s dangerous but I do it. Next thing you crash helicopters, kill a lot of people. Now you ask me to betray . . .’

  Dima butted in, still with the charm. ‘You are an operator, Darwish, very well connected. You have played the game well all this time. Very few of us know your true loyalties. The fact that you are able to meet us in the open in a time of national emergency tells me that even now you believe you have nothing to fear from the PLR. No one need know your role. This isn’t just for me; it’s for your country. Think about it.’

  Darwish was thinking all right, but not in the way Dima wanted him to. Not yet. He pressed on, colder now.

  ‘We don’t have time to do the research, checking people out, surveillance, finding their weaknesses, compromising them. Instead of weeks, months, we have days, or maybe only hours, to find Kaffarov and his bombs. Brother, don’t make me push you any harder.’

  Darwish pulled away, a last burst of indignation. ‘You’re blackmailing me. After all I’ve . . .’

  Dima fixed him with a cold stare. Their relationship had always been an unequal one. While posing as a Russian Special Forces instructor to the Revolutionary Guard, Dima had acted as Darwish’s handler, running him as a high-value source deep inside the government. The intelligence had been invaluable and Darwish had been handsomely rewarded. Darwish’s cover was never blown, but he always knew that he would be in Dima’s debt.

  Dima piled on the pressure. ‘Someone close enough to Al Bashir to know about Kaffarov. We know there’s a relationship there because they were scheduled to meet in person last night. And if Al Bashir was prepared to travel up here to meet him that means he regards Kaffarov as valuable. Very valuable. Come on Darwish, think about the old days. “Anything is possible,” that was your mantra. “Anything you need Zima, you got.” Remember?’

  Defeated, Darwish let his head drop into his hands. Then after a few seconds he got to his feet. ‘Five minutes, please.’

  After Darwish left, Vladimir was the first to speak. ‘Nice show, Dima. If you don’t mind me asking, what’s this going to do for us?’

  Dima folded his arms. ‘You’ll see.’

  Then it was Kroll’s turn. ‘Since we’re this short of time wouldn’t it be quicker to break his legs?’

  Dima glanced at Zirak, who was chewing thoughtfully on his bread.

  ‘What’s on your mind?’

  ‘This jam isn’t nearly as good as my mother’s.’

  Two minutes later, Darwish was back. In his hand he held a wedding photograph and a business card. He laid the photo on the table and pointed at the groom, a dashing big-built man in his early forties, stern face. Next to him a triumphant, grinning bride.

  ‘Here is Gazul Halen. He is number three to Al Bashir. In charge of Intelligence.’

  Dima pulled the photo closer, studying the face. ‘How do we get to him?’

  With an index finger Darwish reached forward and circled the bride. ‘She is my daughter, Amara.’

  21

  Half an hour later, Dima had all the information he wanted about Amara and her husband. Darwish, between bouts of tears, explained that although he had gone along with the match he didn’t support it.

  ‘We fell out. Very bad. He’s no good. All he has achieved is with this.’ He made a fist which he banged on the table and with his other hand he made a grabbing gesture at Dima’s groin. ‘All his people, he has their balls in the blender, his finger on the switch. He’s very paranoid. Has his own private security detail twenty-four seven. Not PLR. His own. Same for Amara. They never stay more than few days in each place.’

  ‘She’s not happy?’

  ‘So now I’m getting these texts from a number I don’t recognise. Always I have to be careful of who is contacting me. But it’s my Amara, she has Pay As You Go. “Daddy, please can we make up?” Of course we make up! She is my life! “I’m so sorry I made a terrible mistake, I want to come home.” She wants to escape but she is too scared. He keeps her almost a prisoner. Now with all the trouble, the quake, she’s desperate. She texts me every day, sometimes five, six times, but what can I do?’

  Dima leaned back, folded his arms. ‘You tell her you are sending help. She tells us where she is. You get your daughter back, and Gazul takes us to Kaffarov and his bomb.’

  Relief swept over Darwish’s face. ‘Simple.’

