by Andy McNab
‘There’s an airshaft that the kitchens open on to. We could put a ladder across from the Kasparovs. They are very old and quite deaf—.’
Dima cut him off with a wagging finger. ‘You said it was only two guys on the outside. I’m not pussyfooting around. I’ll give them the option of legging it or I’ll shoot them.’
Kroll sighed. ‘If you must.’
Dima glared at him. ‘This thing — before we even try to get to Paris — has to move fast now.’
‘Speaking of Paris — how are we getting there?’
Dima ignored the question. His mind was elsewhere.
They mounted the stairs and marched up to the guards. As well as the clothes, Dima had a fresh new PSS Silent that Omorova had procured for him. The guards took one look at it and raised their hands. You could have made a bit of an effort, he thought, as he made them lie down for Kroll to handcuff. Dima lifted the XP-9 semi-automatics from their holsters, chucked one to Kroll, pocketed the other. You never knew when a spare gun might come in handy. Kroll escorted the security men to a servicelift, herded them in, shut the door and disabled it.
Paliov was asleep in a chair. In the few days that had passed he looked like he had aged ten years.
He felt Dima’s presence and lifted his eyelids slowly as if they were heavy weights. He peered at his visitor. ‘I heard you were dead.’
‘Yeah, I heard that too.’
‘It was on the news.’
‘Then it must be true.’
Paliov’s eyes started to close. Dima slapped his cheeks. ‘They drug you?’
‘Probably Can’t think why, I’m practically dead as it is.’
‘Timofayev?’
He nodded. ‘Seems I’ve fallen foul of the powers that be.’
Yeah, well that makes two of us. Did you know the Kaffarov mission was based on corrupted intelligence and was blown before we even took off from Rayazan?’
Paliov came back to life for a moment, a subterranean eruption of anger welling to the surface.
‘Timofayev wanted a lightweight team — deniable, disposable. I was determined you’d have the full complement you needed. He wanted you to fail.’
Then it subsided. He shook his head.
‘What he sees in Kaffarov — and with that WMD. .’
‘Kaffarov’s dead.’
Paliov’s face brightened.
‘Don’t get too happy. Want to take a guess who’s got his bombs?’
He told him. Paliov hung his head. Solomon had been Paliov’s project as well, the ultimate agent, gifted, ruthless, no past, no allegiances.
There was a long silence as he absorbed the information. ‘Everything I’ve worked for and now this. .’
‘We had a deal, remember. I’m going to Paris.’
‘Ah Paris. Your old haunt.’ An inane smile spread across his face. His eyelids started to close again.
‘The photographs, remember?’
He frowned. Dima felt an almost uncontrollable urge to throttle him. He settled for another hard smack on the cheek.
‘My son, remember? In the pictures. You were going to get me a name and an address.’
Paliov’s eyes focused, the muscles in his sagging cheeks tensed. Some of the life came back into him. But the impression was not so much alert as panicked.
‘Your son?’
Dima leapt forward, grabbed the old man’s shoulders.
‘The fucking pictures. You showed them to me. It’s why I agreed to go on that fucked-up mission.’
Paliov’s hand went up to his mouth.
‘It’s happening again.’ His eyes unfocused.
Dima saw the photographs in his head clear down to every pixel. Camille’s features, some of his own. Good looking kid. My son.
‘I’m sorry, it’s. .’ Then a glimmer of recognition came into his watery eyes. ‘Timofayev had them. His people found him. He didn’t allow me the details.’
He stared at Paliov with a mixture of fury and despair. This man, once a formidable spymaster, keeper of all secrets, scourge of the West, the focus of all his respect and admiration. He cursed Paliov’s decrepitude, cursed himself for not prising the information out of either of them when he had the chance. For a moment he felt the energy that had kept him going these last days evaporating.
He had to keep moving. He had to get to Paris, with or without the information he craved.
‘Goodbye Paliov.’
‘Dima.’ Paliov’s voice was suddenly much stronger. ‘One last favour.’
‘I’m fresh out of favours.’
