Andy McNab - Battlefield 3 - The Russian

Dima held his gaze. ‘Not just yet.’

Darwish started to protest, but Dima put a finger to his lips. He explained Kaffarov’s deadly luggage and the aborted meeting with Al Bashir. ‘Time is not on our side. We need to get to someone right at the heart of the PLR High Command. We need information from that level. Someone we can pressure.’

He turned Darwish’s face towards his.

‘You are an influential man. You know people. You can help.’

Darwish shook his head. He reached for the glass in front of him and downed the contents in one, as if it was his last drink on earth.

‘One more favour, for old time’s sake.’

‘Zima, you are like a brother to me. You know I would die for you but. .’

‘We’re all going to die if we don’t find that bomb.’

Darwish’s hands rose and fell. ‘Loyalty to Al Bashir is driven by fear. All this time he was the popular leader, the great hope for our nation. Now. .’ He shook his head in despair. ‘Many of his oldest allies have been purged. The people round him now — foreign—.’

‘Yes I know. Foreign influences. What sort?’

‘You know Tehran, all the time rumours. Some say a secret son he fathered abroad.’

This wasn’t going anywhere. Humour him. Dima smiled. ‘Darwish, you are the man who knows everyone, you have many influential relatives. . Maybe one of them?’

The charm wasn’t working. Darwish was sweating, shaking. Showing all the signs of a man who had got himself into something he wished he hadn’t.

‘You ask I take photos. For old time’s sake. Fine. It’s dangerous but I do it. Next thing you crash helicopters, kill a lot of people. Now you ask me to betray. .’

Dima butted in, still with the charm. ‘You are an operator, Darwish, very well connected. You have played the game well all this time. Very few of us know your true loyalties. The fact that you are able to meet us in the open in a time of national emergency tells me that even now you believe you have nothing to fear from the PLR. No one need know your role. This isn’t just for me; it’s for your country. Think about it.’

Darwish was thinking all right, but not in the way Dima wanted him to. Not yet. He pressed on, colder now.

‘We don’t have time to do the research, checking people out, surveillance, finding their weaknesses, compromising them. Instead of weeks, months, we have days, or maybe only hours, to find Kaffarov and his bombs. Brother, don’t make me push you any harder.’

Darwish pulled away, a last burst of indignation. ‘You’re blackmailing me. After all I’ve. .’

Dima fixed him with a cold stare. Their relationship had always been an unequal one. While posing as a Russian Special Forces instructor to the Revolutionary Guard, Dima had acted as Darwish’s handler, running him as a high-value source deep inside the government. The intelligence had been invaluable and Darwish had been handsomely rewarded. Darwish’s cover was never blown, but he always knew that he would be in Dima’s debt.

Dima piled on the pressure. ‘Someone close enough to Al Bashir to know about Kaffarov. We know there’s a relationship there because they were scheduled to meet in person last night. And if Al Bashir was prepared to travel up here to meet him that means he regards Kaffarov as valuable. Very valuable. Come on Darwish, think about the old days. “Anything is possible,” that was your mantra. “Anything you need Zima, you got.” Remember?’

Defeated, Darwish let his head drop into his hands. Then after a few seconds he got to his feet. ‘Five minutes, please.’

After Darwish left, Vladimir was the first to speak. ‘Nice show, Dima. If you don’t mind me asking, what’s this going to do for us?’

Dima folded his arms. ‘You’ll see.’

Then it was Kroll’s turn. ‘Since we’re this short of time wouldn’t it be quicker to break his legs?’

Dima glanced at Zirak, who was chewing thoughtfully on his bread.

‘What’s on your mind?’

‘This jam isn’t nearly as good as my mother’s.’

Two minutes later, Darwish was back. In his hand he held a wedding photograph and a business card. He laid the photo on the table and pointed at the groom, a dashing big-built man in his early forties, stern face. Next to him a triumphant, grinning bride.

‘Here is Gazul Halen. He is number three to Al Bashir. In charge of Intelligence.’

Dima pulled the photo closer, studying the face. ‘How do we get to him?’

With an index finger Darwish reached forward and circled the bride. ‘She is my daughter, Amara.’

21

Half an hour later, Dima had all the information he wanted about Amara and her husband. Darwish, between bouts of tears, explained that although he had gone along with the match he didn’t support it.

‘We fell out. Very bad. He’s no good. All he has achieved is with this.’ He made a fist which he banged on the table and with his other hand he made a grabbing gesture at Dima’s groin. ‘All his people, he has their balls in the blender, his finger on the switch. He’s very paranoid. Has his own private security detail twenty-four seven. Not PLR. His own. Same for Amara. They never stay more than few days in each place.’

‘She’s not happy?’

‘So now I’m getting these texts from a number I don’t recognise. Always I have to be careful of who is contacting me. But it’s my Amara, she has Pay As You Go. “Daddy, please can we make up?” Of course we make up! She is my life! “I’m so sorry I made a terrible mistake, I want to come home.” She wants to escape but she is too scared. He keeps her almost a prisoner. Now with all the trouble, the quake, she’s desperate. She texts me every day, sometimes five, six times, but what can I do?’

Dima leaned back, folded his arms. ‘You tell her you are sending help. She tells us where she is. You get your daughter back, and Gazul takes us to Kaffarov and his bomb.’

Relief swept over Darwish’s face. ‘Simple.’

‘Simple,’ repeated Dima, knowing full well it was anything but. The words ‘ Gazul takes us to Kaffarov and his bomb ’ echoed ominously round his head. But it was something, and something was a damn sight better than what they had. He stood up and embraced his comrade.

‘Darwish, old friend: with you on board, how can we lose?’

22

The Tabriz — Tehran Highway was dead straight: a dark line on the map all the way. Dima drove, pedal to the floor, straddling the two southbound lanes. The Peykan was managing to hold a steady 120 kph. Even though the windows were open and blowing in a steady gale, the heat from the afternoon sun, and what was coming back at them from the screaming engine, turned the inside of the car into an oven.

‘You watching for cracks?’ said Vladimir.

‘I’m watching,’ replied Dima.

‘An earthquake can unzip a road and before you know it you’re in a ravine that wasn’t there two minutes ago.’

The southbound lane was deserted. Northbound was a different story: a solid convoy of vehicles of all types heading away from the quake zone, cars piled high with bedding, trailers full of fridges, TVs and washing machines, buses with people perched on top. In one car a granny remonstrated with the driver, presumably her son, from the back seat, while her daughter-in-law scowled in front. She’s thinking, let’s just wait for the road to open up and throw her in, mused Dima. There had been no sign of serious quake damage so far, but a great cloud of brown dust haze along the horizon, growing ever bigger as they neared the capital, gave a hint of what they would face. They kept the radio on, switching from station to station, each news report predicting more tremors.