by Andy McNab
Kroll didn’t move, probably too tired even to get up. Half an hour ago Dima had watched Vladimir go out into the hallway, glance in the direction of the stairs and then, as if the climb were too much for him, flop on to one of the pale beige leather couches. Both he and the leather gave a satisfied sigh: a minute later he was snoring like the distant rumble of another earthquake. Gregorin and Zirak were in the kitchen, helping themselves to Gazul’s beers out of an abnormally large American fridge. He could hear them discussing whether the integral ice-making machine should be able to dispense a choice of ice cube size. Amara had gone to her room with a bottle of whisky and the Gulf edition of Cosmopolitan magazine.
Dima had tried four times to reach Paliov on the satphone. He had failed every time. Paliov had said not to try and contact him, only to wait for a call from him. He continued to stare at the map, as if it might now deliver better news. Three devices: three separate suitcase nuclear bombs. And one possibly already in American hands. Right now they’d be crawling all over it. Situation rooms from the White House to the Pentagon to Langley would be soaking up whatever intelligence they could extract from it, before discussing threat levels and proportionate responses. What was the proportionate response to a nuclear bomb? Death to imperialists and former communists alike, thought Dima: what difference did it make if you all ended up as dust?
Was Paliov really unavailable, or had he been retired? Fallen on his sword, or been pushed? In Moscow, anything was possible.
Dima glanced at the scanner, battered and scorched but still functioning, just. It looked like a typical piece of shit Russian technology. Built to survive an arctic winter but disinclined to offer a precision reading unless it felt like it. Every thirty minutes it spat out a map reference and on a tiny green screen showed the direction of the bombs’ movements from the last point they were logged as stationary. If that was the bank, and Kroll said he couldn’t even be sure of that, then one of the nukes had been moved to the northwest outskirts of the city. In other words, the American base. The other two, seemingly travelling together, were being taken somewhere due north of the capital, but that was all mountains with hardly any roads.
Eighty to a hundred men had died at the compound and he now had even less of an idea of Kaffarov’s whereabouts than he had when they were back in Moscow looking at the satellite images. He tried Paliov for the sixth time. The satphone said his number was still unobtainable.
He called the main GRU field emergency number. He hadn’t used it in twenty years, but like his mother’s birthday it was a number he never forgot.
‘Speak slowly, state call-sign, mission status and ID code followed by hash.’
An automated response: the GRU was moving with the times! But this was a black op, deniable. No one had given him any of the above. He pressed the hash key and waited some more.
‘You have entered incorrectly.’
Being Russia, and being the GRU, there would, of course, be someone behind the voice, listening.
Dima cleared his throat and spoke in his best Chechen.
‘Regarding the incriminating pictures of Secretary Timofayev and the schoolgirl. . ’
The voice was clipped, weary, instantly recognisable.
‘Who is this?’
‘Smolenk! How heartwarming to hear your voice. So glad some things are constant in an ever-changing world.’
What the man had done to condemn himself to a life as the GRU’s out-of-hours phone operator didn’t bear thinking about.
‘Dima Mayakovsky for Senior Strategist Omorova.’
‘Do you have accreditation?’
‘No, no, this is a black op; just put me through to her.’
‘Do you know what time it is here?’
A massive explosion followed by a blast from three low-flying jets obliterated all sound. Kroll jerked awake again, spilling more ash. It was a miracle he never caught fire.
Smolenk suddenly sounded concerned.
‘Are you under fire?’
He glanced at Vladimir on the couch surrounded by beer cans and the semi-conscious Kroll.
‘Yes, we’re all being killed: get on with it.’
‘I will post a message in her inbox. You’re not authorised to speak to staff after hours.’
Dima sighed. You could be in the middle of an actual nuclear meltdown and this lot would be demanding your lunch ticket reference numbers.
‘Then I’m calling the CIA in Langley. At least they’ll want to talk to me.’
He sighed. ‘You people.’
The line went dead, then there were several clicks.
‘Comrade Mayakovsky, this is a surprise.’ Even at three a.m. Omorova’s voice had an invitingly velvet tone.
‘I’m sorry about the time.’