He pointed at the guard’s XP-9 that was still in his hand. ‘Would you mind if I borrowed that? I think the time has come. I’d ask you to but I’ve put you through too much.’
Dima froze. Love him or hate him, he had been in his life longer than any other person he had known.
He offered his right hand. Paliov clasped it. Then Dima handed over the pistol, turned and walked to the door.
‘Dima.’
He looked over his shoulder. A glimmer of light in Paliov’s eyes.
‘Your boy. He works at the Bourse.’
69
He heard the shot when he got outside the door. To Dima it meant more than the death of one man: it signalled the end of an era. Paliov had personified a set of values and principles that they had both given their lives to. Love them or hate them — and Dima had done both — they were in his DNA. For all the trouble Paliov had caused him, the lies, the mess and the waste, most of all the lost lives in Kaffarov’s compound — despite it all, Dima felt a twinge of regret.
But there was no time to process all that now. As the lift took him down, Paliov’s final words reverberated round his head.
He’s a trader at the Bourse.
Kroll was waiting for him in the Merc.
‘We have a problem.’
‘Just for a change.’
‘I just got a call from Omorova. Timofayev has demanded to see your corpse. He won’t take anyone’s word, despite the phone footage. If he doesn’t see a body he’s going to put the whole city on lockdown and tell the world you’re still out there. Armed and dangerous and to be shot on sight.’
Dima looked distracted.
‘Omorova doesn’t know what to do. She’s already taken a big fat risk organising your “shooting”.’
70
Renskaya Morgue, Moscow
Friday night is rush hour at Moscow’s police morgues. But the Renskaya, one of the oldest in the city, was suspiciously quiet — to anyone familiar with the place, which Andrei Timofayev was not.
A nervous-looking orderly in a white coat, apron and rubber boots led the way down to the basement. The place smelled not of death, but of something unidentifiable and chemical, impersonal. The green paint on the brick walls of the corridors was scored by decades of gurneys, badly steered by drunken or careless porters. There had been no time to prepare the viewing chamber in advance of the Secretary’s visit. The tattered curtain across the window through which the corpses could be viewed for identification hung like a string of washing. Timofayev shook his head, as he did whenever he found evidence of Moscow’s resemblance to a city in the Third World.
‘If you would take a seat, Sir,’ said the orderly.
‘What for? Do I look like a grieving relative?’ Timofayev fluttered a hand at the curtain. ‘Get on with it.’
The curtain was drawn back. On a trolley behind the viewing window lay a pale corpse. Just the head and shoulders were showing: the rest was under a sheet — just visible was a corner of the plaster used by pathologists to close up, after they have finished their investigations.
All the colour had drained from the face. The eyes were closed, the head angled slightly towards the window to facilitate identification.
Timofayev glared at the corpse, narrowing his eyes.
‘I need a closer look.’
The attendant stepped forward, moving uncomfortably in his large boots.
‘I’m sorry, Sir, it
’s not permitted.’
Timofayev pushed him aside and seized the handle of the door that separated the viewing gallery from the body display area. It was locked.
‘Open it. Now!’
The orderly did as he was told and stood back. He had done what he had been bribed to do. Now all he wanted to do was flee. Timofayev strode up to the corpse and peered at it, his face devoid of emotion.
Dima had only stopped shivering when he heard Timofayev’s voice. He had conquered the urge to shudder by putting himself in the same state as when he was thrown into the ice-covered lake in his Spetsnaz training, or when he had to fight one of his fellow recruits naked in the snow for the amusement of their instructor, a definite psychopath. He ordered his nerve endings not to respond to the cold, commanded his muscles to obey. Even so, he could still feel the goosebumps on his arms tingling. Bit of a giveaway that. Timofayev’s breath was warm and smelled of coffee and something alcoholic. His aftershave blended with the disinfectant that hung in the mortuary air, in a particularly nausea-inducing way. His breaths came in short rapid puffs that sounded like repeated snorts of disdain. He lifted the sheet back to expose the plaster.
And Dima opened his eyes.