  ‘Simple,’ repeated Dima, knowing full well it was anything but. The words ‘Gazul takes us to Kaffarov and his bomb’ echoed ominously round his head. But it was something, and something was a damn sight better than what they had. He stood up and embraced his comrade.

  ‘Darwish, old friend: with you on board, how can we lose?’

  22

  The Tabriz–Tehran Highway was dead straight: a dark line on the map all the way. Dima drove, pedal to the floor, straddling the two southbound lanes. The Peykan was managing to hold a steady 120 kph. Even though the windows were open and blowing in a steady gale, the heat from the afternoon sun, and what was coming back at them from the screaming engine, turned the inside of the car into an oven.

  ‘You watching for cracks?’ said Vladimir.

  ‘I’m watching,’ replied Dima.

  ‘An earthquake can unzip a road and before you know it you’re in a ravine that wasn’t there two minutes ago.’

  The southbound lane was deserted. Northbound was a different story: a solid convoy of vehicles of all types heading away from the quake zone, cars piled high with bedding, trailers full of fridges, TVs and washing machines, buses with people perched on top. In one car a granny remonstrated with the driver, presumably her son, from the back seat, while her daughter-in-law scowled in front. She’s thinking, let’s just wait for the road to open up and throw her in, mused Dima. There had been no sign of serious quake damage so far, but a great cloud of brown dust haze along the horizon, growing ever bigger as they neared the capital, gave a hint of what they would face. They kept the radio on, switching from station to station, each news report predicting more tremors.

  Vladimir was slumped across the back seat, finishing a packet of biscuits that was supposed to last them the whole six hundred ks to Tehran.

  ‘How do they forecast tremors, then?’

  ‘They measure the vibrations in the ground or something. Leave some for me, you greedy fucker.’

  ‘I need to keep my strength up. In jail I used to tell fortunes. Ten roubles or five cigarettes, or one joint, and I’d predict whether you’d get beaten or stabbed. If they paid up I’d predict they wouldn’t. And I was always right.’

  ‘Tell my fortune.’

  ‘There’s an earthquake coming and you’re gonna get nuked. And if you survive, the PLR’s going to chop your balls off. A thousand rials please.’

  ‘Piss off. You’ve already had all the biscuits.’

  Vladimir screwed up the empty packet and threw it out of the window. After five years in Butyrka, thought Dima, a man was probably entitled to them.

  ‘What was it like in there, anyhow?’

  ‘I was doing all right as it goes. I was kind of sorry when Gregorin and Zirak showed up.’

  ‘Oh, come on. How did they spring you? Explosives? Disguised as a laundry woman? A bloody ugly one.’

  ‘They explained to the Superintendent that I was urgently needed on a patriotic mission. He was quite glad to see the back of me – I can’t think why.’

  ‘And have you now seen the error of your ways?’

  ‘Yeah, I shouldn’t have got caught. That was an error. Steady, you stupid bastard!’

  Dima swerved violently to avoid a cow that had wandered into his path. He glanced in the mirror to see Kroll in the other Peykan do the same.

  ‘How do you rate your chances of finding Kaffarov and his – gadgets?’

  ‘I’m not a gambling
man, remember.’

  And rescuing Darwish’s daughter? Since when are you anyone’s knight in shining armour?’

  ‘If Kroll doesn’t fix Shenk’s tracker, she’s our best hope.’

  ‘Married to that psycho twat: what a hassle. Aren’t you glad you don’t have kids? Like poor old Kroll.’

  ‘Maybe they’re what keep him going.’

  ‘Too bad their mothers don’t let him near them.’

  ‘It might be good to have a son and heir. Otherwise, what’s it all for?’

  ‘For a laugh, you stupid cunt.’

  In the mirror, Dima could see Vladimir’s incomprehension: build yourself a future? Who needs another thing to worry about? He focused all his concentration on the road ahead, in the effort to screen out what was going on in his head. Paliov’s photographs: confirmation, after twenty years of denials.

  They passed through the gap in the Alborz mountains, that stand guard over Tehran’s northern suburbs. Above the dust cloud over the city he saw two planes circle and dive. Vladimir sat up.