A couple of seconds passed before she spoke.
‘We thought you were all dead.’
‘I’ve got a — situation. I can’t raise Paliov.’
‘No one’s seen him all day. We’ve all been reassigned.’
They both knew what that meant. Mission aborted.
‘Kaffarov was gone before we even got to the compound. Did anyone report that?’
Her voice suddenly became more formal.
‘I’ve got no information about that.’
‘The missiles that hit the chopper over the compound. Do you where they came from?’
‘I have no information about that either.’
Dima felt he was about to vent his anger on her, the person least responsible for the debacle.
‘Sixty of our best men were fried.’
Silence: she was sticking to protocol. They both knew they were being listened to.
‘Thank you, Omorova. Goodnight.’
Dima needed space to think, to work out his next move. Gregorin and Zirak appeared in the study. They glanced at each other. Dima could only assume they’d been discussing whether to go on with the mission. That was all he needed. Wanting to destroy something, he picked up the satphone, about to hurl it to the floor when another call came through. A blocked number — on a scrambler, from an untraceable line. He gave Vladimir a shove to wake him and put it on speaker so they could all hear. It was Omorova. She spoke fast.
‘We were told everyone was lost, that the choppers collided. Paliov has been held personally responsible for bungling the mission. Timofayev has taken control. If they know you’re not dead they’re behaving as if you are.’
‘What about Kaffarov? Two days ago Paliov was desperate to get him back.’
‘No one’s talking about him, or the bombs. Al Bashir’s believed dead, killed by US forces. Be very careful Mayakovsky: the GRU isn’t the place it was.’
Gregorin broke the silence.
‘Is that it then? They’re giving up?’
‘What?’ Vladimir was wide awake now.
Kroll looked away. He already knew what Dima’s answer would be.
Dima glared at Gregorin.
‘Have I said that?’
Zirak jerked his chin up, which he always did when out of his comfort zone.
‘It’s not an unreasonable question, Dima. We don’t seem to have got any nearer to Kaffarov or the nukes.’
Gregorin was next. ‘Where’s that leave us? We’re government servants. Those bastards in Mosow pull the plug, they’re not going to pay.’
Zirak said, ‘We don’t see how we can go on from here.’
Dima looked at the two of them. They were younger than him, younger than Kroll and Vladimir: Spetsnaz staff officers, with careers and futures. Dima knew what was going through their heads. The thrilling assignment they had jumped to sign up to thirty-six hours ago had turned to shit. All support for it from Moscow seemed to have vanished. The most likely outcome was that they’d get killed either by the PLR or the Americans. As if to confirm the precariousness of their situation, another tremor shook the house.
He took a deep breath.
‘You’re right. The most dangerous thing a good Spetsnaz can do is put their f
aith in a comrade. Assume the worst, and avoid disappointment. Trust no one. Above all, look after yourself. Congratulations, you’ve passed the test.’
Zirak, not sure where this was going, glanced at Gregorin, who was staring fixedly at the floor.
Dima pressed on. ‘This is the life you chose. A Spetsnaz. I don’t need to remind you what that means. You have no life beyond what you are here to do. You are here because you were selected, because of your strength both mental and physical, your loyalty and commitment. You’ve given up so much to be here. There is no life outside. .’
He could see his words falling to the ground like spent bullets, his own doubt resonating inside them. How could he convince them of the rightness of the cause when he was losing his own faith? He had given his life to Spetsnaz and it had spat him out, a used shell of a man. What did he have to show for the years? One woman, loved and lost. A child he’d never seen. All for the good of the Motherland. Kroll, Vladimir, they weren’t much of an advertisement either. He looked round at Kroll. He had fallen asleep again, the scanner still blinking on his lap. Vladimir was sitting up now, finishing another beer.
‘Well, I don’t mind,’ he said. ‘I’ll do anything so long as I don’t have to go back inside. Oh, hey, Mrs Gazul.’
Dima looked up. Amara was standing in the doorway. She walked up to the desk, looked down at the papers and with a slightly chipped dark red fingernail, pointed at a blank space on the map.
‘There.’
‘What?’
