Battlefield 3: The Russian Page 5

  ‘I’ll say you fought us off and gave us the slip,’ said Fremarov.

  ‘Yes, three against one — I like that,’ said Dima. ‘Nice to run into you. Give my best to your beautiful daughter.’

  ‘She’s married now.’

  ‘Shame.’

  When he reached the hotel, the pretty brunette at reception had finished her shift, to be replaced by a severe-looking type, possibly with potential if you liked the feel of stilettos on your back, which he didn’t. He walked to the Polezhaevskaya metro and took the purple line back into the centre. It had been a funny old day — handling $5 million one minute, taking the metro to breakfast the next. Not to mention all the killing in between.

  He let himself into the room. The curtains were open, the neon sign of the club opposite — The Comfort Zone — striping the walls with red and green in hectic succession. He left the light off, threw his coat on the bed. Sometimes he wondered what it would be like to be one of those people on the metro, getting up, going to work, arguing with the wife, leading a normal life. Nothing about his life had been normal and it was too late to change that now. He was who he was, for better or worse. The question was whether he could live with himself.

  5

  Dima spent the rest of the day with Kroll. Breakfast had merged into lunch, which meant Kroll was too out of it to drive, so Dima took him home. While his old friend napped, Dima flipped between news channels. Vatsanyev had been right. The PLR were clawing their way up the news agenda. Al Jazeera had footage of a big rally in Tehran, the PLR leader saluting the crowd as if he’d already taken over.

  He turned and addressed the mirror.

  ‘For fuck’s sake put that toy away: I’m too tired to do a runner.’

  Paliov got up stiffly, emerging out of a shadow by the window; the XP9 semi-automatic looked absurd in his gnarled hand.

  He pocketed the pistol, went over to the TV and turned up the volume: more Iran, and CNN footage of Al Bashir in his air force days before he went rogue, saluting a flypast.

  Dima rolled his eyes. ‘Is that really necessary?’

  ‘You never know who’s listening.’

  ‘Thought that was your job.’

  Paliov’s lipless slit of a mouth widened into what could have been described, at a push, as a grim smile.

  ‘These days. . It’s complicated.’ He shrugged, then gazed round the room from under his heavy-lidded eyes. ‘Rather modest surroundings for someone of your reputation.’

  ‘I like to keep things simple.’

  ‘This is a bit extreme.’

  ‘I like extreme. You know that. That’s why you fired me, remember.’

  ‘Oh Dima, that was a long time ago. Water under the bridge, eh?’

  ‘I think the bridge got swept away in the flood.’

  Dima flopped on to the bed and kicked off his boots. ‘So what is it that your shiny new politician wants you to get me to do?’

  ‘You know I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t serious.’

  Dima lay down anyway and stared at the ceiling. ‘Tell you what, you begin my bedtime story and I’ll see how quickly it puts me to sleep.’

  ‘We have a situation.’

  ‘You do: I don’t.’

  Paliov wafted a hand at the TV, still playing pictures from Iran.

  ‘I noticed.’ Dima sighed and slid his hands under his head. ‘You only have yourselves to blame. You’ve been supplying Iran ever since they fell out with America. T-72 tanks, MiG 29s, SA-15 Gauntlet surface-to-air missile systems, TOR-M1 air defence missile systems, S-300 anti-aircraft missiles, VA-111 Shkval torpedoes. Arms transfer agreements to the value of $300million between 1998 and 2001, $1.7 billion between 2002 and 2005. You couldn’t help yourselves.’

  ‘Arms exports have kept this country solvent; we’re outselling the Americans two to one.We are the majority supplier to the developing world. It’s a great source of national pride.’

  ‘Now you sound just like Timofayev. If you go on like that I may have to shoot you.’

  ‘Okay, okay.’ Paliov rubbed a gnarled hand over his face. ‘It doesn’t get easier, you know. The Cold War was a lot simpler.’

  ‘You’re tired Paliov. Take a tip from me. Get yourself sacked.’

  ‘That may be sooner than you think, if I get this one wrong. What do you know about Amir Kaffarov?’

