by Andy McNab
The humming was different. So different, he decided it was just another voice in his head. Da de da de dad a. Dad de da de dad a. An old voice. It reminded him of his grandfather. It was accompanied by a scraping sound — and then steps — a stepladder. Da de da de dad a. Dad de da de dad a. Then some words.
I’m flying to Paris, I’m keeping my promise. I’ll be there tomorrow. Da de da. . Do not, repeat, do not despair.
George didn’t think it was much of a song. April in Paris, now that was a song. But he sang it like he was told, as he examined the aircon ducts that ran along the ceiling of the corridor. He was a bit unsure about cleaning them because he knew they’d not been touched in years and once he got started — well, it could be one of those jobs that went on and on. But that’s what Hal wanted. Reasons for him to be there more than once. He was due some overtime, so he told the site manager he’d try and get as much as he could done over the weekend.
78
Paris
It was two a.m. when Bulganov’s Lear descended through thick cloud into Paris airspace. The cloud was emptying its load on to Charles De Gaulle runway number two as they thumped on to the ground, and the pilot coaxed the brakes to bring them to a halt.
The airport VIP crew met them with umbrellas and escorted them to the waiting VIP coach. When you travelled with Bulganov it was VIP all the way. His first step on Parisian terra firma and Dima’s pulse shifted up a gear. The clock was really ticking now. He and Kroll were in matching black Hugo Boss suits, borrowed from Bulganov’s Moscow security detail. Dima’s fitted better than Kroll’s, which was a little short in the leg and with his loping gait made him look like a gangly, prematurely-aged adolescent.
They had their Iranian passports ready — there hadn’t been any time to prepare fresh ones, but such was Bulganov’s clout that they were greeted by the French immigration team like old friends. They weren’t even asked to remove their preposterous dark glasses.
‘For a minute there I thought they were going to kiss us on both cheeks,’ said Kroll.’
‘Don’t get too used to it,’ snapped Dima.
‘No need to snap,’ scolded Kroll.
For all the drive into Paris Dima said nothing. He sat staring out of the window into the rainy night, memories flooding back, mixed with anticipation about what was without doubt the assignment of his life. So much at stake, failure wasn’t an option. The photographs, tantalisingly thrust in front of him by Paliov. No name — just the place his son worked. And the cruellest irony of all, that it was Solomon’s target.
Bulganov’s apartment was just off the Champs Elysées. As the Rolls came to a stop Dima saw it. Parked up on the kerb, a dogeared Renault Espace people-mover with smoked glass windows and no hubcaps. Rossin might as well have had the words ‘Danger — Surveillance’ stencilled along the side.
‘So when do we start?’ said Bulganov, rubbing his hands.
‘You get some rest while we hook up with our local fixer.’
Bulganov looked a little disappointed, but given the late hour and the weather, it didn’t seem like a bad option.
‘There’s a keypad there,’ he pointed out. ‘Just tap in 7474 if you change your mind and want somewhere a bit more comfortable to stay.’
‘What does he think this is,’ said Kroll under his breath. ‘A weekend break?’
Bulganov disappeared into the building and the side door of the Espace slid open. Rossin leapt out and embraced his old friend, kissing him on both cheeks.
‘It’s been too long.’
‘That’s not what you said on the phone.’
In the ten years since Dima had seen him, Rossin had aged twenty. He had put on about thirty pounds. His dark French-Algerian features had shrivelled a little but the lively eyes suggested he hadn’t lost his appetite for the game.
‘Step into my office. I have interesting things to show you.’
The interior of the Espace smelled of coffee, garlic, cigarette ash and mildew.
‘First let me say I have been extremely careful, in view of your current status. Naturally, any whiff of our previous association could prejudice my investigations.’
Dima felt the same impatience he always experienced in his dealings with Rossin.
‘Let’s just cut to the chase, okay?’
‘There have been some significant developments but I must warn you — there is a great deal of danger associated with this mission.’
