Blackburn examined his quarry through the infra-red torch on his weapon.
‘Do – you – speak – English?’
‘Sure, if you don’t know anything else,’ came the fluent reply.
In the dark Dima could guess roughly where the Uzi had finished up, but he was in no position to reach for it.
‘On your feet, legs: spread ’em. I’m coming forward, going to search you. You got that?’
No point antagonising him, Dima thought. If he’s young and inexperienced he might shoot me by mistake.
‘Yes, loud and clear,’ he replied, getting slowly to his feet, hands held high.
‘Touch the wall, legs apart.’
Judging by the voice, definitely mid-twenties at most, Dima thought. He did what he was told, heard the American approach, felt the hands patting him down, careful, deliberate. Conversation seemed worth a try.
‘What happened outside? Are we cut off?’
‘Don’t talk. Can you identify the deceased?’
‘The one on the poolside is Amir Kaffarov. The guy in the pool and the one you might have encountered under the Matisse are his personal bodyguards, Yin and Yang. They’re twins, from North Korea. Well, they were.’
There was no response from Blackburn, who seemed to be taking his time. Dima felt the passport he had waved at the PLR roadblock slide smoothly out of his pocket. The separate wads of rials and dollars were next, along with his phone. As Blackburn withdrew it from the sheath strapped to Dima’s belt, he bade a sad farewell to the knife that had come in so handy with Yin and Yang.
Dima heard the American’s radio buzz: something urgent and incomprehensible. As Blackburn continued the search Dima turned his head very slightly so he could look in the direction of the Uzi, in case some light from the American’s helmet torch fell on it, but he felt a hand on his neck.
‘Eyes on the wall, please.’
How polite. How many Russians would deploy such pleasantries in this sort of situation? Their idea of courtesy was usually to refrain from kneeing you in the balls. But Blackburn was struggling with his darker side. As his hand closed round the grip of the knife, part of him wanted to exact revenge right now, to plunge the blade into the man’s neck and let him know just how it felt.
But he was determined to do this by the book. What differentiated him from his prisoner, he thought, would be his underlying humanity. That was what distinguished them, the soldier from the executioner. It was important to let the likes of them see why the American way was superior.
‘Okay: turn, keeping your hands up.’
Dima obliged, the helmet torch blasting his face. His wet skin reflected some of the light back on to the American’s. Hard to put an age to, anywhere between twenty and thirty, intelligent.
‘Okay, give me your name now.’
‘Dima Mayakovsky.’
‘Not what this passport says. What’s your status in the PLR?’
‘I’m not with the PLR, I’m from Moscow.’
Dima thought he might as well fill the silence that followed.
‘Here to repatriate weapons obtained under false pretences from the Russian Federation.’
‘Yeah, right.’
Blackburn was leafing through the apparently well used Iranian passport he had found in Dima’s pocket: this was definitely going to work against him.
‘Taghi Hosseini it says here.’
Instead of responding, Dima said,
‘What brings you here? If you don’t mind me asking.’
Blackburn looked at him, not showing his dismay.
‘It might be that we have common interests.’
Blackburn snorted; the hatred for the man he called Solomon was building.
‘I sincerely doubt that.’
‘3–1, you copy over?’
Campo again.
‘3–1, Blackburn. You receiving in there? Structure in danger of further collapse, over.’
Blackburn ignored it. Dima could see the stripes on the American’s arm.
‘Sergeant Blackburn, yes?’
Blackburn didn’t answer. If the man carried on trying to ingratiate himself, he might have to take action to shut him up.
‘You and I are most probably here for the same thing, the suitcase nukes, right?’
Again, Blackburn didn’t respond but it was clear from his face that Dima had touched a nerve. He decided to risk another question.
‘How many – two?’
No answer.
Dima pressed on. ‘I believe there are three, one of which is already in American hands.’
Blackburn couldn’t help himself this time.
‘What makes you think that?’
