Battlefield 3: The Russian Page 3

  In the sudden silence he could hear the rapid breathing of one of the Chechens. Dima turned, about to put a bullet in him, when he heard something shuffling outside. He looked up just as the apartment front door exploded. Three AK muzzles and, not far behind, three figures: faces pointlessly blackened, their helmets and body armour fresh and untarnished by action. An internal security SWAT team — famous for their ineptitude. Trying to take in the scene that confronted them, they froze. For a moment, nobody spoke.

  ‘He’s down there,’ Dima said, gesturing at Vatsanyev but keeping his eyes on the men. He could hear Vatsanyev struggling to lift himself, and his wheezing whisper, ‘Dima, Dima, don’t let them take me.’

  One of the SWATs stepped forward, lowering his weapon. ‘Dima Mayakovsky, you’re to come with us.’

  ‘On whose authority?’

  ‘Director Paliov.’

  ‘Am I under arrest?’

  ‘No, you have an appointment.’

  ‘Can we make it later? I’m a bit busy.’

  Kroll appeared in the doorway, behind them.

  ‘Sorry I wasn’t able to warn you. Shall I take the goods?’

  At the word ‘goods’, one of the SWATs fixed his gaze on the money. As the SWAT nudged his pal, who’d clocked Katya as part of the package, Dima swung his own weapon up into his face. The second one, weighing up whether to ditch his nice steady job for a case full of dollars, left Dima plenty of time to ram the gun into his balls.

  Dima looked round at Vatsanyev and gave him a single nod. Looking back at the men, he said, ‘Just a moment’. Then he looked once more at his old comrade, and put a bullet in his head.

  2

  GRU Headquarters, Moscow

  Paliov folded and unfolded a corner of the report as he read. With two fingers of his other hand he smoothed a patch on his forehead, as if trying to eliminate part of the network of creases that was ranged across it. The pendulous folds of skin under his eyes reminded Dima of the nosebags the carthorses wore in winter on the farm where his mother once worked. The big empty desk should have been an indication of Paliov’s status, but Dima thought it had the opposite effect. It made the Chief of Operational Security look small and shrivelled.

  The incident at the apartment was less than two hours old, but the hastily concocted document looked like it ran to over twenty pages. Paliov appeared to be studying every word, frowning as he read. Dima offered him a summary.

  ‘To save your valuable time, Director, it’s simple: Went in, got the girl, kept the money, shot them all. The End.’

  ‘Vatsanyev could have been a useful source.’

  ‘How?’

  Paliov looked up from the report and glared.

  Dima hadn’t expected this. Typical: you sort out a mess for these people and they suddenly decide they need someone who’s already been stored in the big, chilled filing cabinet with a tag on his toe. Anyhow, they’d never have got anything out of this one. Did these people never learn?

  He laughed. ‘If we’d lopped off his other ear? Snipped off his damaged fingers one by one? You could have pruned every limb, and his bollocks, and served him up his own cock on a blini; he wouldn’t have given you a thing. He’s a Chechen for God’s sake.’

  ‘And then there’s the matter of my men. How do you explain that?’

  ‘Explain what?’

  This was getting tiresome. Dima hadn’t expected a medal and the massed ranks of the St Petersburg Symphony, but couldn’t Paliov at least pretend to sound grateful?

  ‘I’m informed that they were beaten up in an unprovoked attack.’

  Dima restrained himself with difficulty. ‘Use your imagination. After those jokers brought me here, they’d have banged the girl and vanished with the money. You should congratulate me on purging your service of corrupt elements.’

  Hadn’t this occurred to him? He seemed to shrink further behind the desk. Dima glanced around the office. He hadn’t previously been inside the GRU’s new ‘Aquarium’, opened by Putin himself in 2006 and thoughtfully placed within sight of the old one. No one was sure how it had got its nickname — you certainly couldn’t see in, that was for sure. One theory was that it was the reputed birthplace of waterboarding. Either way, and despite this latest attempt to finesse the past, the old name had stuck.

  The presence of foreign furniture and new technology was striking: an Italian chair, Apple computers, on the wall a slightly bleached print of Nattier’s portrait of Peter the Great. And by the window, a plant that was actually alive. An agent repatriated after long years away might be forgiven for wondering which country he was in. But the frosted glass of the internal windows and the lingering hint of pickled cabbage in the recycled air was a giveaway.