‘Kaffarov’s mountain retreat.’
They all looked at her.
Dima said, ‘You’ve been there?’
She nodded. ‘Sure. For the skiing.’
37
Northwest Tehran
Cole had thrown down the gauntlet: come back with Bashir or don’t come back at all, he seemed to be saying. Or had Blackburn imagined that? He had lost count of the hours he had gone without sleep. The last two days had been relentless. He had neutralised an IED, smoked Al Bashir out of his lair and secured the nuke. Why was Cole singling him out?
All this ran through his head as he and Campo flattened themselves against the perimeter wall that ran round the edge of the shopping mall roof. They had exited the Osprey into a hail of fire from what seemed like all corners of the LZ. In four seconds he saw four men go down, as tracer lit up the sky above the Osprey. He and Campo followed instructions and made for the west corner, jinking left and right as they ran. They crushed themselves up against the edge of the perimeter wall, soaked in sweat and gulping in oxygen. But for the last hour they were pinned down by fire from two PLR gun emplacements either side of them.
‘Fuck our luck,’ screamed Campo in a fit of exhausted rage. ‘Fuck this war. Fuck the PLR. I see that Bashir I’m going to cut his fucking head off.’
Blackburn gripped his arm as they lay in the tiny area of cover they enjoyed, looked him hard in the face. ‘Just stay cool, Campo. We’ll get out of this, okay?’
Campo looked blank for a few seconds then nodded half-heartedly. They listened to the radio chatter of the men who had reached the floors below, systematically clearing every room, every space, finding no one.
Campo was still cursing. ‘Fucking intel’s fucked. They drop us into PLR central and there’s nobody home and we’re gonna get fried.’
Blackburn gripped his friend’s shoulder. ‘Cool it Campo. Think. They wouldn’t be defending if there wasn’t something to defend.’
There was a mad look in Campo’s eyes. He threw down his M4. One engagement too far. Blackburn cursed Cole for sending them back in. He grasped Campo by the upper arms and shook him. ‘You want to die here? No. Do you want to get home in one piece? Yes. How are you going to do that? By getting this done.’
There were tears in Campo’s eyes.
‘It’s okay. You’re only human. One day you’re a hero doesn’t mean the next you’re not going to have a meltdown. This isn’t the movies. I need you bro. You need me, if we’re going to get out of this.’
Campo took several breaths, nodded, picked up his gun. ‘Yeah, okay.’
The quake had torn away a whole section of the mall. When the firing subsided, they took a look over the edge into the void and saw the silhouettes of figures balanced precariously, as if undecided whether to jump. I must be losing it, thought Blackburn, until Campo put him right.
‘Fuckin’ mannequins. It’s a goddam dress shop.’
The realisation cheered Campo. Blackburn, still not sure, allowed himself to look a split second longer than he should have and a volley of shots skimmed his helmet. But just before he ducked he caught sight of an SUV, a Land Cruiser, parked among a row of dumpsters as if for camouflage, lights off but exhaust coming from the rear — occupied. He raised his M4 and peered at it through the night sight. One occupant. Then to the left he saw a second figure moving towards it. He nudged Campo.
‘Guy’s alone. Our HVT should have a whole entourage with him.’
But Blackburn wasn’t listening. The man was jogging in a lumbering kind of way towards the Land Cruiser, not a young man. A burst of tracer lit his face. That was all he needed. The same face that looked out from a hundred posters he’d seen since they’d entered Iran, the same face he had seen on the bank vault security monitor. Al Bashir.
‘Okay, he’s mine.’
Blackburn didn’t call it in. Instead he trained his sight on the occupant of the SUV, a younger guy sitting in the driver’s seat. A clean shot: the driver slumped forward as the side window exploded. Al Bashir reeled back, nearly lost his balance, then wheeled round to look in the direction of the shot before he moved towards the Land Cruiser.
Campo raised his M4. Blackburn shook his head. He ran along the perimeter wall, jumped the gap on to the section of the mall that the quake had separated, then down on to the lid of a dumpster, which broke his fall. He paused for a second to see Al Bashir reach the driver’s door, heave the wounded man out of the driver’s seat and let him fall on to the tarmac. Then he took a step over him and slid behind the wheel.