‘We had a scanner that followed them from the Metropolitan Bank in downtown Tehran. One went northwest in the direction of the US encampment, and two came here.’
At the mention of the bank, a cold feeling spread across Blackburn’s chest. Was this the confirmation he needed that he was looking at the man who had left the bank with Bashir?
He took a step closer to Dima, watching his eyes as he spoke.
‘Your codename is Solomon. Right?’
His captive’s eyes widened and his mouth dropped open a fraction. Recognition.
50
Solomon. There were only a very few names Dima had ever known that delivered an emotional kick when said out loud.
The last time had been a year ago, when Kroll mentioned him in connection with the bombing of a hotel in Abu Dhabi, where a Middle East peace delegation was gathered. All those present were wiped out so comprehensively that what little was left had to be buried in one grave. There was also a particularly bloody attack on a party of American aid workers on their way out of Afghanistan. The emphatic denials of responsibility by the local insurgents on both sides of the border, and the mutilations which even for Dima were hard to comprehend, suggested an agenda that went beyond simple hostility to the American presence. Each of the twenty-four victims, it was reported, was made to commit degrading acts on each other before being beheaded with a sword – a hallmark that caused Dima particular disquiet.
Here in this bunker, with Kaffarov dead at his feet, and Sergeant Blackburn pointing his M4 at him, was the last place he expected to hear the name Solomon, least of all from the mouth of an American serviceman.
‘Say that again?’ said Dima, checking that he hadn’t misheard.
Blackburn repeated the name, slowly, emphasising each syllable as Bashir had. Dima exhaled a long breath.
‘What do you know about Solomon?’
Blackburn kept his gaze on Dima. His voice was almost trembling with rage.
‘I know that in the last seventy-two hours a man believed to be of that name was responsible for the beheading of an unarmed American serviceman on the Iraq border, and for the execution by sword of a tank driver. I also know that a man of that name was last seen with Farouk Al Bashir, leaving the Metropolitan Bank in Tehran.’
Dima let this sink in. There was a look of certainty in Blackburn’s eyes that was going to be hard to shift. Not only certainty, but the expression of someone battling hard to keep his emotions in check. Whatever Dima said next could be decisive.
He took a breath.
‘Okay. I can say two things about Solomon which I don’t expect you to believe straight off. One is that I am emphatically not him, and the other is that I can probably tell you more about him than anyone else still living.’
Yeah, right, thought Blackburn, in no mood to doubt that the man standing before him was anyone other than Solomon. But he wanted to be sure first. He hadn’t killed in cold blood before. He could do the right thing and hand him over – and then what? He didn’t want the conflict raging inside him to show in his face.
‘Misfit 3–1 this is Misfit actual, over.’
This time it was Cole.
‘Misfit 3–1, give your sitrep, over.’
Dima and Blackburn looked at each other. Blackburn switched off the radio, which was stra
nge, Dima thought. In fact the whole situation was decidedly weird. To be at the Shah’s old ski chalet with a dead arms dealer, with a dead Korean in the pool, and now being detained by a US soldier in the collapsed bunker. And if that wasn’t strange enough, the mention of Solomon put the cherry right on it.
The building shuddered, sending another shower of concrete fragments raining down on them. They were entombed. Blackburn’s comrades were calling him but he had turned off his radio. Whatever was going on here, Dima thought, it was important enough for Blackburn to be disobeying orders. Was the man unhinged? He looked angry but not crazy.
‘Say your piece and keep it brief.’