‘I think I’m aware of that,’ said Dima.
‘Your man is very, very clever. This you must know. As you are aware, I have the very best channels with which to access files of the DGSE, the DCRI, the DPSD. .’
Dima headed him off.
‘And all their files on him are wiped.’
Rossin nodded and wagged a finger.
‘In fact there’s no evidence any of themever had any record of him. He’s done an extremely good job of covering his tracks. However!’ A light came into his eyes. ‘The Service Central de la Sécurité des Systèmes d’Informations—.’ He interrupted himself to grab a quick breath. ‘They showed me a link to a North African extremist group, Force Noir, which he supposedly infiltrated in the late ‘90s up in Clichy-sous-Bois.’
‘Nice part of town.’
Dima remembered it: grim anonymous towers of substandard housing decked in graffiti and satellite dishes. And no white faces.
Rossin nodded, his mouth turned downwards in a Gallic show of distaste.
‘One of the worst — on fire through most of the summer of ’05. Not so bad now since Sarkozy cracked down on them.’ He opened his laptop. ‘So we did a little surveillance of a couple of blocks where we knew they were active.’ He struck a key like a concert pianist at the start of a concerto. ‘Et — voilà!’
Dima peered at the screen: Solomon. Exactly as he remembered him and exactly how Marine Sergeant Henry Blackburn had described him. A tall figure, heavy brow, high cheekbones and dark empty eyes. Hard to put an age or nationality to. The perfect twenty-first century triple agent turned terrorist. He felt his pulse accelerate again and the muscles in his chest tighten.
‘That’s him.’
He turned the laptop towards Kroll, who bent his head close to the screen. Rossin eased it back towards him.
‘There’s more.’
Rossin scrolled slowly through shots of three more men coming either in or out of the same block.
‘Bernard, Syco, Ramon. They don’t seem to have surnames. They’re all on file.’
‘Syco’s my favourite,’ said Kroll, looking at the biggest and ugliest of the three.
‘When were these taken?’
‘Yesterday.’
‘Good work. You have a log?’
Rossin opened another window and read off the times.
‘Solomon — enters at three-thirty, shortly after the other three have arrived. They are all believed to be inhabiting an apartment on the ninth floor. Solomon leaves at eight. We followed him to a small hotel in the Rue Marcellin Berthelot, about four ks from there. He’s registered there as Zayed Trahore, good Algerian name. But he goes back to the apartment an hour later and I’m betting he is still there.’
Rossin allowed himself a small triumphant smirk before he ploughed on. There’s a man, thought Dima, who loves his work.
‘Now comes the most interesting part. A Citroen van with the livery of an air freight company called Cargotrak made a delivery there at nine-thirty last night. Not a good time to be out on the streets there, I might add. Syco and Ramon carried a box about the size of a small fridge into the building.’
Dima looked at Kroll. ‘Jesus. He flew it in on a cargo plane.’
Kroll let a slow breath out.
‘Better bet than excess baggage, if you grease the right palms.’
Rossin raised a finger.
‘Cargotrak has a long standing contract with the CIA for shipments to Afghanistan and neighbouring destinations. As I say, your man is a clever one.’
Kroll boote
d up Shenk’s scanner.
‘What’s that?’ Rossin looked suddenly worried.
‘Just our insurance.’
Kroll compared the co-ordinates with the map of Paris on the iPad he’d borrowed from Omorova.
‘Looks good.’
Dima frowned into space.
‘Right. Better get on with it. Where’s Vladimir?’
‘At the hotel.’
‘I hope it’s near Clichy.’
Rossin smiled. ‘Three blocks from Solomon’s. And full of local atmosphere.’
‘Has he got the necessary?’
‘All sorted.’
79
‘Do you never sleep?’
Vladimir gave a good look through the spy hole before he let them in.
‘I put my head on the pillow forty-five minutes ago.’
Dima gave his comrade a brotherly hug. ‘What’s a pillow?’
