Andy McNab - Battlefield 3 - The Russian

Fremarov smiled. They both knew it was crap, but it sounded good. ‘It was the other way round, you bastard, as well you know.’

‘Was it? I can never remember. Well, it was a laugh anyhow.’

‘Do you two know each other?’ said Bookend One. Fremarov rolled his eyes.

‘The trouble with our superiors,’ Dima continued, watching Bookend Two and shifting his weight on to his other foot in readiness, ‘is they have such short memories. They forget who’s done them a favour.’

‘True,’ said Fremarov, just as Bookend Two chose that moment to make his move. As he swung a clumsy right at Dima’s jaw, Dima bent and flipped him over his back like a sack of potatoes and shoved him hard against the wall. He collapsed on to the thin carpet, panting. Not wanting to be outdone on the initiative front, Bookend One tried to knock Dima off balance by hooking one foot round his left leg while simultaneously slicing him hard across the solar plexus. Dima swung round to see Fremarov’s huge hand squeezing the man’s neck. He carried on squeezing while Dima stepped neatly out of the way.

‘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.