‘I’ll try. He was a kid when he first surfaced in a refugee camp in Lebanon in the late ’80s, claiming to be suffering from amnesia – didn’t even remember his name but had a gift for languages. American missionaries thought he was some kind of prodigy, christened him Solomon like the wise king in the Old Testament. They took him home with them to Florida. It didn’t go well. He was bullied at school. It went on for months. He bided his time. That’s a hallmark of his – he doesn’t like to rush things. Then young Solomon exacts his own brand of revenge on his high school tormentors with a machete – not in a frenzy, more surgical. I’ll skip the details, but you should know that at least three heads were severed. He disappears – stows away on a merchant ship bound for the Gulf. Roll on two years he’s ‘Suleiman’, fighting with the Mujahideen in Afghanistan – against the Russians. But he wants more. He has no allegiances – except to himself. He gets recruited by the Russians, who realise his potential – ruthless, natural linguist, natural everything, plus a deep hatred of America. So they take him on and train him up as an asset. He can play all the parts: Yank, Arab, Eurasian. He’s a secret weapon, but he’s also impossible to handle. In the chaos after the Soviet Union collapses he disappears – goes his own way. Then 9/11 happens. The Americans pick him up, lock him in Guantanamo. But Solomon’s no fool – guess what he does to get out? He offers his services. Gives them a treasure trove of intelligence on terror outfits, on Russian Intelligence, and next thing he’s ‘Solomon’ again, on the CIA payroll doing black ops.’
Blackburn listened. ‘How do you know all this?’
‘Because I found him in Afghanistan. I was his GRU handler.’
‘You?’
Blackburn was silent for a full thirty seconds, digesting what he had just heard. Did he believe him? He needed time to decide if he did, time he didn’t have. Eventually he spoke, his voice distant.
‘In the bank vault – there were maps.’
‘What of?’
‘New York. Paris.’
Paris – such a pity. Kaffarov’s words came back to Dima. 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, his thoughts whirring, was fighting to keep focused on Sergeant Blackburn and his M4.
Blackburn was also battling to keep his emotions out of his thoughts. Was this guy for real? What was his true agenda? At least he had the guy contained while he worked out what to do next. Cole was out there somewhere, he would be wanting to know what was happening, scrutinising Blackburn’s performance. How he loathed his CO.
He pressed the muzzle of his M4 against Dima’s neck.
‘Okay, very convincing. Now get down.’
He turned Dima round and pushed him on to his knees.
‘I can see how you’d like me to be him . . .’
‘Shuddup!’ Blackburn yelled, inches away from Dima’s ear.
It couldn’t have been the shout that caused it, but it was still echoing in Dima’s head when they were engulfed by a much louder noise.
51
It felt as if the whole mountain was caving in on them as plaster, concrete and stone rained down. Dima passed out – for how long, he didn’t know. When he came to his head was throbbing hard. His eyes and mouth were caked in dust. At first he couldn’t see Blackburn at all. He raised himself – slowly, in case the M4 was still trained on him. He needn’t have worried. Blackburn was lying on his side, the concrete beam that had given way pinning him down across his arms and torso. He was conscious, panting hard.
Had Dima not obeyed Blackburn’s order and knelt, he would have been crushed to death.
‘Can you hear me?’
‘Course I can fucking hear you,’ Blackburn yelled back.
Dima felt for a hand.
‘Okay: I’m going to check your reflexes.’
‘Fucking don’t touch me, okay?’
‘Try to be calm, or you will bleed even faster.’
He was staring ahead, wide-eyed. Dima realised why. The knife. It was inches away from Blackburn’s face, the blade pointing right at him. Dima reached down for it. Blackburn let out a huge roar of anguish. Dima hesitated, carried on, picked up the knife.
‘Not with the knife, not the knife. Just shoot me okay!’
Dima lifted the knife and Blackburn’s breathing reached a crazy pitch.
‘Look.’ Dima turned so Blackburn could see him slip the knife into the sheath on his belt. There was another loud thud from somewhere near the way in to the bunker. All Dima could see was a fresh pile of rubble. Blackburn’s comrades trying to blast their way in?
‘Give me your torch and I’ll check you over, okay.’
‘No!’
‘Okay, okay. Can you feel your arms and legs?’
Blackburn flexed his limbs.
‘Okay, good. Can you wiggle your toes?’
‘A bit.’
‘Does it hurt?’
