He was only dimly aware of what Timofayev was saying now. Evidently the man had quite a lot to get off his chest. Dima was now focused entirely on where Timofayev was standing, how long it would take him to get there from his current position, curled up against the trolley, and whether it was enough. Timofayev had good reflexes, that was apparent. As to whether his aim was as good, Dima would just have to take the risk.
The first part of his strategy was to kick the gurney so the sudden movement caused a microsecond’s diversion – enough to get him part of the way.
The first shot from Timofayev’s Beretta came almost simultaneously – but by then Dima, having stabilised himself, had sprung up from his crouching position and swiped the gurney, so it pinned Timofayev against the wall as three more shots rang out, hitting the ceiling. With his adversary in position, Dima stabbed the scissors hard into his gun hand. The Beretta spun to the ground.
He pushed him up.
‘Sure you haven’t just suddenly remembered any information that’s unexpectedly come back to you? Want to have another think?’
The scissors caught some of the sinews in Timofayev’s palm as Dima extracted them and plunged them into his wrist, severing the radial artery and spraying them both with blood. Timofayev’s eyes bulged with shock and a sharp smell of shit cut through the aftershave and disinfectant: a bully. And like all bullies, fatally weak beneath the bluster.
‘I . . . I . . . can help . . .’
‘We both know that’s not going to happen. Last chance now: does anything come to mind . . .?’
Timofayev found some last vestige of force and pushed Dima away. As he fell to the ground, he grabbed the gun in his still intact left hand and aimed. Dima was still clutching the scissors. He put all his speed and force into one swing and the points of both blades pierced Timofayev’s right eye. Dima thrust them right in, and kept on, forcing them through the back of the socket, until only the handles protruded from the mess.
71
Scooping up the Beretta just as Timofayev’s security detail appeared, he took out the first two as they came through the door. He twisted a machine pistol out of the grip of one of the dying guards just as he heard the sound of running men. They came round the corner straight into a hail of bullets from Dima. Leaping over them, he made for the stairs, running into three more. Their momentary hesitation, as they found themselves confronted by a naked man wielding a gun, gave him enough time to down them too. And then he was in the street, naked, covered in Timofayev’s blood with just the night, the freezing rain, and – three blocks away – the sirens and blue lights of the police.
He flung himself at a cab dropping off a couple who looked like they were on their first date. At the sight of a naked, rain- and blood-splattered man holding a gun the girl held out her bag like a steak to a rabid dog, averting her eyes and bringing the evening traffic almost to a standstill.
‘There’s five hundred cash in there! Don’t hurt me!’
The boyfriend, Dima noticed, did not leap in front to shield her. First date and last, he thought. He reached inside the bag, pulled out a pack of tissues, pushed past the stunned boyfriend, shooed the taxi driver out of his seat and took off.
It was an old Volga with the usual terrible brakes. The wipers, also well past their prime, made slow and slimy progress across the windscreen, leaving a film that was almost as opaque as the half-frozen rain.
He crossed into the opposite lane, which alerted the drivers of the police cars now on his tail, so he swept back into the left lane and tried to camouflage himself amongst some other cabs. But they weren’t going fast enough. He took a right and found himself close to the Paveletsky Station, but a cop car cut him off. He flung the column shift into reverse and backed up a few feet, then rammed the cop car just as its two occupants were getting out. Then he shot up the street he had come out of and into a space between two office blocks. Two drunks were huddled over a bottle. He pulled up beside them, got out and pulled one of them to his feet.
‘Your clothes – for this taxi.’
Dima knew the offer would take time to sink in, so he ripped the sodden coat off his back. It would do.
‘Got any cash?’
‘What? We’re the fucking beggars.’
‘I’m giving you the taxi.’
Dima waved the machine pistol and they produced fifty roubles.
‘All this and you’re on the streets. You could find a roof with this.’
They looked at him in disgust. Dima took off down the alley and crossed several more streets, dodging the puddles and dog shit, before disappearing into a Metro station.