  Dima nodded at the fat file under Paliov’s nose. ‘If that really is a report on the incident, I congratulate your staff on their creative writing. The whole thing didn’t last as long as it’s taking you to read about it.’

  Paliov didn’t respond, looked down again, continued to read. Dima wished he had managed to stop for some breakfast after all. Six dead, two in casualty, and it wasn’t even nine-thirty. An armoured GAZ SUV — at least that was Russian — and an official Audi, blue light flickering on the dash, had been waiting outside when they came out of the apartment block. Two more goons jumped out of the Audi with a view to helping Kroll with the case. Kroll tried to dissuade them with a couple of punches but they didn’t get the message, so Dima had to slam them against the car a few times, and in the case of the one who grabbed Katya, shut his arm in the trunk.

  Dima had taken the SUV and delivered both Katya and the money to her grateful father. At least that was one satisfied customer. He had urged Kroll to help himself to the Audi. It was top of the range — heated seats and integral Bose music system, even a cute little circle of beige leather on the end of the cigarette lighter — but Kroll said it was too loud for him and besides, he said, disabling the tracker was a pain.

  It was still dark, so Dima had turned on the sirens and the blue lights and had enjoyed a quick spin down the wrong side of the road — a metaphor for his whole life, now he came to think of it. He had thought of skipping the appointment with Paliov altogether, but a twinge of curiosity had prevailed. It had been so long since his former masters had come asking for him, it was a wonder they even remembered him. At the famed ‘tank-proof’ barrier, a guard waved the GAZ through without even checking who was at the wheel. A shocking lapse in security. He parked it in a space reserved for the Deputy Secretary of Paperclips or some such. Only when he presented himself at the desk and saw the pained expression on the pretty receptionist’s face did he hesitate. The parking space? He was just preparing a snappy excuse when she nodded slowly towards a floor to ceiling mirror. His face was still peppered with a fine spray of blood from one of the exploding goons, the first lot.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Busy morning.’

  She reached into her bag and produced a packet of baby wipes. He smiled. ‘Bet they come in handy.’

  ‘Every day.’ There was a mischievous look in her large dark eyes. ‘On my twins.’

  For a fleeting moment he wondered whether she meant the pair of delicious breasts straining against the cotton of her shirt. Now he had another incentive to miss the appointment: a quick fuck over the desk would have more than made up for the missed breakfast. He dabbed his face and held the wipe up in tribute as he walked towards the lifts.

  Paliov finished reading, took off his spectacles and rubbed his eyelids with his thumb and forefinger, as if he was trying to make what he’d just read go away. Then he turned to Dima and shook his head.

  ‘How much did Bulganov pay you?’

  ‘It was a favour. For old times’ sake.’

  ‘Ah, old times.’ There was a mournful faraway look in Paliov’s eyes as if he was recalling his first fuck, which may well have preceded the Siege of Leningrad if not the Revolution itself.

  ‘The good old days. We must get together some time and reminisce
over a few bottles.’

  Another man entered without knocking: slim, wiry, taut frame, early forties, tailored English suit. Paliov made a move to rise but the suit waved him down. ‘Carry on — don’t mind me.’

  Dima recognised Timofayev, Secretary of Defence and Security, Paliov’s political master. He lunged forward and took Dima’s hand, a Tag Heuer watch sliding into view as his cuff moved back. Timofayev was one of the new breed of apparatchiks on whom Western accessories looked almost normal.

  ‘So good of you to come. I hope we haven’t taken you away from other assignments.’

  ‘Only breakfast.’

  Paliov winced but Timofayev laughed heartily, like a good politican, which caused Paliov’s face to move unnaturally as he tried to form a smile in response.

  ‘In fact, Secretary, Dima Mayakovsky is not currently on our—.’

  ‘Ah, a freelance,’ Timofayev cut in, pronouncing the English word without a trace of an accent. ‘Are you familiar with that term?’

  Dima replied in English.

  ‘Yes, Secretary.’

  ‘A man without allegiances, without loyalty. Would you say that describes you, Mayakovsky?’