‘What do you think?’
Dima grasped the lump of concrete and heaved. It wouldn’t move. He tried again, putting all the force he could summon into lifting it. It moved about an inch.
‘Tell me about the maps. Everything you remember.’
Blackburn’s breathing subsided.
‘I don’t get it.’
‘Anything. What kind of maps? As if for a briefing? Were they on a wall? Were any locations highlighted?’
Blackburn didn’t speak for several seconds. Dima struggled with the beam.
‘On the Paris one – a marker said Bourse.’ He spelled it out.
‘That’s the Stock Exchange.’
‘You sure about that?’
‘Oh yes.’
Blackburn shifted his head and looked up, mystified. Dima slumped down, exhausted.
‘You trying to free me?’
‘What does it look like?’
‘I don’t get it.’
‘Look: what you saw in that bank vault is probably the most important piece of intelligence anyone’s got since they found Bin Laden.’
Dima looked round for inspiration. He saw the Uzi, its muzzle just clear of the rubble, reached over and grabbed it. Blackburn’s eyes widened again.
‘Shit, my arm’s going numb.’
‘Okay, let’s be intelligent here. I may be able to break up the beam by taking a shot at it.’ He examined the Uzi doubtfully.
‘No, no: that won’t do it.’
Blackburn tried to turn his head just enough to locate the M4. Dima followed his gaze.
‘40 mm. It’s a risk. You’ll have to trust my aim.’
They looked at each other. There was no guarantee the others would find him now. He’d turned off his radio. And if they did, more of the bunker might come down if they tried to blast their way in. Blackburn didn’t have any choices left. This Russian was his only hope.
‘What do I call you?’
‘Dima Mayakovsky.’
‘Okay then, Dima.’
‘Before I do it, I’m going to pack some rubble around you to stop the beam dropping on you when it fragments.’
Whatever air conditioning had been ventilating the bunker had stopped a good while before. It was getting hotter and stickier, but Dima worked fast, sweat pouring off him as he shored up the beam. Then he picked up the M4.
‘Okay. This is the bit where you real
ly do have to trust me.’
Dima crouched down close to Blackburn, shielding him with his body as he positioned the weapon.
‘Close your eyes. There may be some dust.’
He aimed the M4 and fired twice into the concrete.
Nothing happened. Dima emptied two more into the slab. Half the beam lurched. Before it could move any further Dima slid his arms through Blackburn’s and hauled him out, then sat him on the edge of the shattered beam. Several seconds passed while they both caught their breath. Blackburn tried to stand. He could. He moved his arms. No serious damage. Elated, he looked round at the rubble-strewn bunker. His eye fell on the Uzi where Dima had put it down to lift him. It was inches away from his hand. Dima saw it too, looked at Blackburn. Blackburn looked at it and back at Dima.
‘You are for real.’
‘As much as any of us is,’ Dima smiled. Blackburn looked like a man who’d just been given his life back.
‘We need to get out of here before anymore of it comes down.’
Dima put the M4 in Blackburn’s hands.
‘A soldier should never become separated from his weapon.’
Dima’s brain was in overdrive. Processing the implications of what Blackburn had told him had set it racing. Solomon – back to haunt him, bent on vengeance. Beheading American soldiers, a personal nuclear arsenal, the maps Blackburn described, and Kaffarov’s words, 9/11 will be just a footnote . . .
It all added up for Dima. He knew what Solomon was capable of. Blackburn had seen it for himself. He looked at the young American, full of sincerity. Blackburn’s righteous indignation at what he had seen, his mission to right the wrong. Easy to be cynical about his sense of purpose, in a world of Solomons and Kaffarovs, where loyalties were bought and sold to the highest bidder, where money, power and vengeance were the prime motivations. He was trying to plot a way forward when another explosive thud came from near the door, followed by a fresh cloud of dust. Through it came a torch beam. They were no longer alone.
Battlefield 3: The Russian Page 20
