Andy McNab - Battlefield 3 - The Russian

‘Dima, for fuck sake!’ Kroll’s shrill yell was just audible over the roar of the blaze. He gave it one last yank and it was out, sending him spilling out into the flames. He rolled through them and got clear just as the whole machine erupted, cremating Shenk and what was left of his crew.

Dima heard himself addressing his team. ‘Find the guy they were hanging — we need confirmation if he’s Kaffarov. If not, I want it confirmed he was being held against his will. I want it confirmed there are — or were — nuclear devices here. We need this information fast: I don’t care how you get it. Go.’ He passed the scanner to Kroll. ‘Get it working.’

Gregorin and Vladimir had isolated a wounded man. He had rolled off into a space between the structure and the wall, where he had been shielded from both the shooting and the inferno. Lying there bleeding, with three armed Russians standing over him, he had every incentive to talk, but a volley of Farsi invective indicated that his pride was going to be an obstacle.

‘Colourful.’

‘Did your whore of a mother teach you those words?’

Zirak raised a hand, stepped forward and produced a knife. He sliced through the man’s coat and trousers and then his underwear. There was no indication that he was going to stop. The man began to writhe, just like the prisoner he had been dragging to the noose only minutes ago. Zirak took the man’s testicles in his hands and pressed the blade against them.

‘Hungry?’

The man wet himself, pissing all over Zirak’s hands. Zirak squeezed his balls, not quite hard enough to make him pass out. ‘Okay so you can have them with gravy.’

The rage and indignation melted from the man’s face. It was still contorted but he was whimpering now, whispering something to Zirak.

Dima, moving towards them, felt something against his boot. A hand reaching out. He looked down. Whoever he was, he was unrecognisable, his features melted. With his other hand the wounded man found the barrel of Dima’s AK. Wrapping a single remaining finger round the tip, he pulled it towards his head. Dima obliged. One bullet and the man’s agony was over.

Zirak wiped his knife on the man’s sleeve and sheathed it. He turned to Dima. ‘Okay, it’s his version so take it with a pinch of salt, but he says that as of tomorrow this was supposed to be the PLR regional base for the northeast. He reckons the PLR is now in control of the whole country and Al Bashir has been sworn in as President and Commander-in-Chief of the Armed Forces. The man they were about to hang was the district commander, who had been mobilising a resistance, and the guys on the trucks were his supporters.’

‘What about Kaffarov?’

‘Didn’t mean anything to him.’

This couldn’t be right.

‘Ask if he saw the Mercedes SUV.’

Dima caught a glint of recognition on the man’s face. He took out his knife, leaned down, placed the tip of the blade just under the man’s left eye. He responded in anxious broken Russian. ‘I no know the name, I never heard, please on the head of my daughter.’ He started nodding frantically. ‘I seen Merc Jeep.’

‘You should be worrying about more than your daughter’s head. Get up.’

Vladimir lifted him.

‘Show me your operations centre.’

The man looked confused. Zirak translated and the man pointed at a doorway, behind which rose a flight of steps.

‘Keep him with us.’

With Dima in the lead they dragged him across the courtyard, through the charred remains of men and machines. The stairwell was in darkness. They had never got as far as cutting the power to the compound, so the conflagration must have knocked it out. Dima waved Gregorin forward, who jogged silently up the steps. He beckoned Dima, who followed. A steel door, no handle or spyhole. Gregorin removed his helmet, pressed his ear against the door, signalled with his fingers — five, and five again.

Dima beckoned to the others and motioned for Gregorin to fall in behind him. When they were all lined up, Dima blasted the door frame with the Dragunov, then jammed the weapon right into the hinges and fired again. When the frame splintered, he fired upwards into the room and waited. No response. He peered round the aperture. Gregorin was right. At least ten men had taken refuge, most in some sort of uniform, but three in underwear. They must have been asleep when the choppers arrived.

‘ On the ground, face down! ’ he barked in Farsi. ‘ Arms, legs stretched where I can see them. There are a hundred men dead out there. Full cooperation or you die too.’

He touched the hot end of the Dragunov against the temple of one of the men in underwear. The man flinched.

‘Kaffarov. Where?’

‘Gone.’

‘Nuclear device?’

There was no response to this. What a waste. All that effort, all that planning, for this. Dima felt what little residual patience he had ebb away.

‘No, no, please!’

He aimed at the man’s head, squeezed the trigger and twisted the barrel a fraction left as he fired. The man collapsed sideways, the remains of his ear running down the side of his face.

‘Right. Are you listening, you worthless pieces of shit? I will shoot everyone in this room unless and until I have all questions answered. Whoever’s in charge raise your hand. Now! ’

A grey-haired man looked up at him. Dima’s eyes locked on to his. He reached down, grabbed the man by the collar and hauled him to his feet.

‘The rest of you, get out and do what you can for those poor bastards out there. Go. Now!’

They got to their feet and Kroll herded them out.

Dima turned to the grey-haired man, who smiled weakly.

‘Comrade Mayakovsky?’

17

Rajah Amirasani, former Colonel in the Iranian Revolutionary Guard and one-time cadet under Dima’s instruction, stood in front of him. The room was small, yet his old protégé seemed dwarfed by the space around him. Leaving Gregorin on guard outside, he closed the door. They were alone. Rajah came towards him to attempt an embrace, but Dima shoved him away. After such a debacle, the once-familiar face brought no comfort. Rage, frustration, suspicion and the worst feeling of all — impotence — simmered inside him. How had he let himself become part of this?

Rajah slumped on to a chair where he sat legs apart, elbows propped on his knees, the tears flowing freely down his cheeks and on to the floor. He had been the finest in his year, a natural leader who skilfully managed to impress his political masters with his devotion to the cause, without losing all sense of humanity. Now he looked battered and defeated.

‘Kaffarov left.’

So he had been there. At least that part was right.

‘You let him go?’

Rajah looked up, bewildered.

‘He was here. You were holding him here, yes?’

Rajah’s brow furrowed. ‘Holding him? Why would we do that? He was here to meet Al Bashir.’

‘He came here voluntarily?’

‘Of course.’

Something was seriously wrong with Paliov’s intelligence.

‘And Al Bashir is still coming here?’

‘Was. But there was a change of plan.’

‘A missile from somewhere south took out the chopper. Someone knew we were coming, didn’t they?’

‘As God is my witness, I have no knowledge of that. Kaffarov took off three hours ago in a big hurry. No explanation. We called Al Bashir’s people. One of his staff said the meeting location was changed. No one told us.’

‘To where?’

He shrugged, then sighed.

‘We had all these —.’ He gestured towards where the dead men lay. ‘We were instructed to put on a show of solidarity from the local population. The regional governor — we had orders. .’