Andy McNab - Battlefield 3 - The Russian

His arms went up as if to catch a giant volley ball.

‘So let’s draw a line under everything and go to work. Roger?’

Black looked at him. What kind of mind fuck was this? When shit happens you make me the scapegoat, and when I deliver, you bask in the glory.

He jogged up to Campo, who was sucking on a cigarette and talking to Montez and Matkovic. He stopped and looked uncomfortable.

‘Cole says we did good, finding the nuke: the Pentagon wants to make us all generals.’

Campo left it a second before he responded. ‘Cool.’

‘How was it with those two fuckbrains?’

Campo flicked his cigarette away.

‘I didn’t see the shot, okay? You were on the vehicle. You had your hand in the cab. I’m not lying to them.’

Black felt a sudden surge of rage. He grabbed Campo’s lapels.

‘Hey, I didn’t say shit about lying. You saw what you saw. Who said anything about lying?’

‘“Why does Blackburn want you to lie for him? Is it because of Harker?” That’s what they asked. What do I say to that?’

‘Whadya mean, what do you say? You say No! You say No ! I did not ask you to lie! What the fuck’s wrong with you, man?!’

He was possessed by an overwhelming urge to hurt Campo, to smash him against the side of the building and go on smashing.

Montes separated them.

‘Guys, let’s be cool. We got work to do.’

He was frozen in position, as if still holding Campo’s lapels. Blackburn let his hands drop. Campo stepped back, looking at him as if he was crazy. Was this how it started? Losing it, for real? He couldn’t remember a time in his life when he felt so alone.

42

Alborz Mountains, North of Tehran

Dima drove, even though he was the one who had had the least sleep. In fact, no sleep. Zirak was beside him in the front, and Gregorin in the cargo space, ready to fire on anyone thinking of giving chase.

Amara wanted to sit in the front as befitted her status as sole female and owner of the car, but he had insisted she go in the back, in the middle between Vladimir and Kroll, two human shields to protect her. If she thought they were going to try anything, she was wrong: they were far more interested in her picnic bag.

‘Some for you, and some for you: don’t be greedy,’ she said, sharing out the cheese.

‘You’ve given him more,’ said Kroll.

‘That’s because he’s bigger than you. Now be a good boy and eat up.’

Vladimir chomped triumphantly.

‘I used to get this at home,’ muttered Kroll.

There was a raw beauty to the dawn. The dust curtain gave the sun’s rays on the mountains ahead an extra golden glow. At this time the road network would normally be choked with vehicles trying to beat Tehran’s legendary traffic jams. They said that it took so long to get to meetings, people did their business deals across the lanes. Today it was deserted, the usual clutter of cars and buses gone, leaving behind a sad and strange serenity. A German shepherd, its coat dusty, saw them coming and ran towards them, tail wagging, hoping. Vladimir gave Kroll a meaningful look.

‘You fucking barbarian,’ said Kroll. ‘Amara, you should give his food to the civilised among us.’

‘Can you peasants please remember there’s a lady present?’

He caught sight of Amara in the rear view mirror. She was smiling.

When he had alerted her to the dangers of the plan, her reaction had surprised her.

‘It’s only fair to warn you there may be some shooting.’

‘What, with real guns? My husband shot a guest at our own wedding reception. You think I’m going to burst into tears and run away? Why do you think women are so weak all the time? I thought Russian women were meant to be tough.’

‘I don’t know. I promised personally to deliver you back to your father, so I guess I don’t want to let him down.’

She had shrugged. ‘Let’s do this one step at a time.’

They passed Sepehr Airport. The set-up, which was basic at the best of times, now lay in pieces. The Americans had done their worst. An Airbus sat on the runway, broken in two like a rotten log. Three smaller jets were completely burned out. The control tower had taken a direct hit. They took the Tello Road past the Imam Khomeini Sports Complex, where Dima had once put on a boxing contest for his trainee Revolutionary Guards. How many of those men were now PLR?

He looked again at Amara, her husband dead, her whole life in Tehran cut from under her. What future did she have? What future did anyone in Iran have right now? Those bombs, just their presence in the country could be devastating, never mind if they were used. What had Bashir intended with them? Was he about to find out?

After Nasirabad, the road, which had been getting steadily rougher, turned into a track. They were climbing up a long, tree-lined valley: either side of them the mountain slopes reared up — barren, lifeless, forbidding, an awesome beauty all of their own. In winter they were completely different, a snowy wonderland, teeming with skiiers. He had skied near here many times. His free pass and social working hours made him an attractive proposition. There were many women willing to enjoy his company, influential, well-connected women who in turn provided him with invaluable insights into the ruling groups and the vicissitudes of local politics. All of his relationships, except one, had had a mercenary angle. So much so that it had become a reflex. If I spend time with this or that woman what will she bring me? What’s the benefit? No wonder he had ended up alone.

As they bumped along the track up into the mountains these thoughts took him right away from the job in hand. Amara’s tap on his shoulder brought him back. From the seat behind she pointed at the gates up a steep ramp to the left. Dima slowed down about ten metres away and then pulled to a halt. They checked out the gun nests on either side of the gates. Two men in each: one with binoculars, the other with a machine-gun. They were NSVs — a universal anti-infantry, anti-aircraft, anti-everything weapon, discontinued after the collapse of the USSR, made under licence in Iran. Except those were probably the original Russian models, courtesy of Kaffarov.

‘They should recognise the car,’ said Amara. ‘I mustn’t look like a prisoner.’

‘Then you do the talking.’

Her outfit looked pretty convincing. She had taken a silk suit and wrenched off one of the sleeves and all of the buttons of her blouse, consistent with someone having grabbed her. Now the tied tails of the front held it closed. The trainers on her feet looked incongruous — but what would you wear for a post-quake, possibly pre-nuclear getaway?

They politely let her out, Dima nudging Vladimir to stand up straight.

‘Wait near the car. Let them come to you. The further in we can get before trouble starts, the better.’ She did exactly as she was told, trembling and looking for all the world like a woman whose house had just survived a brutal looting, whose virtue had even been compromised. The tears rolled down her cheeks as if she’d told them to. What a natural, thought Dima: she could have a bright future in the GRU.

A guard came forward, his Kalashnikov on his hip.

Amara practically threw herself on him.

‘Tell Kristen it’s Amara.’

He nodded at the Chevy.

‘My own security detail.’ She pressed a hand against her chest. ‘I said no, but Gazul insisted. They saved my life.’

‘Where is your husband now, ma’am?’

She touched him on the arm and shook her head, letting her hair fall over her eyes: she was good.

He walked back to his post, picked up a phone. A few seconds later the gates whirred open. Dima shifted into Drive and they rolled through. They were in.