Andy McNab - Battlefield 3 - The Russian

He thrust the muzzle of his AK hard into the prone man’s groin.

‘We’re in somewhat of a hurry so we won’t bother with tea this time. The Russian government wants its nuke back.’

He glanced at where Amara had ended up. She wasn’t moving. He nodded to Gregorin to go and check.

Gazul writhed around like a gored bull, rage, dismay and agony sweeping over his features like bad weather. Dima kept his foot on his hand.

‘We want Kaffarov as well. You’re going to take us right to them.’

Gazul seethed and hissed. Eventually he managed a response.

‘Fuck you.’

Vladimir put his boot on his good hand.

‘No, you’re not going to be doing any fucking. You’re going to watch while we each fuck your wife — alive or dead. Or you can take us to Kaffarov. Can you work out the better option?’

Vladimir leaned on the hand a bit harder. Dima had seen this many times over the years: a man, cornered, nowhere to go but surrender, no options and nothing to bargain with, his brain jammed in pride mode, unable to do the sensible thing. Men who held high positions, who were used to controlling others by fear, were the worst: cowards one and all. He glanced at Amara, who was still motionless.

Gradually the seething and the hissing stopped. Gazul’s bottom lip started to quiver and the tears of rage turned into tears of self-pity and fear. His face was pathetic as he looked up at Dima and nodded.

‘Okay.’

26

Both Peykans had been great team players, but they knew that one of them would have to be sacrificed.

‘Really they should be allowed to draw straws,’ suggested Kroll.

Dima, binding Gazul’s wrecked hand, rolled his eyes.

‘They’re cars, for fuck’s sake.’

‘Where I come from, we say a car is a man’s best friend.’

‘That’s because you ate all the dogs. Get on with it, will you?’

‘Goodbye old friend.’ Kroll patted the hood as Gregorin and Vladimir climbed in. They had volunteered to hunt down a Rakhsh APC.

‘A nice clean one: PLR markings, no punctures, and while you’re at it get the crew’s uniforms. Remember to strip them off before you shoot.’

Vladimir batted Dima’s instructions away.

‘We have actually done this before — Dad.’

Fifteen minutes later a Rakhsh APC screeched into Amara’s drive. Out stepped Gregorin and Vladimir in full PLR battledress.

‘Taxi for Mayakovsky party.’

‘That was quick.’

He patted his new steed.

‘Rakhsh means stallion.’

‘Well, you live and learn.’

To Dima’s relief, Amara was now conscious. Dima’s aim was still good enough to have left her with no more than a scorch mark and a small bald patch on her crown. He prepared her a shot of morphine: it would serve the double purpose of dulling the pain and calming her fears. Whether she had tipped her husband off or been found out, they didn’t know. It shouldn’t have mattered: they had got what they needed, but Dima had an obligation to her father.

He laid her on a couch by the grand staircase. She was still terrified and tearful, clutching the wound on her head.

‘I have to leave you here for a while. But don’t worry: it’s just a surface wound. It will hurt a bit because of the number of blood vessels in the scalp, but it’s not serious, okay? If and when we find what we are looking for and get out in one piece, we’ll take you home to your father. .’

Her face changed from terror to self-pity, contorted into rage, in an echo of her husband. She smacked Dima hard across the face. ‘You shit. Bastard. My father, he’s a prick as well. He always had it in for Gazul, never paid the dowry and now he’s turned my beautiful man against me with his scheming. I hope he dies. I hope the house falls on him in the earthquake and crushes him to death.’

He touched the side of his face, which was stinging with pain.

‘Okay, well, I’m sorry if I’ve interfered with your marriage, I’m just trying to stop a nuclear war.’

‘You men, always excuses. You expect me to believe that? Get out of my house, you scum! Now!’

He stuck in the hypodermic.

27

Central Tehran

The Metropolitan Bank pre-dated most of the buildings around it. And unlike them it appeared to be unscathed by either the quake or the bombardment. In fact, it had been built with the express intention of withstanding a nuclear attack. Whether the architects had designed it to contain a nuclear warhead was another matter. Gazul, who was proving a lot more co-operative than his wife, told them that in the event of an attack Al Bashir’s emergency plan was that only he and his closest aides would take refuge there.

From the forecourt of the building next door, the Iranian Federation of Enterprise and Commerce, a PLR T-60 tank was moving into position. They surveyed the scene from inside the Rakhsh.

‘I’ve always wanted to rob a bank,’ mused Vladimir.

‘In the middle of a war?’

‘Yeah,’ said Gregorin, ‘it creates a diversion.’

The plan was breathtakingly unsophisticated. Dressed as the PLR, Dima, Vladimir and Zirak would rush up to the bank with the injured Gazul, shouting for them to open up. The sight of their wounded Chief of Intelligence ought to be enough to get them through the door. Once in, they would don their facemasks, lob in a few cans of teargas and get working.

It went like a dream — almost. They hurried past the tank crew, straight up to the door. Gazul obliged them with a plea to be let in. As soon as his name was heard one of the huge bronze doors swung open. Dima expected the next part would be messy: whoever was in their path would have to be neutralised. The place had to be cleared of personnel for the bomb to be found. But none of them, not even Gazul, anticipated what was waiting for them behind the bronze doors.

At least a hundred soldiers and civilians, maybe more, had taken refuge in the lobby. It was a sea of khaki, interspersed with the bright colours of women and children. How could four of them get the better of this lot? All hopes of a stealth operation melted away. Even if they drove most of them out through the doors and shut themselves in, they would still have the tank to contend with. All of this was running through Dima’s mind as he surveyed the crowd. But then he fixed on a familiar face. He couldn’t put a name to it. Later he would remember that it was Hosseini.

Dima pressed the point of his knife a little further into Gazul’s back.

‘Warn them there’s a bomb in the vault — be very, very convincing.’

Gazul obliged. ‘There’s a bomb in the vault below! Run! Run now!’

No one moved. Some of the men turned and looked at each other. Dima shouted,

‘Do as he says! Open the doors and get everyone out! It could go off any second!’

Zirak and Gregorin held the doors open, urging people forward. Gradually they started to take the hint. A trickle rapidly became a torrent and then there was a furious crush around the doors, which spilled out on to the forecourt. Dima watched, keeping a firm hold of Gazul, the point of his knife close to his kidneys. Hosseini came towards them, saluted Gazul and narrowed his eyes at Dima. Hosseini was a former student of his — one of the zealots who had joined the Revolutionary Guard’s own Intelligence Unit: Iran’s Gestapo.

Hosseini pulled his gun from its holster and took aim.

‘They’re not PLR, Sir. These men are Russians.’

28

Downtown Tehran

Brady drove, with Blackburn in the rear, Campo on the other side, and the Colonel in between, giving directions. He perched on the edge of the seat, head bent forward because of the zap strap which bound his wrists behind him.