Andy McNab - Battlefield 3 - The Russian

Blackburn listened. ‘How do you know all this?’

‘Because I found him in Afghanistan. I was his GRU handler.’

‘ You ?’

Blackburn was silent for a full thirty seconds, digesting what he had just heard. Did he believe him? He needed time to decide if he did, time he didn’t have. Eventually he spoke, his voice distant.

‘In the bank vault — there were maps.’

‘What of?’

‘New York. Paris.’

Paris — such a pity . Kaffarov’s words came back to Dima. With Bashir out of the way, the true force of the PLR will be unleashed: 9/11 will just be a footnote in history after what’s coming . Dima, his thoughts whirring, was fighting to keep focused on Sergeant Blackburn and his M4.

Blackburn was also battling to keep his emotions out of his thoughts. Was this guy for real? What was his true agenda? At least he had the guy contained while he worked out what to do next. Cole was out there somewhere, he would be wanting to know what was happening, scrutinising Blackburn’s performance. How he loathed his CO.

He pressed the muzzle of his M4 against Dima’s neck.

‘Okay, very convincing. Now get down.’

He turned Dima round and pushed him on to his knees.

‘I can see how you’d like me to be him. .’

‘Shuddup!’ Blackburn yelled, inches away from Dima’s ear.

It couldn’t have been the shout that caused it, but it was still echoing in Dima’s head when they were engulfed by a much louder noise.

51

It felt as if the whole mountain was caving in on them as plaster, concrete and stone rained down. Dima passed out — for how long, he didn’t know. When he came to his head was throbbing hard. His eyes and mouth were caked in dust. At first he couldn’t see Blackburn at all. He raised himself — slowly, in case the M4 was still trained on him. He needn’t have worried. Blackburn was lying on his side, the concrete beam that had given way pinning him down across his arms and torso. He was conscious, panting hard.

Had Dima not obeyed Blackburn’s order and knelt, he would have been crushed to death.

‘Can you hear me?’

‘Course I can fucking hear you,’ Blackburn yelled back.

Dima felt for a hand.

‘Okay: I’m going to check your reflexes.’

‘Fucking don’t touch me, okay?’

‘Try to be calm, or you will bleed even faster.’

He was staring ahead, wide-eyed. Dima realised why. The knife. It was inches away from Blackburn’s face, the blade pointing right at him. Dima reached down for it. Blackburn let out a huge roar of anguish. Dima hesitated, carried on, picked up the knife.

‘Not with the knife, not the knife. Just shoot me okay!’

Dima lifted the knife and Blackburn’s breathing reached a crazy pitch.

‘Look.’ Dima turned so Blackburn could see him slip the knife into the sheath on his belt. There was another loud thud from somewhere near the way in to the bunker. All Dima could see was a fresh pile of rubble. Blackburn’s comrades trying to blast their way in?

‘Give me your torch and I’ll check you over, okay.’

‘No!’

‘Okay, okay. Can you feel your arms and legs?’

Blackburn flexed his limbs.

‘Okay, good. Can you wiggle your toes?’

‘A bit.’

‘Does it hurt?’

‘What do you think?’

Dima grasped the lump of concrete and heaved. It wouldn’t move. He tried again, putting all the force he could summon into lifting it. It moved about an inch.

‘Tell me about the maps. Everything you remember.’

Blackburn’s breathing subsided.

‘I don’t get it.’

‘Anything. What kind of maps? As if for a briefing? Were they on a wall? Were any locations highlighted?’

Blackburn didn’t speak for several seconds. Dima struggled with the beam.

‘On the Paris one — a marker said Bourse .’ He spelled it out.

‘That’s the Stock Exchange.’

‘You sure about that?’

‘Oh yes.’

Blackburn shifted his head and looked up, mystified. Dima slumped down, exhausted.

‘You trying to free me?’

‘What does it look like?’

‘I don’t get it.’

‘Look: what you saw in that bank vault is probably the most important piece of intelligence anyone’s got since they found Bin Laden.’

Dima looked round for inspiration. He saw the Uzi, its muzzle just clear of the rubble, reached over and grabbed it. Blackburn’s eyes widened again.

‘Shit, my arm’s going numb.’

‘Okay, let’s be intelligent here. I may be able to break up the beam by taking a shot at it.’ He examined the Uzi doubtfully.

‘No, no: that won’t do it.’

Blackburn tried to turn his head just enough to locate the M4. Dima followed his gaze.

‘40 mm. It’s a risk. You’ll have to trust my aim.’

They looked at each other. There was no guarantee the others would find him now. He’d turned off his radio. And if they did, more of the bunker might come down if they tried to blast their way in. Blackburn didn’t have any choices left. This Russian was his only hope.

‘What do I call you?’

‘Dima Mayakovsky.’

‘Okay then, Dima.’

‘Before I do it, I’m going to pack some rubble around you to stop the beam dropping on you when it fragments.’

Whatever air conditioning had been ventilating the bunker had stopped a good while before. It was getting hotter and stickier, but Dima worked fast, sweat pouring off him as he shored up the beam. Then he picked up the M4.

‘Okay. This is the bit where you really do have to trust me.’

Dima crouched down close to Blackburn, shielding him with his body as he positioned the weapon.

‘Close your eyes. There may be some dust.’

He aimed the M4 and fired twice into the concrete.

Nothing happened. Dima emptied two more into the slab. Half the beam lurched. Before it could move any further Dima slid his arms through Blackburn’s and hauled him out, then sat him on the edge of the shattered beam. Several seconds passed while they both caught their breath. Blackburn tried to stand. He could. He moved his arms. No serious damage. Elated, he looked round at the rubble-strewn bunker. His eye fell on the Uzi where Dima had put it down to lift him. It was inches away from his hand. Dima saw it too, looked at Blackburn. Blackburn looked at it and back at Dima.

‘You are for real.’

‘As much as any of us is,’ Dima smiled. Blackburn looked like a man who’d just been given his life back.

‘We need to get out of here before anymore of it comes down.’

Dima put the M4 in Blackburn’s hands.

‘A soldier should never become separated from his weapon.’

Dima’s brain was in overdrive. Processing the implications of what Blackburn had told him had set it racing. Solomon — back to haunt him, bent on vengeance. Beheading American soldiers, a personal nuclear arsenal, the maps Blackburn described, and Kaffarov’s words, 9/11 will be just a footnote . .

It all added up for Dima. He knew what Solomon was capable of. Blackburn had seen it for himself. He looked at the young American, full of sincerity. Blackburn’s righteous indignation at what he had seen, his mission to right the wrong. Easy to be cynical about his sense of purpose, in a world of Solomons and Kaffarovs, where loyalties were bought and sold to the highest bidder, where money, power and vengeance were the prime motivations. He was trying to plot a way forward when another explosive thud came from near the door, followed by a fresh cloud of dust. Through it came a torch beam. They were no longer alone.

52

The Lieutenant was in a rage: that much was clear.

‘Congratulations, Blackburn. You found your man. Glad to see you got your priorities right.’