72
Bulganov’s goons took some persuading. It’s not every day an oligarch gets an unannounced visitor who is spattered with blood, wearing nothing but a piss-stained overcoat. They looked him up and down again, as his feet continued to bleed on to the pale mushroom carpet.
‘Where are your shoes then?’ said the larger of the two.
‘He’s expecting me.’ Dima spelled his name again. ‘I just spoke to him. I saved his daughter’s life, for fuck’s sake.’
Big goon and small goon conferred again and got on the phone, which prompted the arrival of a third. All bulk and no agility, the three of them were about as much use as paperweights. Dima could have floored them in seconds, but having just called in a big favour from their master he thought it might not go over well.
Eventually the private lift pinged behind them.
‘You can go up,’ said the third paperweight. ‘Leave the weapon.’
‘Whatever.’
Dima threw it to him: he caught it, but only just.
On the 45th floor Dima got out and Bulganov appeared, barrelling towards him, a large scotch in one hand and a cigar in the other. The apartment smelled of Chanel No. 19 and money.
‘Dima! My God, what have they done to you—?’
He got a whiff of the coat and stopped short.
‘Christ! Get in the shower, will you? You’re not getting on my plane smelling like that.’
The money was Bulganov, but the Chanel . . .
Omorova was sitting on a white sofa below a small Picasso, her face a mixture of amusement and annoyance. He came forward but she batted him away.
When he emerged from the shower he found a dressing gown bearing the livery of the British soccer team Bulganov had recently acquired, and put it on. He updated Omorova, who glanced at her watch.
‘You’ve been back in Moscow – what? Seven hours. You’re a one-man crime wave.’
He raised his hands in submission.
‘I know: it’s been hectic.’
‘Thanks for my help? Don’t even mention it.’
‘Of course none of it would have been possible without you. Can I have that kiss now?’
‘My career is so over.’
‘You’re not bailing out?’
‘Dima, they probably won’t even let me back in the building.’
A butler appeared with a large bourbon for her and a Diet Coke for Dima. One minute you’re running naked through the streets, the next you’re on the 45th floor standing on silk carpet. A strange life. But then Dima had never had anything he could call normal. He raised his glass to them both, and the Picasso.
She took a big swig and crossed her legs.
‘Do that again,’ said Dima.
‘Piss off. Here’s your stuff.’
She opened her bag and produced the contents of his safety deposit box.
‘You think of everything.’
‘Someone has to.’
He did a quick inventory of the currencies and picked up the passports.
‘Ah, hello, old friends.’
‘I caught up with your man Rossin in Paris. He’s looked at all the staff at the Bourse: domestic and security, all clean.’
‘He should check all the maintenance people – heating, plumbing. That size of building, at that age – it probably needs a whole army to keep it going. And what about the comput
ers? Capitalism never sleeps. They must have a round-the-clock team of IT geeks as well.’
Omorova opened a laptop. ‘We need to know about any sightings of Solomon on recent trips to Paris. Chances are he’s been there to recce as well as to set up some kind of team. He won’t be starting from scratch. He’s very meticulous. If he’s there he’s only been there a few days, so he’s bound to choose somewhere he knows to operate from. My guess is he won’t be staying somewhere unfamiliar that he has to check out, or that means he’s having to look over his shoulder.’
Dima nodded. ‘Yeah, but we can’t assume that. We can’t assume anything. He could come through the front door posing as a fund manager, an oil trader, someone in derivatives. He’s extremely plausible whether he’s playing Lebanese, American, Israeli . . .’
Omorova smiled. ‘Better than you?’
Suddenly he wished she was coming with him. But equally, there was an aspect of this mission he didn’t want to have to explain. He was travelling back in time to a place in his life he thought he had put behind him. Also, in part of his mind he had already written off the quest as hopeless. Trying to find one man and a bomb in a major capital city with just four people to help . . . Possibly, now, only three.
She sighed, as if reading his mind.