Timofayev jumped backwards, crashing into the instrument trolley parked to one side, fumbling for his weapon. Dima sprang up and grabbed his wrist as his hand reached the Beretta.
‘You didn’t expect me back in Moscow, did you?’
‘I don’t expect anything of you. You’re way past your sell-by date, Mayakovsky. Same as your pathetic old boss.’
Timofayev’s eyes drilled into his, seemingly unfazed by the hold Dima had on his wrist. Had Dima wanted to kill him he would have by now but it was information he had come for. All the same, revenge was running a close second and catching up fast.
But with a superhuman force that took Dima completely by surprise, Timofayev wrenched his arm out of his grip and kicked him hard in his naked groin. There was nothing Dima could do but double up on the floor, the pain blotting out any coherent thought except for cursing himself for thinking up this ridiculous stunt.
‘See what I mean? You’ve been running around Iran these last few days, chasing your tail, getting tired, going without food and fluids. You overestimate yourself. It’s the same with all you two-dimensional comic book heroes. And then you pay the price.’
Through the fog of agony produced by his traumatised testicles Dima could sense Timofayev preparing to dispatch him. He had to postpone it.
‘Solomon’s going to make Russia very unpopular. The Americans already know where the WMDs come from.’
‘Your information is both inaccurate and out of date,’ said Timofayev. ‘The Americans have a man in custody who’s told them all about you, and they’ve drawn their own useful though rather unimaginative conclusions. In fact your blundering into them has provided Solomon with a very useful cover.’
‘Now you’re going to tell me you want him to get away with it?’
Dima was not only in physical pain, his whole worldview was crumbling. Would nothing stay still?
‘You just don’t get it do you, Mayakovsky? The world has moved on. The geopolitical ice is melting. The tectonic plates of power and influence are shifting. America and the West have had their day. They’ve had it far too good for far too long. New forces in the world are poised to take their place — are taking their place, even as I speak. And those of us with the imagination to see this are not going to let it be slowed down by a few feeble old dinosaurs too short-sighted — and weak — to know when it’s time for them to die out. You’re extinct, Dima. Give it up.’
Dima tried hard to focus on what Timofayev was saying. Concentrating on this pompous speech would help to distract him from the pain while he worked out his next move, if he had one. He was on the freezing floor, naked and unarmed, his head slammed against the wheel of the trolley.
‘Paliov warned me about you. He said you didn’t know when to stop. I was relying on you screwing up — which you seem to have done rather well.’
Timofayev was getting into his stride. The best Dima could hope for was that he’d relax his concentration, though he didn’t come across as the sort who would.
‘Were you hoping to wring some information out of me about that orphan boy in Paris?’
Dima didn’t feel like dignifying him with an answer, but his silence spoke for itself. He couldn’t bear the contempt with which Timofayev spoke about his son, and felt the balance tip towards vengeance.
‘Well I don’t have any and I never did. I expect some minion in my Ministry may have logged a name and address but we’re not obsessive collectors of trivia like our socialist forefathers. It just clogs up the servers. Besides, what would a bright young man do after finding out his father’s a failed Soviet agent? Hardly going to do much for his prospects is it? I should leave the boy alone if I were you, to get on with his life.’
Dima struggled to lift himself by grabbing a leg of the trolley, nearly pulling off the cover that was draped over it. He managed to get a grip on the edge of the shelf.
‘Go on, pick yourself up. Your story’s so sad I might even take pity on you and send you to one of the remaining gulags. You’d like that. It’s full of your generation. You can eat boiled onions and reminisce about the good old Soviet days of your youth.’
My generation? thought Dima. The two of them were only a few years apart in age. But they they were worlds apart: at least Dima had some morals, some sense of justice. The sterile android in the suit in front of him, who was sounding off about a new world order, had no belief in anything, no loyalty to any cause other than his own.
He put the flat of his hand on the trolley shelf, felt the instrument under his palm. It would have to do. But a new pain shot up his leg as he tried to lift himself again. He slithered back to the ground and doubled over, closing his hand over the instrument he had grabbed off the shelf, hoping Timofayev hadn’t noticed.
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.