  ‘Are you seeing what I’m seeing?’

  23

  Asara, North of Tehran

  ‘Great. That’s all we need.’

  Gregorin lowered the binoculars and passed them over. ‘Brand new F-35 Lightnings, straight out of the box. Only one air force has those.’

  ‘I’m glad one of us is keeping up,’ said Dima.

  They had turned off the highway and headed up Route 56, west into the Alborz mountains. From there they had a panoramic view of the city, which sat on the plain that stretched out below. Dima watched the fighters circling a giant column of smoke that was funnelling up from a refinery on the southern side of the capital.

  ‘First the PLR, then an earthquake. Now the US fucking Air Force. We’ve got the full set.’

  ‘Look on the bright side. At least they’re attacking the south and west. According to Darwish, Amara’s at her in-laws in the northeast.’

  ‘Oh well, that’s all right then: no problem. We just ignore the world’s biggest superpower laying siege to one part of the town as we rock up to her door and ask if we can take tea with her husband.’

  Dima shrugged. ‘You got a better idea?’

  It was nearly six o’clock. The light was fading. Darwish called. He had spoken to his daughter. She was in Niavaran, a northern suburb, alone in the house. All of her husband’s relatives and servants had fled. She had no idea where they had gone, and was hysterical with fear. Darwish had promised her that help was on the way.

  ‘ I told her Daddy is sending some brave men to rescue her: the best.’

  ‘No pressure then. But where the hell is the husband – what’s his name?’

  ‘Gazul.’

  ‘What kind of man leaves his wife alone in the middle of an earthquake?’

  ‘And with the Americans bombing the place.’

  ‘I’m open to suggestions.’

  ‘Let’s find the fucker and cut his balls off,’ said Vladimir, as Dima hung up.

  ‘Sensible suggestions. So far all you’ve done is scoff all the biscuits so be useful, or we’ll find a ravine and chuck you in.’

  He turned to Kroll, in the back of the second Peykan, presiding over the tangle of wires from Shenk’s tracker, spread all over the seat.

  ‘Why don’t you get hold of her first and see how the land lies? See if the guy really has buggered off, and if so where,’ said Kroll.

  Dima dialled the number Darwish had given him.

  ‘Actually those biscuits were a bit dry. Have we got any vodka?’

  ‘He shoots better when he’s drunk, isn’t that right Vladimir?’

  ‘Shut the fuck up, will you? I’m trying to listen.’

  Dima waited for an answer. He had no idea if she’d be any use, and no expectation that she’d get them any nearer to Kaffarov or his suitcase nuke. If her husband’s own family had really abandoned her, were they even in touch at all? He waited for her to pick up. She spoke in a hushed whisper, tearful and breathing in fits and starts.

  ‘If my husband finds out I’ve even spoken to you he will have me killed.’

  ‘He won’t get the chance. Just confirm where you are and where he is.’

  ‘I don’t know! He went early this morning. I asked his mother if she knew, and she wouldn’t even answer. They all hate me. She doesn’t even —.’

  Women.

  ‘Right. Just repeat the address for me, please. Good, OK. Now, are you definitely alone?’

  ‘Yes, even my maid has gone.’

  ‘And where’s Gazul?’

  ‘I told you, I don’t know! He never tells me anything.’

  As the jets flew overhead, Dima struggled to listen.

  ‘Okay, Amara, thank you. We’ll be there in forty minutes.’

  He chucked the phone on to the car seat.

  ‘She’s either genuinely in fear of her life or there’s something she’s not telling us.’

  24

  Camp Firefly, Outskirts of Tehran

  From a distance the hill rising on Tehran’s southwest flank would have looked just as it should, nothing out of the ordinary, which was how it needed to look right now. Hidden under camouflage netting was Black’s platoon, trying to take five after the long charge east, deep into quake-blasted Iran.

  A rest? Fat chance: over the city, gunships were doing battle with the AA guns on the ground, filling the air with crashes, thumps and the shrieks of rockets. The air was still so thick with dust from the quake they could constantly taste it.