‘And you’re still not officially off the wanted list. Timofayev wouldn’t sanction it until . . .’ Her voice trailed away. ‘There’s still a covert shoot to kill directive against you with all the European security agencies.’ She read from a printout. ‘“The CIS will not, repeat not, protest in the event that the target does not survive arrest.” Nicely put, eh?’
Dima shrugged. He hadn’t expected anything less.
‘What are the Americans saying?’
‘Ah. Want the rest of the bad news?’
‘Bring it on.’
‘Langley are putting it out that a US Marine is under arrest for the murder of his commanding officer – in Iran . . .’
Dima winced.
‘Go on.’
‘They don’t want it known at all that a Russian was there at the time. It just makes it more complicated for them. But our back channel communications with them are saying that the prisoner has corroborated claims by the Russian security services that one Dima Mayakovsky is at large and is a potential threat in the European mainland.’
He shook his head.
‘The poor guy probably didn’t have anywhere else to go.’
‘How come he’s not claiming you shot his CO?’ said Bulganov.
‘He had a terrible choice – either deny me and forget what I’d told him about Solomon, or come clean and try to get his message across. He could have saved himself.’
‘Such honesty, such selflessness . . .’ His voice trailed away. Bulganov was baffled.
Omorova frowned, thinking. ‘You were only with him for what, an hour?’
‘You can learn a lot about someone in that time. It would be good if he knew I was still out there. Is there anything you could do?’
He looked out of the window. Below, he could see the lights of the new Moscow glittering all the way to the horizon.
‘He saved my life so I could get this done. I cannot fail.’
73
Fort Donaldson, USA
Blackburn wasn’t sure what he felt about being back in America. All he had seen of it so far was at Andrews Air Force base, when they transferred him from the windowless plane to the windowless truck. From the stairs he saw a vast expanse of tarmac, those strange-shaped vehicles that only inhabit airfields and an American flag hanging limp in the humid air. Not realising who he was, a woman, one of the ground crew, looked up as a pretty young woman might at a handsome young man, and gave him the sort of winning smile that brought an instant lump to his throat. Would any woman ever look at him like that again?
He travelled the seven hours to Fort Donaldson in a cubicle inside a prison truck. There was a toilet under the seat so he didn’t have to be let out. A letterbox in the door opened once or twice and a hand offered him a Hershey bar and a bottle of water. There was a window but it had been painted out. Already he felt desperate for the sight of just a bit of sky or a single tree.
Once at Donaldson he was escorted straight to the MP’s facility and into an interview room. A small man with a moustache and big black-rimmed glasses sat at a metal desk, head down, peering at a thick file. He whipped off the glasses and stood up.
‘I’m Schwab, your lawyer.’
The hand Blackburn was offered felt cold and dry, but it was a hand nonetheless. No one had offered him a hand to shake in a long time.
His small mouth twitched into a cautious smile. He knitted his fingers together and leaned over the file. His voice dropped to almost a whisper.
‘I’m the only friend you got right now so the more you confide in me, the more I’ll be able to do for you.’
Blackburn didn’t react. He didn’t feel like confiding. He’d said it all – three, four times he couldn’t remember – to a variety of different people, half of whose names or jobs he never discovered. Bleary and jet-lagged from the flight, not knowing what time it was, he gazed doubtfully at Schwab.
‘What is it exactly that you do?’
Schwab looked thrown.
‘I mean – when you’re not defending me.’
Schwab’s mouth twitched. He pushed his glasses up his nose with an index finger.
‘I defend the un-defendable. Someone’s got to.’
It was a joke of sorts, but it fell way short of Blackburn, who didn’t even know whether he still had a sense of humour. Then without warning, Schwab dropped his bombshell.
‘Wanna talk to your Mom?’
74
Schwab dialled and waited. He didn’t have to wait long. He had already been in contact. Blackburn imagined his mother cradling the phone in two hands, as he’d seen her do many times, as if it could bring the person closer.
