‘He answered the whistle. What do I do?’
‘You going back near him?’
‘Can do.’
‘Sing again – only this time it’s I’m here in Paris.’
Thirty minutes passed. Or something like that. Blackburn had no means of knowing. The steps again. And the ladder. And then the song.
I’m here in Paris.
81
Paris
Dima tried to contain his surging rage. Tried and failed. Anger leads to mistakes, he had always told his recruits. And mistakes can cost you your life.
Had he not been so exhausted, had it not been so long since his head had touched a pillow, had he not been so consumed with anticipation about the nameless young man in the photograph, he would perhaps have had the good sense to leave the signaller right where it was. You’ve seen what you’ve seen. Stop, look and leave.
But he didn’t. He reached down, clasped it in his gloved hand and picked it up.
Only once it was in his hand did he see the wires. And then the flash blotted everything out.
82
Fort Donaldson, USA
The MedCenter team on Donaldson were short-staffed on the weekend. Jackie Douglis, a locum at Saint Elizabeth’s, had been drafted in to cover. Boy was she bored. ER was Jackie’s thing. That had been her plan since Sixth Grade and she was almost there. But sitting around in a half-deserted Marine base on a warm weekend wasn’t her idea of how to further her career. Besides, her friend Stacey was having a yard party and she was missing it.
The alarm made her jump. Wayne, the big sleepy-looking orderly waddled in.
‘We got a meltdown in the Brig.’
She didn’t know what a meltdown meant or what the Brig was for that matter. But it sounded interesting and she sure was in need of some distraction. So she followed along out of the MedCenter across the tarmac. There was a scrum of men in uniform crammed into the corridor. The bars on the doors told her what the Brig was. Some of them were kneeling down. Had someone collapsed, needed CPR? She began the timing rhythm in her head.
But the young man on the floor wasn’t in need of CPR. He was being knelt on by two guards as a third wrestled him into a set of leg irons.
One of them turned and saw Wayne.
‘Got a shot?’
Jackie saw Wayne fumbling with a syringe.
‘Hey, lemme through! I’m a doctor!’ she yelled for the first time in her life. All her life she’d been waiting to say those words for real.
83
Paris
The smell of urine brought Dima round. He remembered the apartment stank of it. It caught in his throat and along with the dust made him choke. But he couldn’t see the apartment, he couldn’t see anything. Nor could he move. There was another smell as well. Something burning. Then he remembered what had happened. And that brought him back to full consciousness. Rage at his own mistake. Okay, this time get it right. One thing at a time. He flexed his toes, check. Fingers, check. His nose was bleeding: he could feel the sticky warmth over his face and he could taste the blood. But he was trapped, buried.
‘I have to get out of here,’ he said out loud.
He called out, using the little strength he had, but there was nowhere for the sound to go. He tried straightening his legs and found that his head moved forward a little when he did. He discovered new areas of pain though, in his thigh and his left arm. His gun arm. Well he wasn’t too bad with his right. Think positively. That’s the only thing to do. Negative gets you nowhere.
Solomon had to have known they were coming. Known they were looking for the nuke, and that they had a scanner to track its signal. A fresh burst of rage engulfed him and he pushed forward again. Something gave and a cloud of plaster dust convulsed him in a coughing fit. His whole chest burned with it.
Something lifted and a sharp beam of light speared his face.
‘Fucking fuck. He’s here!’ called Kroll.
Dima peered at him, ghostly not only from the reflected torchlight but also the plaster he was covered in.
‘What the fuck did you do that for? You trying to kill us all?’
‘Just get me out of here, okay?’
He could hear the sirens of the emergency services. The sound gave him a much needed charge of energy. Kroll and Vladimir hauled him to his feet. They felt like rubber.
There was only one explanation. Rossin.
84
Fort Donaldson, USA
Jackie Douglis didn’t take long to figure that the young man on the floor was in need of her help. For one he was dehydrated, that much was clear from his complexion and the yellowing whites of his eyes. He clearly hadn’t been taking food and as far as she was concerned, whatever the guards had told her about him having killed someone, in her world at least you were innocent until proven guilty.
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 a
ddress 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 unpopular.’
‘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.’
<
br /> ‘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.
Battlefield 3: The Russian Page 28