  ‘Ethnic Tajik, mediocre air force lieutenant who helped himself to a fleet of Antonovs during the Glorious Liberation, when everyone was looking the other way. Filled them with stolen kit and flew them off to destinations unknown. Now Russia’s foremost and dodgiest arms dealer. You want him killed I take it?’

  ‘Rescued actually.’

  Dima laughed. ‘I’ve been on the wrong end of Kaffarov’s merchandise in three different theatres. Half the boy soldiers in Liberia and Congo are toting his AKs, he’s putting weaponry into the Tribal Areas faster than the Coalition can take it out with their drones. The guy’s an A-list merchant of death.’

  Dima glared at Paliov, a man of the past trying to keep up, out of his depth. He raised his hands and let them drop on to his knees.

  ‘He’s in Iran. We have to get him back. Now.’

  ‘He’s in cahoots with Al Bashir?’

  ‘Was: they fell out over a deal.Al Bashir’s holding him, demanding a ransom.’

  ‘Leave him. Let Bashir do his worst. He’ll be doing the world a service.’

  ‘The Kremlin doesn’t see it that way. The Americans find out, that would be bad for us, which together with the international loss of face. .’

  Paliov didn’t sound convinced by his own words. For all his rank and status, he seemed pathetic.

  ‘Go away, will you? I’m tired. It’s been a long day.’

  Paliov looked up. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I admire your principles. God knows I envy your freedom to pick and choose from the jobs that come your way.’

  ‘You know me as well as I do — probably better, easily well enough to know I’d never consider something like this. You’ve got hundreds on your books who’d jump at the chance to die pointlessly for the Motherland.’

  Paliov slowly got to his feet. ‘I don’t have a choice here. As you say, I know everything about you.’

  Dima felt the indignation boiling up in him. ‘If you’re about to bring up Solomon — don’t. You hung his defection round my neck nearly twenty years ago. I’ve done my time for that one, believe me.’

  Paliov shook his head. ‘Not Solomon — though he might turn out to be in the mix.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘In Iran. There’s been a sighting.’

  ‘Just go. Get out of my life and don’t come back.’ Dima lunged forward and grabbed the old man’s lapels.

  ‘Hear me out, Dima. I’ve got something for you — that could mean a lot more than Solomon.’

  He took a slim manila envelope from his inside jacket pocket. ‘Something that may help you decide to — reconsider.’

  Those old Soviet euphemisms — so hard to give up. He let the envelope drop on to the bed.

  Dima kept his eyes on the ceiling. ‘Compromising photographs? You really do live in the past. I’ve not done anything exciting enough for too long. And anyway I’m not interesting enough for anyone to care.’

  ‘Open.’

  Dima sighed, lifted himself on to an elbow, flicked on the bedside light, tore open the envelope and shook the contents on to the bed. A pair of photographs fell out. The first was a long-range close-up of a young man, mid twenties, tall, strong frame, black hair, good suit, among a crowd of commuters on a bridge. Dima didn’t register who he was at first. He examined the background, then recognised the Pont Neuf: Paris. Dima felt his pulse shift a gear. He looked at the other photo: the same man, in a park, sharing a joke with a pretty blonde, pushing a buggy with two children.

  Dima sat up. Held the photos under the light. He stared at the young man for some time but it was the child’s face — the image of his mother — that left him i
n no doubt. Now his heartbeat was smashing against his ribs. He looked up. Paliov had managed to contort his mouth into something resembling a smirk.

  ‘Do what we ask and his name and address is yours.’

  Suddenly Dima wasn’t tired any more.

  6

  The Aquarium, Moscow

  The Ops Room stank of sweat and smoke. If there was a ‘No Smoking’ sign it wasn’t visible through the exhaust from Kroll’s Troikas. He and Dima had been there since seven a.m. At first they’d had the place to themselves, then a swarm of archivists and researchers had descended, armed with dossiers, maps and photos, until the big polished table where they were seated disappeared under an avalanche of intelligence. Two technicians arrived to fire up the big screens that lined the walls, each one displaying satellite images of Iran. Then came a platoon of uniformed young men who took their places at the row of consoles that ran down either side of the room. Seeing Kroll puffing away gave them an excuse to light up as well. What else they were doing was a mystery.