  Campo stuffed what was left of an energy bar into his mouth.

  ‘The fly boys putting on a nice firework display there. Just like Independence Day.’

  Matkovic lay on his back, gloved hands cradling his head.

  ‘Whadya Mom tell ya? Don’t talk with your mouth full, dude.’

  Montes was fiddling with his night-vision goggles, which were malfunctioning. ‘Don’t think anyone in Tehran’s feeling too independent right now.’

  ‘Button it, Montes. Just try and do the job, all right?’

  All the way along the main drag westwards from the border they had seen giant posters of Al Bashir pasted on to billboards.

  ‘Should be keeping them off the streets and in their bunkers.’

  ‘Trouble with quakes, brings everybody out the buildings.’

  ‘Cole says the satellite images are showing a big exodus north. Should just be us chickens.’

  ‘Yeah, real cosy: just us and the PLR high command.’

  Closer to their position, on the edge of town, PLR loudspeakers were pumping out the voice of Al Bashir, intermittent bursts of Farsi penetrating the barrage over the city.

  ‘. . . we will claim back . . . with swords we will strike down the invader . . .’

  Black nudged Matkovic, who also knew a bit of Farsi.

  ‘He’s gonna need a lot more than swords when we ride into town.’

  Matkovic twitched.

  ‘He don’t shut the fuck up I’m gonna stick it right up his loudspeaker, man.’

  In front of them at the bottom of the hill, on the other side of an overpass, was an apartment building. On the upper floors, the PLR were setting up a machine-gun nest.

  Black stiffened, pointing into the darkness down the hill.

  ‘You see that?’

  ‘Fuck these NVGs.’ Montes threw his goggles on the ground. ‘Preparing to strike Tehran and we’re fresh out of batteries.’

  ‘Gun trucks coming in.’

  Matkovic stood up and peered at where Blackburn was pointing. ‘The fuck did they come from? We’re not even in overwatch position.’

  A convoy of five Humvees were headed on the western approach into the city. Cole slid under the camo and snatched up the radio. ‘Haymaker actual, this is Misfit actual, we do not have target secured. Say again, target not secured. Hold your position, over.’

  Silence from the radio. Cole’s temperature was rising.

  ‘Come the fuck on, Brad
y.’

  Hearing the name, Blackburn and Montes exchanged looks.

  ‘The Brady Bunch are rolling into town! We’re saved.’

  Loved and loathed by equal numbers, Lieutenant Brady had a reputation for pushing his men hard, a habit of putting his own interpretation on orders – and if there was any glory going, grabbing it for himself. A tank-shaped thirty-two-year-old who seemed to have been in the army since he could walk, Brady was the opposite in every way of the wiry, cerebral Cole.

  When the answer finally came, Brady’s voice was distorted with interference and full of impatience. ‘Misfit 2, we are not stopping. So you better get your ass in position and cover our advance, out.’

  ‘This is so fucked up.’ Cole shook his head and got back on the radio. ‘All call signs Misfit, we are mission launch, repeat we are mission launch. Hold your position, out.’

  The hill came alive as forty plus marines erupted from under the camo net and moved downhill towards the overpass. In Black’s group, Montes and Matkovic led the way, Campo coming up behind with the mortar. As soon as the squad reached the cover of the overpass, Cole was on the radio.

  ‘We need illumination rounds in the air like now, needed down range now.’

  Before he had finished speaking the first enemy round came in. Blackburn jumped forward into the scrum of men erecting the mortar, grabbing the tube and angling it.

  Campo had the carry case. He slid out the white round with black markings. ‘Direct lay. One round illumination. Half load. Elevation one zero niner.’

  ‘Round up!’

  Matkovic adjusted the charges at the base of the round.

  ‘Round up.’

  ‘Hang it.’

  He slid the round into the tube and held it near the rim.

  ‘Hangin’.’

  ‘Fire!’

  In one fluid motion Matkovic slammed the round downwards and ducked below the muzzle. A bright flash of light illuminated their position for a split second before the round popped high above them and lit up the entire area.