He looked round the room. A small lightweight arsenal awaited them: three Glock 9 mm machine pistols, a pack of stun grenades, three high-power torches, night vision goggles, Vladimir’s favourite rappelling kit.
Dima lifted the ropes.
‘Did you need these to get out of Iran?’
‘Amara persuaded me to stay for the funeral. I needed them to get out of her bedroom.’
‘So she’s coming to terms with her loss.’
‘She was quite pissed off that she couldn’t come to Paris with me.’
‘You didn’t tell her anything, did you?’
‘I’m Siberian, not stupid.’
‘You sober enough for this next bit?’
‘If I have to be.’
Dima turned to Rossin. ‘If we need you—.’
Rossin shook his head. ‘I’m out of town the next couple of days.’
‘I thought you said you’d retired.’
Rossin shrugged. ‘It’s as you said: none of us retire.’
They travelled in a grubby Citroen Xantia Rossin had procured for them. A car with three men in it at three a.m. was a potential magnet for police curiosity, even without a trunk load of weaponry. Kroll did his best to observe the speed limit until he realised that at this hour, no one else on the road was paying any attention to it either.
Close to the Clichy tower block they had to hang back while firemen dealt with a burning car. A squad of police were loading a van with protesting young men. Friday night in the small hours was not the best time to be visiting this neighbourhood.
‘Too bad we can’t do the apartment and Solomon’s hotel simultaneously.’
‘It’s the bomb I want first. Check the scanner.’
It was pulsing clearly. Dima should have been more elated, but something was troubling him, something he couldn’t put his finger on.
‘Let’s hope it doesn’t slip away from us again.’
The entrance to the block was wide open, any outer doors it had once had being long gone. So was the lift.
‘Nine stories. Fuck,’ said Vladimir.
‘Do you good. Come on.’
Three floors up they stepped over a couple zoned out on substances. Syringes crunched underfoot. Several apartments were doorless and burned out. Some that did have doors sounded like they wouldn’t have them much longer, judging by the arguments underway inside. On floor eight they were confronted by a posse of young men, their faces covered, each with a pistol.
‘Turn round if you don’t want to die.’
‘We’re busy: fuck off out the way,’ said Dima and, without even raising his Glock, shot the gun out of the leader’s hand.
The man folded into a ball and the others melted into an empty doorway.
Floor nine. Apartment six. They checked the scanner one more time. A bright green pulsing light. Dima put his night vision lenses on. The other two followed. They examined the door carefully. Then Dima and Vladimir stood either side ready to rush in when Kroll shot out the lock.
Dima fired a few rounds as he burst in — high in case he caught the bomb. There wasn’t much to the flat: bedroom, living room, kitchen and bathroom. Every wall was sprayed with graffiti swirls. It stank of urine. There was nobody home.
‘Fuck. We’ve got the wrong one,’ said Kroll.
‘No we haven’t,’ said Vladimir. He was in the bathroom, pointing at a small pulsing green light. It was coming from the bomb’s signaller all right. But it wasn’t attached to any suitcase nuke.
80
Fort Donaldson, USA
The next time he heard the footsteps Blackburn was on his feet. The slot his food came through had a small gap down one side that let a sliver of light in from the corridor. He wanted to press his face up close to it, to see if he could catch a glimpse of the singer. But then there was the camera in the ceiling watching him twenty-four/seven. Schwab told him he was on suicide watch. He was pretty sure he had dreamed the song. How could Dima be sending him a message? How could he know where he was?
But what if the person was giving him a message from Dima? Blackburn could blow him wide open if he tried to speak. So he whistled the tune.
No response. Just the scraping of the ladder, then the steps.
He whistled again.
Nothing.
George went to his truck. He often went back to it during the day to pick up a fresh pack of Winstons. But he didn’t want a cigarette. He took out the emergency use, once only Pay As You Go cell phone and called Hal.
‘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 t
he 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.
