by Andy McNab
‘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 strange, 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 footn
ote 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 really 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.
52
The Lieutenant was in a rage: that much was clear.
‘Congratulations, Blackburn. You found your man. Glad to see you got your priorities right.’
Blackburn said nothing.
‘Campo and Montes figured you must be dead since there’s at least two buried in the rubble out there.’
The news hit Dima like another explosion. Zirak and Gregorin. .
Cole glared at Dima.
‘So: the executioner. You’ve made quite a name for yourself.’
Dima didn’t respond. When in doubt do absolutely nothing, just think fast and watch hard. The Uzi was half a metre from his foot. He tried to read the Lieutenant: earnest, well-bred, committed, he guessed, here because he wanted to be. In for the long haul. But with something else going on. It was all in Blackbu
rn’s intriguing reaction to his superior officer, as if being rescued by him was the last thing in the world he wanted right now.
Cole stepped closer, eyeing Dima.
‘As good a place as any to end this.’
Blackburn said nothing. The dust had turned his face to a mask. A very unpleasant thought started forming in Dima’s mind.
‘Say, Blackburn. It looks pretty unstable in here. Should get ourselves out before it caves.’
‘Sir,’ said Blackburn. But he made no move. The M4 felt like a betrayal in his hands.
‘You’re very quiet, Blackburn. Guess I know what you’re thinking: now’s your chance. Well soldier, you’ve earned it. You go right ahead. Do what you have to do. Your secret’ll be safe with me.’
I can’t believe this is happening, thought Dima, realising what Cole was intimating. He glanced at the Uzi.
Cole stepped up to Blackburn and shouted in his ear.
‘Hey Blackburn, you hearing me? I’m giving you a chance.’
What a cunt, thought Dima.
Blackburn was frozen to the spot, his M4 now drooping in his hands. In front of him, two men, his CO and his tormentor, telling him to kill the stranger who had just saved his life. And if this man was right about Solomon. . What happened next took less than a second, but it was a very packed less than a second. Dima, his reflexes taking over, sprang towards the Uzi. Cole, having concluded that Blackburn didn’t have the stomach for it, took aim at Dima. But the weapon that went off wasn’t Cole’s. And the man that went down wasn’t Dima. The shot seemed to fill the whole bunker. Cole’s expression became one of exaggerated surprise as he sank to his knees, moving through dismay, to indignation, and finally to horror.
He stayed upright for a few more agonising seconds, then his eyes glazed and he slumped forward on to the rubble.
Dima, Uzi in hand, wheeled round to face Blackburn. He had seen that look before: Gregorin describing the elimination of his bullying comrade — a certain serenity that follows particularly sweet revenge. He shook his head as if he still didn’t quite believe it. But there was no question, the young American looked as though a great weight had just been lifted from him.
Dima stepped forward and grasped his saviour by the shoulder.