  Kroll glanced at the massed ranks of the GRU’s finest. ‘Well, at least if World War Three starts we’re ready.’

  Dima coughed. ‘If we don’t all die of lung cancer. Maybe we should decamp to Chernobyl for some fresh air.’

  Now it was past ten and the air conditioning had given up the ghost. Portable backup units were wheeled in, which just wafted the smoke around while filling the room with more noise. Also disturbing Dima’s concentration was a trio of Ops Room supervisors, supposedly standing by to fulfil his every need. Lavishing manpower on a job like this was out of character, not just for Paliov but for the GRU in general, with its reputation for stinginess and corner cutting.

  He pored over the shots of Al Bashir’s compound near Bazargan, north of Tabriz, close to the Azerbaijan border, all taken by satellite in the last forty-eight hours. The intelligence team had gone to town with a three-dimensional plan of the compound and all of its buildings, plus a full analysis of how many rooms, whether there were any basements, where the power lines came in, what the door and window frames were made of, if there were any security bars, whether the glass was strengthened or bullet-proof and finally if there were any drains.

  Ablack Mercedes G-Wagen, believed to be Kaffarov’s, was clearly visible among a cluster of trucks and pick-ups. Without looking up, Dima addressed the trio.

  ‘Nothing from the ground yet?’

  Arkov from Reconnaissance stepped forward.

  ‘Sir, these images were captured by the very latest SSR 809 and bounced back to us just two hours ago. We can live-link and show movement minute by minute.’

  ‘So at least we’ll know if they’re sending out for pizza.’

  Irony hadn’t been on Arkov’s syllabus. At a loss to know what to say next, he drew a pointer from under his arm and traced lines on the photo. ‘The perimeter walls are clearly visible from above, Sir.’

  It amused Dima to be addressed as Sir, though he couldn’t help but detect a hint of scorn in the inflection. He knew that for the likes of Arkov his presence was a breach of protocol. This inner sanctum of the GRU was the preserve of the permanent staff, out of bounds to outsiders, and Arkov was having trouble concealing his disapproval. Dima found the man’s movements irritatingly robotic, as if he was being operated by remote control. He had an urge to knock him off course and pull out his wiring.

  Kroll, his twentieth Troika of the day burning close to his yellowed fingers, looked up from his laptop and addressed the robot. ‘He needs to know how high the walls are.’

  Arkov gazed imperiously at him, as if he was a vagrant who had come off the street in search of somewhere warm. Considering he lived mostly in a car, Kroll had made a creditable effort to look normal, reliable even. For once his jacket and trousers looked like he hadn’t slept in them and he had even had a shave.

  Arkov’s nose seemed to rise as he opened his mouth to reply. ‘As I said, we are not in a position to determine that at this time.’

  Dima was prepared to expend only as much energy as was needed to cut through this crap. Computers and cameras had their place, but his natural habitat was the field, the real world, not this glorified stationery cupboard manned by shop window dummies who wouldn’t know their arse from the White House. In parts of Africa there were boys Arkov’s age who’d already seen several lifetimes’ worth of action, who knew as much as he did about how to make war, yet couldn’t even read. To Dima, he personified everything that was wrong with the new Russia. A triumph of arrogance over experience.

  Arkov wasn’t getting the message. ‘Our information based on special analysis is that there is a clear case for helicopter insertion.’

  Kroll’s face contorted with menace. ‘He’ll be inserting something else if you don’t get the information he needs. NOW.’

  Without looking up Dima added, ‘Also, I want a full analysis of all movements of vehicles, plus numbers of visible personnel on-site. Look for any uniforms, insignia and arms.’

  ‘That will take—.’

  ‘You’ve got half an hour, starting now.’

  Flushed with indignation, Arkov flounced out.