  ‘The former only,’ said Dima, rather too pointedly for Paliov’s comfort. He receded further into his seat.

  Timofayev looked Dima up and down.

  ‘So, Paliov: tell me all about your freelance. Impress me with his credentials.’

  Timofayev settled himself on the edge of the huge desk and folded his arms. Paliov took in a deep, wheezy breath.

  ‘Born in Moscow, father a career soldier, mother the daughter of a French Communist Trades Unionist driven into exile by De Gaulle. Graduated first class from Suvarov military school, youngest of his year’s Spetsnaz intake, which did not seem to hinder him from coming top in most subjects and disciplines. First posting Paris, where he perfected his English through contact with the American expatriate student community and infiltrated the French interior ministry with the help of a charming young—.’

  Dima gave Paliov a look. He coughed. ‘Subsequently transferred to Iran as instructor to the Revolutionary Guard.’

  Timofayev roared with laughter, exposing expensive dental work. ‘Promotion or punishment?’

  Dima let his face go blank. ‘Both: my station chief turned out to be working for the British. I executed him. You could say the posting was a reward for showing initiative.’

  Timofayev hadn’t finished laughing, but there was a cold gleam in his eye. ‘Ah, don’t you miss the old days?’

  Paliov pressed on. ‘After an undercover assignment in the Balkans he advanced to Afghanistan where he was responsible for developing a close rapport with Mujahideen warlords.’

  Timofayev was still giggling, like a battery operated toy that wouldn’t switch off. ‘All the choicest jobs. You must have made a real nuisance of yourself, Mayakovsky.’

  A shudder from Paliov, followed by an exchange of looks between the two apparatchiks — then a silence which Dima didn’t like the sound of. A silence while they remembered Solomon, the one who got away.

  Dima wasn’t going to rise to it. ‘I accepted all assignments in the spirit in which they were given.’

  ‘Like a true hero, I’m sure. And then? What excuse did they find to pension you off? Don’t tell me. Too much initiative? Too “creative”? Or did they suddenly uncover some “unpatriotic tendencies?”’

  Timofayev turned and glared at his Head of State Security, as if Dima’s departure from Spetsnaz had been Paliov’s doing. Paliov’s round shoulders slumped further under the burden of his superior’s disapproval. ‘In fact, Secretary, Comrade Mayakovsky was awarded both the Order of Nevsky and the Order of Saint Andrew—.’

  Timofayev cut in: ‘—“for exceptional services leading to the prosperity and glory of Russia”, though probably not the prosperity of Comrade Mayakovsky, eh Dima?’

  ‘I did all right.’

  ‘But still a tall poppy nonetheless. My predecessors had a fatal tendency to be suspicious of excellence. Mediocrity was their watchword.’ Timofayev swept his hand through the air. ‘Like Thrasybulus, who advised Periander to “Take off the tallest stalks, indicating thereby that it was necessary to do away with the most eminent citizens.”’

  He turned to Paliov, who looked blank.

  ‘Aristotle,’ said Dima.

  But Timofayev was warming to his theme. ‘You were too good, my dear Mayakovsky, and you paid for it. It’s a credit to your patriotism that you didn’t go West in search of better terms and conditions.’

  He put his face close to Dima’s. His breath was mint fresh with a hint of garlic. Dima’s desire for breakfast evaporated.

  ‘How would you like a real reward?’ He squeezed Dima’s shoulder, eyes blazing. ‘You’ll find our terms are much improved these days — entirely competitive with the best private security outfits. Your chance to get that Lexus, or the nice little hunting lodge you promised yourself. Somewhere comfortable and private to take the ladies: Jacuzzi, satellite porn, roaring log fire. .’

  Both of them looked at Dima who showed no reaction. Eventually Paliov gave a short cough.

  ‘It may well be, Secretary, that Mayakovsky is not motivated by, er, remunerative compensation.’

  Timofayev nodded. ‘Fine sentiments, rare in our brave new Russia.’ He got up and paced over to Peter the Great, his handmade shoes squeaking very slightly. ‘For a chance to serve, then.’ He seemed to be addressing the portrait. He wheeled round and fixed his gaze on Dima. ‘Your chance not only to serve your country — but to save it.’