Blackburn ran along the edge of the roof to get closer to the Land Cruiser but Al Bashir slammed the shift into drive. With tyres screaming, the vehicle bolted out from its cover by the dumpsters. Blackburn took aim, shot out a rear tyre, but the four-wheel drive vehicle didn’t falter. He followed the vehicle in his sights, took another shot, missed, prepared to take another, when he saw it reach the gate where a shelled tank was still smouldering. Without slowing, Al Bashir swung the Land Cruiser into such a sharp right that it nearly toppled over. He then headed back towards the mall, disappearing from view behind a row of containers. Blackburn, as if powered by another force, vaulted on to the top of the nearest containers to get a better shot, only to find the vehicle headed straight towards him, too close to fire at. As Al Bashir slowed to take another right Blackburn leapt, landing sprawled across the windscreen. He grabbed a wiper. It immediately came off in his hand. He lunged at the door mirror as Al Bashir threw the Land Cruiser into a series of snaking swerves. Blackburn scrabbled with his legs, trying desperately to keep from sliding off the hood and under the front wheels. The windshield disintegrated as Bashir took a shot at his unexpected passenger. The bullet zinged past Blackburn’s left ear, the blast deafening him. Enraged, he slammed a fist through the remaining screen and grabbed Bashir’s gun arm. The gun discharged again.
Whatever it was Bashir ran into Blackburn never saw. The impact catapulted him on to the tarmac. As Bashir, dazed, struggled to engage reverse, Blackburn got back on his feet, wrenched open the door and grabbed the PLR leader with both hands. They fell in a heap beside the Land Cruiser, their faces inches apart.
The first he knew that Bashir had taken a bullet was the bubbling, bloody phlegm that oozed from his mouth and nostrils.
Campo was rushing towards them. ‘Good fucking job, man.’
Blackburn screamed back at him. ‘He’s hit, he’s hit. Adrenalin.’
Campo threw him a sachet which he tor
e open before banging the needle through Bashir’s tunic straight into his chest. He overheard Campo on the radio. ‘HVT in custody, wounded, preparing to move to extraction point.’
Fuck preparing to move, thought Blackburn. He’s dying. Al Bashir’s eyes swivelled up under his drooping lids. Blackburn pumped his chest, wiped the blood off his chin and performed mouth to mouth. Al Bashir jerked back into consciousness, panting wheezy bubbles of blood, but he managed a smile.
‘Should you be going to all this trouble? Or are you planning to bring me to justice?’
He coughed up the blood pooling in his mouth. Blackburn looked for the entry wound, found it in his neck. Blood was pulsing out of it. Blackburn jammed his thumb in it, yelling to Campo.
‘Tourniquet!’
‘Forget about me, soldier. It’s you who are done for. All of you.’
His eyes swivelled again. Blackburn pumped his chest, banging life back into him.
‘The suitcase devices — the nukes. Where?’
He shook his head slowly. ‘It’s not me you should be concerned about. I am history. The baton has passed. .’
Campo was on his knees beside Blackburn, stripping the plastic off a tourniquet. ‘He’s bleeding out, stop him talking.’
‘Try all you want soldier, whatever happens to me you are done for, my friend.’
Blackburn put his face close. ‘The other one who you were with, taking the nukes.’
He nodded. ‘Very good, yes. He will destroy you.’
Campo tried to apply the dressing. ‘He’s fucking lost it. He’s talking shit.’
Blackburn hushed him. ‘A name. Give me his name.’
‘His name is death, my friend.’ He coughed up more blood. ‘Sol-man.’
‘Solman?’
Bashir’s voice was now no more than a gurgling whisper. He used a breath for each syllable. ‘Sol. . o. . mon.’
After that there were no more breaths.
38
Vladimir leapt up and brushed some quake dust off the couch. Kroll offered her a cigarette. She draped herself across the beige leather: although she looked drained Dima noticed that she had refreshed her make-up. He wondered what she was hoping to get out of all this, presumably not a fling with any of this lot. Women like her made sure they went up in the world, not down.