  There were a whole lot of uncertainties about this mission, Dima thought, not least why it was being mounted at all, why he had been singled out, why Paliov had gone to such trouble to make him commit. That’s why he had insisted on having Kroll at his side, someone he could trust absolutely, who knew how his mind worked. Maybe Paliov understood, but to most people inside the GRU Dima’s regard for his old comrade was a mystery. For a start Kroll didn’t look anything like your typical Spetsnaz veteran, but Dima regarded that as an asset. Kroll had the sort of colouring that meant he could pass for a whole variety of nationalities, and his unmilitary, stooping frame gave no hint of his training. To say he was battle-scarred was an understatement. His hearing had been permanently damaged by a car bomb in Kabul; he bore several livid scars after being tortured in Chechnya and he had taken a bullet in the Beslan siege. He had his weaknesses, chiefly a fatal attraction to volatile women. He was a terrible shot and harboured a fixed-wing pilot’s innate suspicion of helicopters. If God had meant them to fly he would have given them proper wings, was a favourite refrain of his. But he had an almost supernatural ability to anticipate whatever Dima was thinking and they shared an impatience with the military rulebook that had been the undoing of so many missions.

  Kroll waited till the last possible moment before extinguishing the cigarette, pressing it down with his thumb into the five-sided Pentagon souvenir ashtray. Someone, Dima noted, had emptied it at least once since they arrived. ‘If we go in from above we’ll wake the whole place up and lose any element of surprise. I’m thinking we could get on target with vehicles.’

  ‘You would be. Time to face up to your fear of helicopters. Besides it’s most unpatriotic: you know they’re a Russian invention.’

  ‘Sikorsky fled to America first. That makes him a traitor in my book.’

  There was no point trying to reason with Kroll. Besides, Dima knew that in the end he would always do what he was told. He glanced briefly at his old friend, lost in thought, his fingers pressed against his temples, which exaggerated the slant of his eyes. He hadn’t told him about the photographs in Paliov’s envelope. Even though Kroll was dismayed when Dima told him he had accepted the assignment, and most probably guessed that there was more to it than he knew, he had the grace not to probe. They knew each other’s boundaries instinctively.

  Dima reviewed what he had learned so far. The property at Bazargan had once been a monastery. Parts of it dated back to the fourteenth century. Arkov, credit where it was due, had come up with an archaeological survey that showed that the present walls were built on the original ones and were four metres deep. What had those Christians been anticipating? Artillery? Tank rounds? A nuclear strike? In which case they were about six hundred years too early. In the 1950s the Shah had had the place renovated as his northern retreat and hunting lodge. It had acquired a pool and a vas
t garage that housed some of his exotic car collection. The Ayatollahs probably had these symbols of Western decadence crushed. It was unclear how or when the property had come under Al Bashir’s control, or what he had intended it for. A regional command centre was a realistic assumption. Arkov had come back with an estimate of between twelve and twenty-five personnel currently on site. Some of this stuff was useful, but most of it merely raised more questions.

  How much of precisely what weaponry Kaffarov had already sold to Al Bashir was also unknown. The compound could be an arsenal. For all Dima knew he might have enough gear in there for a full-blown campaign.

  He became aware of a presence in front of him. And a faint scent of something pleasant: jasmine, was it? Or possibly gardenia.

  He looked up. She was tall and angular, though not without curves. Around the same age as him but in better condition. Despite the formal, understated tailored Italian jacket, he could tell by the way she stood that she had trained in the field. Probably capable of killing every one of those screen-jockeys if she needed to, and giving him a run for his money. Her badge said Omorova.

  She put down a fresh bundle of files.

  ‘I hope I have everything you want.’

  He smiled.

  ‘I’m sure you do.’

  The warmth in her eyes faded. He cancelled the smile.

  ‘Shouldn’t you be operational?’

  I wish. But my father’s not well and my mother can’t cope so I’m taking some Moscow time.’ She looked down at the photos and sighed. Dima guessed what she was thinking. Maybe if they were going in, in full kit, but undercover? A six-foot blonde, in Iran? It wasn’t going to happen.