  The words failed to have the desired effect. The suits could never believe it, but persuasion seldom worked with him. If anything it had the opposite effect. He had heard it all before; too many opportunities for glory and reward sold to him in the past had turned to shit. His stomach rumbled as if by way of response.

  Timofayev strode over to the window and jutted his chin at the view. ‘Did you know that on the Khodinka field there, Rossinsky became the first Russian to fly an aeroplane?’

  ‘In 1910.’

  ‘And Tsar Nicholas the Second had his coronation there.’

  ‘In 1886.’

  He wheeled round. ‘You see Dima, you can’t help yourself. You are a Russian through and through.’

  ‘Twelve hundred were killed in the stampede. They say their patriotic fervour got the better of them.’

  Timofayev pretended he hadn’t heard. He strode back over to Dima and put a hand on each arm of the chair. ‘Come back to us for one last mission. We need a genuine patriot — one with your skills and experience, and commitment.’ He glanced at Paliov. ‘We could even — overlook the matter of the operatives this morning.’

  New furniture, new computer, same old threats. Your country needs you to get your bollocks shot off, if you wouldn’t mind. Your choice naturally, though if you say no we have ways of making you change your mind. What the hell was he doing listening to this crap, when he could have been at Katarina’s Kitchen, eating pancakes with Georgian cherry jam? Or better still, screwing the receptionist, whose fiery red hair framed a perfect white skin in a delicious vision of purity, with the promise of some very sluttish behaviour to come? Why not both? He’d done his bit, and deserved to enjoy himself for a couple of days — for good. Yet in some obscure part of his brain a small pulse of curiosity was beating.

  Dima got to his feet and glanced at his watch, which still had a small smear of blood on the face, turning the ‘12’ into a shape very slightly like a heart. He gestured at the frosted glass and the ghostly shapes of minions moving about in the outer office.

  ‘You have a whole army out there. Young fit men and women jockeying for a chance at the big time, desperate to climb the career ladder. Whatever it is, the answer’s no. You retired me. I’m staying that way. Besides, I’m hungry. Good day, gentlemen.’

  He marched out.

  For a few seconds neither of them moved. Then Paliov gave his master an ‘I
told you so’ look and reached for the phone. Timofayev put his hand down on top of the old man’s. ‘Let him go. Forget about your casualties. But find something to make him agree.’

  ‘He’s immune.’

  ‘Nobody’s immune. There must be something. Find it. Today.’

  3

  Al-Sulaymaniyah, Iraqi Kurdistan/Iran Border

  It was a 104°F inside the Stryker and the smell wasn’t getting any better. The shift had just stretched into its thirty-second hour, which would do nothing to improve the personal hygiene of the inmates in full kit: Kevlar helmets, bullet-resistant glasses, heat-resistant gloves, body armour, knee pads, elbow pads, 240 rounds of ammunition for their M4s in pouches attached to the body armour. It was like being in an armour-plated coffin, but not so spacious. Up until a few weeks ago they’d been leaving the body kits at the base. But things had changed.

  Marine Sergeant Henry ‘Black’ Blackburn reached up and lifted one of the hatches, then another. It didn’t produce much of a breeze, however, as they were keeping to a steady 25 miles an hour. In the early days they used to go full pelt, until it became clear that they stood a better chance of avoiding trouble if they saw it before they drove into it. He put his head out and squinted at the sun-bleached landscape around them. It had been years since outright war had devastated this part of Iraq but the damage remained. None of the trillions of dollars spent on reconstruction had made it to Al-Sulaymaniyah, or if it had the myriad layers of middlemen and subcontractors had got there first. The sheer number of them made your head spin. They all creamed off their cut, producing paperwork for men who were never hired, buildings that were never built. True, a few roads had been resurfaced, sewers relaid, but after a few months they all sank back into the same state of decrepitude as before. Any unrest and the first casualty after the local population was the infrastructure. They passed the remains of a freshly shelled gas depot, whole sections of concrete hanging by the rusting steel reinforcement rods. Two small children in nothing but T-shirts were throwing small rocks at nothing in particular from the top of a mound of rubble. Half a dozen goats looked on, grazing in the carcass of the depot.