Andy McNab: Battlefield 3: The Russian

Hadn’t this occurred to him? He seemed to shrink further behind the desk. Dima glanced around the office. He hadn’t previously been inside the GRU’s new ‘Aquarium’, opened by Putin himself in 2006 and thoughtfully placed within sight of the old one. No one was sure how it had got its nickname — you certainly couldn’t see in, that was for sure. One theory was that it was the reputed birthplace of waterboarding. Either way, and despite this latest attempt to finesse the past, the old name had stuck.

The presence of foreign furniture and new technology was striking: an Italian chair, Apple computers, on the wall a slightly bleached print of Nattier’s portrait of Peter the Great. And by the window, a plant that was actually alive. An agent repatriated after long years away might be forgiven for wondering which country he was in. But the frosted glass of the internal windows and the lingering hint of pickled cabbage in the recycled air was a giveaway.

Dima nodded at the fat file under Paliov’s nose. ‘If that really is a report on the incident, I congratulate your staff on their creative writing. The whole thing didn’t last as long as it’s taking you to read about it.’

Paliov didn’t respond, looked down again, continued to read. Dima wished he had managed to stop for some breakfast after all. Six dead, two in casualty, and it wasn’t even nine-thirty. An armoured GAZ SUV — at least that was Russian — and an official Audi, blue light flickering on the dash, had been waiting outside when they came out of the apartment block. Two more goons jumped out of the Audi with a view to helping Kroll with the case. Kroll tried to dissuade them with a couple of punches but they didn’t get the message, so Dima had to slam them against the car a few times, and in the case of the one who grabbed Katya, shut his arm in the trunk.

Dima had taken the SUV and delivered both Katya and the money to her grateful father. At least that was one satisfied customer. He had urged Kroll to help himself to the Audi. It was top of the range — heated seats and integral Bose music system, even a cute little circle of beige leather on the end of the cigarette lighter — but Kroll said it was too loud for him and besides, he said, disabling the tracker was a pain.

It was still dark, so Dima had turned on the sirens and the blue lights and had enjoyed a quick spin down the wrong side of the road — a metaphor for his whole life, now he came to think of it. He had thought of skipping the appointment with Paliov altogether, but a twinge of curiosity had prevailed. It had been so long since his former masters had come asking for him, it was a wonder they even remembered him. At the famed ‘tank-proof’ barrier, a guard waved the GAZ through without even checking who was at the wheel. A shocking lapse in security. He parked it in a space reserved for the Deputy Secretary of Paperclips or some such. Only when he presented himself at the desk and saw the pained expression on the pretty receptionist’s face did he hesitate. The parking space? He was just preparing a snappy excuse when she nodded slowly towards a floor to ceiling mirror. His face was still peppered with a fine spray of blood from one of the exploding goons, the first lot.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Busy morning.’

She reached into her bag and produced a packet of baby wipes. He smiled. ‘Bet they come in handy.’

‘Every day.’ There was a mischievous look in her large dark eyes. ‘On my twins.’

For a fleeting moment he wondered whether she meant the pair of delicious breasts straining against the cotton of her shirt. Now he had another incentive to miss the appointment: a quick fuck over the desk would have more than made up for the missed breakfast. He dabbed his face and held the wipe up in tribute as he walked towards the lifts.

Paliov finished reading, took off his spectacles and rubbed his eyelids with his thumb and forefinger, as if he was trying to make what he’d just read go away. Then he turned to Dima and shook his head.

‘How much did Bulganov pay you?’

‘It was a favour. For old times’ sake.’

‘Ah, old times.’ There was a mournful faraway look in Paliov’s eyes as if he was recalling his first fuck, which may well have preceded the Siege of Leningrad if not the Revolution itself.

‘The good old days. We must get together some time and reminisce over a few bottles.’

Another man entered without knocking: slim, wiry, taut frame, early forties, tailored English suit. Paliov made a move to rise but the suit waved him down. ‘Carry on — don’t mind me.’

Dima recognised Timofayev, Secretary of Defence and Security, Paliov’s political master. He lunged forward and took Dima’s hand, a Tag Heuer watch sliding into view as his cuff moved back. Timofayev was one of the new breed of apparatchiks on whom Western accessories looked almost normal.

‘So good of you to come. I hope we haven’t taken you away from other assignments.’

‘Only breakfast.’

Paliov winced but Timofayev laughed heartily, like a good politican, which caused Paliov’s face to move unnaturally as he tried to form a smile in response.

‘In fact, Secretary, Dima Mayakovsky is not currently on our—.’

‘Ah, a freelance ,’ Timofayev cut in, pronouncing the English word without a trace of an accent. ‘Are you familiar with that term?’

Dima replied in English.

‘Yes, Secretary.’

‘A man without allegiances, without loyalty. Would you say that describes you, Mayakovsky?’

‘The former only,’ said Dima, rather too pointedly for Paliov’s comfort. He receded further into his seat.

Timofayev looked Dima up and down.

‘So, Paliov: tell me all about your freelance . Impress me with his credentials.’

Timofayev settled himself on the edge of the huge desk and folded his arms. Paliov took in a deep, wheezy breath.

‘Born in Moscow, father a career soldier, mother the daughter of a French Communist Trades Unionist driven into exile by De Gaulle. Graduated first class from Suvarov military school, youngest of his year’s Spetsnaz intake, which did not seem to hinder him from coming top in most subjects and disciplines. First posting Paris, where he perfected his English through contact with the American expatriate student community and infiltrated the French interior ministry with the help of a charming young—.’

Dima gave Paliov a look. He coughed. ‘Subsequently transferred to Iran as instructor to the Revolutionary Guard.’

Timofayev roared with laughter, exposing expensive dental work. ‘Promotion or punishment?’

Dima let his face go blank. ‘Both: my station chief turned out to be working for the British. I executed him. You could say the posting was a reward for showing initiative.’

Timofayev hadn’t finished laughing, but there was a cold gleam in his eye. ‘Ah, don’t you miss the old days?’

Paliov pressed on. ‘After an undercover assignment in the Balkans he advanced to Afghanistan where he was responsible for developing a close rapport with Mujahideen warlords.’

Timofayev was still giggling, like a battery operated toy that wouldn’t switch off. ‘All the choicest jobs. You must have made a real nuisance of yourself, Mayakovsky.’

A shudder from Paliov, followed by an exchange of looks between the two apparatchiks — then a silence which Dima didn’t like the sound of. A silence while they remembered Solomon, the one who got away.

Dima wasn’t going to rise to it. ‘I accepted all assignments in the spirit in which they were given.’

‘Like a true hero, I’m sure. And then? What excuse did they find to pension you off? Don’t tell me. Too much initiative? Too “creative”? Or did they suddenly uncover some “unpatriotic tendencies?”’