‘Hello, baby.’
Her voice was clear and strong, as if she’d been practising what to say for days – which she probably had.
‘I know I’ve only got two minutes but I want you to know that your father and I love you very much and we believe in you – whatever. Okay?’
‘Mom?’
‘Yes, darling?’
Her voice cracked as she heard her son speak for the first time since hearing he’d been jailed.
‘Is Dad there?’
‘Sure darling, he’s right here. I’ll put him on.’
He could hear the phone being handed over. A hushed exchange about what to say. After a moment he heard his father clear his throat.
‘Well son, least you won’t be getting killed out there now.’
There was an urgency in Blackburn’s voice. ‘Dad,’ he said. ‘I found out.’
‘What’s that son?’
His father sounded like he had aged a decade, baffled by his son’s tone. Blackburn pressed on. There wasn’t much time.
‘Dad, I know how it was. I know how it was for you in Vietnam. I think it’s what’s been sustaining me over the last few—. I understand now.’
There was a pause at the other end, and a whispered exchange he couldn’t make out.
‘Sorry, son: I’m afraid I just don’t know what you mean.’
‘What you went through—. It’s what I enlisted for – to know what it was like for you.’
The silence on the other end of the phone said it all.
Blackburn tried to think of what else to say. Nothing came. The weight bearing down on his soul grew even greater. He passed the phone back to Schwab, who looked mystified.
‘Ok-ay. You done?’
Blackburn nodded. He had long imagined the moment of tenderness he had craved with his father – two men seeing eye-to-eye for the first time. But all his father could be thinking right now was Is my son a killer?
Schwab let the receiver fall back on to its cradle. Then he put his big square case on the table and took out a second vast dark gr
ey file.
How could so much paperwork have accumulated in such a short time?
‘Let’s get started.’
‘On what?’
Schwab stared at his new client. Here we go, he thought.
‘I’ve already said all I can remember. I’m guilty. I’m as good as dead.’
Blackburn lowered his head until it rested on the desk.
75
Moscow
A little after ten-thirty p.m. they were being wafted towards Moscow’s Domodedovo Airport in Bulganov’s Rolls. Cocooned in the rear, Dima wondered whether the unnatural absence of noise was due to the bulletproof glass, or because his ears had been damaged by all the shooting. Kroll sat up front with the chauffeur, observing every gauge and dial on the dashboard with undisguised pleasure. In the back with Dima and Omorova was Bulganov himself.
He had been a last-minute recruit to the mission. Dima was a marked man. A contract was out on him. Shoot on sight. Getting out of Moscow and into Paris, with an international warrant out for his arrest, all this was only possible with Bulganov’s influence – and his private jet. He lit a fresh cigar and blew two plumes of exhaust from his nostrils, his eyes gleaming with excitement. Bulganov was no friend of the current regime in the Kremlin; Dima knew he had pushed at an open door. But as always, Bulganov had his price. As they were getting into the car he told Dima what it was.
‘I get to go all the way with you, okay? Or there’s no deal.’
‘Of course,’ lied Dima.
Omorova had given him a sphinx-like look which said, Let this guy play goodies and baddies with you? You can’t be serious, and Dima responded with a dismissive frown which said Don’t be crazy: of course I won’t. He had no idea how to stop him, but felt sure a way to get Bulganov off his back would emerge once they were in Paris. After all, dealing with the unexpected was what he was trained for.
Perhaps Omorova’s presence was fuelling Bulganov’s expansive mood. He was on a roll. ‘You know the trouble with post-Soviet Russia? Everybody can be shown to have stolen something from somewhere.’ He took another quick puff on his cigar, filling the car with yet more smoke. ‘It’s a fact. Me – I’m far richer than I ever dreamed, but I also know that all the bulletproof glass in the world can’t stop me being thrown into prison if I fall foul of the Kremlin. Therefore I have to have something on them so they leave me alone.’
Battlefield 3: The Russian Page 26
