Andy McNab - Battlefield 3 - The Russian

They disembarked on to the apron outside the main building. Dima and Kroll were ushered straight to a prepared interview room. Three chairs, one table, a jug of water, two glasses. It was all eerily familiar. The only sign Dima could detect that put them in the post-Soviet era was the slice of lemon floating in the jug.

The door swung open to reveal the Camp Commandant, Vaslov. His gleaming hairless scalp was reminiscent of a baby’s, but the resemblance ended there. He had no neck to speak of, so that his head appeared to rise out of his collar like one of those wide, pillar-shaped rock formations Dima had seen once in a picture of Arizona. On his face, the features were crowded round a broken nose, as if reluctant to spread out. The famous glass eye stared fixedly into the middle distance, its predecessor taken out by an Afghan sniper’s bullet that was reputed to be still lodged in his brain — some said because it didn’t dare ask permission to leave. It was this injury, the last of several, which had eventually condemned him to this administrative role. Now and then, the bullet — or something — provoked him to uncontrollable bursts of temper, victims of which included a clerk, whose wrist had been broken when a document was found in the wrong file. He ran a tight ship, you could say. He lived on the camp all year round; he had nowhere else and no one else. Spetsnaz was his life, his family, his reason for being.

Vaslov glared at Dima, who didn’t rise. He was just a contractor now. No need for military niceties.

Without meeting his glare Dima spoke.

‘I thought someone would have killed you by now.’

What little there was of Vaslov’s lips disappeared altogether as he stepped into the room.

‘I’d shake you by the hand but I may have some use for it after.’

‘I’m glad we see eye to eye, at last.’

Dima couldn’t resist the joke. When they had first encountered each other he had just stepped on to the towel. Vaslov was an instructor and from day one he had had it in for him. Dima was smarter than him and they both knew it. Vaslov had made it his mission to break him. He never managed it, but what eventually evolved was a grudging mutual respect.

‘Still growing roses?’

Vaslov gave a lipless grin as he nodded and patted his tunic side pocket. He was known to carry a pair of secateurs with him at all times. His favourite humiliation was to order anyone who flunked an exercise to strip in front of his fellow recruits, whereupon he would produce his rose cutters and close them round the offender’s cock until he wet himself. He even had a pickle jar on view in his office that contained items closely resembling human penises. No one had ever got close enough to be sure.

He put his hands on the table and leaned forward until his face was almost touching Dima’s.

‘You seem to have a lot of clout for someone who was let go ’, he said. For once both eyes were looking the same way. ‘The powers that be appear to have signed off your request for the pick of my best instructors.’ He leaned even closer. ‘If any of them don’t come back in showroom condition you know what the consequences will be.’

‘I’ve got my titanium underpants on.’

He stood up, dropped a stack of files on the table, turned and marched out. Kroll rolled his eyes, reached for the files and started rifling through them.

Dima felt his phone vibrate. He examined the message and then turned the display towards Kroll. A gallery of pictures of the compound walls appeared.

Kroll’s eyes widened. ‘Who the fuck sent these?’

‘Darwish, lives north of Tabriz. I called him this morning. Got him to drive up and have a look-see.’

‘Trust you to have your own spies.’

Kroll took the phone and pored over the images. ‘Those walls are massive.’

‘Yes, but look closer. Parts of them are patched with brick and breeze block. And see where those cracks are — they’re from the tremors. You could knock it down with a mallet.’

Kroll looked up. ‘Confirms my feeling — no call for heavy metal. A big entrance, with lots of bangs, bullets flying everywhere — more likelihood of Kaffarov not making it out in one piece. We really don’t need all these men.’

They were both spooked by the same thing. Dima was silent for a moment, lost in thought.

Kroll shuffled the files. ‘So how many do you want?’

‘Three to lead the Go Teams.’

Kroll shrugged. ‘Have it your way.’

Dima lifted a finger. ‘No, wait: change of plan. Three for an advance team with us.’

Kroll’s face brightened. ‘By road?’

Dima got up, paced, thinking aloud. ‘A heavy Mil drops us first in a neighbouring valley. On board, two cars. We’ll recce, confirm what we need, then call in the Go units once we’ve cut the power. That way we’ve got more options if there’s a change of plan.’

‘Change of what plan?’

Dima looked at Kroll. Inside, he wondered what he was getting his old friend into. ‘I don’t know. I just want to be prepared — in case.’

He nodded at the files. Kroll picked up the phone on the desk. ‘Okay, we’re ready. Lenkov first.’

The first one marched in. Two metres plus: sandy hair, Nordic features. He didn’t even make it to the table.

Dima shook his head. ‘We’re invading Iran, not Finland.’

Lenkov obediently turned on his heel and left.

Kroll frowned. ‘He might be a good fighter though.’

‘He looks like a poster boy for the Waffen S S. They need to blend in.’

‘Fair enough. Next is Hassan Zirak.’

‘Good Kurdish name.’

‘A Shi’a from Lachin.’

Zirak entered and stood to attention in front of the table, his eyes fixed on the wall. He was short, no more than 165 centimetres. His prematurely aged face and slightly bowed legs betrayed his peasant origins.

Dima addressed him in Farsi. ‘ I’ll give you four hundred rials to drive me from Tabriz to Teheran .’

Zirak blinked then answered. ‘ I shit on my mother first. Four thousand, plus your daughter for the night .’

Kroll tried to hide his smile, but Dima stared back thunderously, then switched to Tajik.

‘ A Persian goes on holiday to Africa. Right as he’s about to take a swim a gorilla jumps out of a tree and rapes him. He’s in a coma for three months; when he comes home reporters are waiting at the airport. One asks if he was hurt. How does he answer? ’

Zirak looked down, stroked his chin then looked up.

‘ He didn’t call, didn’t write, sent no flowers. Of course I was hurt! ’

Dima allowed himself a smile. ‘Wait outside.’

The next two flunked the question, either because their languages weren’t up to it or they were too distracted by the gorilla. Dima and Kroll examined the remaining files. When they looked up again the next was standing in front of them: Gregorin, another blond candidate. Kroll was about to send him away but Dima spoke first.

‘I didn’t hear you come in. Go out and come back in.’ The soldier obliged, returned to position.

Dima turned to Kroll. ‘Did you hear anything?’

‘No.’

‘Neither did I. How did you develop that skill, Gregorin?’

Gregorin stared at the wall behind them, his face devoid of expression, like an actor waiting to be given a part. ‘I studied ballet before I enlisted, Sir.’

‘A red rag to the stariki . How did you deal with that?’

‘After I killed one of them it ceased to be a problem.’

‘In a fight?’

He lowered his eyes and met Dima’s. They looked cold and dead. ‘I made it look like that.’

‘Premeditated? Why weren’t you court-martialled?’

Gregorin kept his gaze on Dima. ‘No one found out.’