Andy McNab: Battlefield 3: The Russian

‘One of the worst — on fire through most of the summer of ’05. Not so bad now since Sarkozy cracked down on them.’ He opened his laptop. ‘So we did a little surveillance of a couple of blocks where we knew they were active.’ He struck a key like a concert pianist at the start of a concerto. ‘Et — voilà!’

Dima peered at the screen: Solomon. Exactly as he remembered him and exactly how Marine Sergeant Henry Blackburn had described him. A tall figure, heavy brow, high cheekbones and dark empty eyes. Hard to put an age or nationality to. The perfect twenty-first century triple agent turned terrorist. He felt his pulse accelerate again and the muscles in his chest tighten.

‘That’s him.’

He turned the laptop towards Kroll, who bent his head close to the screen. Rossin eased it back towards him.

‘There’s more.’

Rossin scrolled slowly through shots of three more men coming either in or out of the same block.

‘Bernard, Syco, Ramon. They don’t seem to have surnames. They’re all on file.’

‘Syco’s my favourite,’ said Kroll, looking at the biggest and ugliest of the three.

‘When were these taken?’

‘Yesterday.’

‘Good work. You have a log?’

Rossin opened another window and read off the times.

‘Solomon — enters at three-thirty, shortly after the other three have arrived. They are all believed to be inhabiting an apartment on the ninth floor. Solomon leaves at eight. We followed him to a small hotel in the Rue Marcellin Berthelot, about four ks from there. He’s registered there as Zayed Trahore, good Algerian name. But he goes back to the apartment an hour later and I’m betting he is still there.’

Rossin allowed himself a small triumphant smirk before he ploughed on. There’s a man, thought Dima, who loves his work.

‘Now comes the most interesting part. A Citroen van with the livery of an air freight company called Cargotrak made a delivery there at nine-thirty last night. Not a good time to be out on the streets there, I might add. Syco and Ramon carried a box about the size of a small fridge into the building.’

Dima looked at Kroll. ‘Jesus. He flew it in on a cargo plane.’

Kroll let a slow breath out.

‘Better bet than excess baggage, if you grease the right palms.’

Rossin raised a finger.

‘Cargotrak has a long standing contract with the CIA for shipments to Afghanistan and neighbouring destinations. As I say, your man is a clever one.’

Kroll booted up Shenk’s scanner.

‘What’s that?’ Rossin looked suddenly worried.

‘Just our insurance.’

Kroll compared the co-ordinates with the map of Paris on the iPad he’d borrowed from Omorova.

‘Looks good.’

Dima frowned into space.

‘Right. Better get on with it. Where’s Vladimir?’

‘At the hotel.’

‘I hope it’s near Clichy.’

Rossin smiled. ‘Three blocks from Solomon’s. And full of local atmosphere.’

‘Has he got the necessary?’

‘All sorted.’

79

‘Do you never sleep?’

Vladimir gave a good look through the spy hole before he let them in.

‘I put my head on the pillow forty-five minutes ago.’

Dima gave his comrade a brotherly hug. ‘What’s a pillow?’

He looked round the room. A small lightweight arsenal awaited them: three Glock 9 mm machine pistols, a pack of stun grenades, three high-power torches, night vision goggles, Vladimir’s favourite rappelling kit.

Dima lifted the ropes.

‘Did you need these to get out of Iran?’

‘Amara persuaded me to stay for the funeral. I needed them to get out of her bedroom.’

‘So she’s coming to terms with her loss.’

‘She was quite pissed off that she couldn’t come to Paris with me.’

‘You didn’t tell her anything, did you?’

‘I’m Siberian, not stupid.’

‘You sober enough for this next bit?’

‘If I have to be.’

Dima turned to Rossin. ‘If we need you—.’

Rossin shook his head. ‘I’m out of town the next couple of days.’

‘I thought you said you’d retired.’

Rossin shrugged. ‘It’s as you said: none of us retire.’

They travelled in a grubby Citroen Xantia Rossin had procured for them. A car with three men in it at three a.m. was a potential magnet for police curiosity, even without a trunk load of weaponry. Kroll did his best to observe the speed limit until he realised that at this hour, no one else on the road was paying any attention to it either.

Close to the Clichy tower block they had to hang back while firemen dealt with a burning car. A squad of police were loading a van with protesting young men. Friday night in the small hours was not the best time to be visiting this neighbourhood.

‘Too bad we can’t do the apartment and Solomon’s hotel simultaneously.’

‘It’s the bomb I want first. Check the scanner.’

It was pulsing clearly. Dima should have been more elated, but something was troubling him, something he couldn’t put his finger on.

‘Let’s hope it doesn’t slip away from us again.’

The entrance to the block was wide open, any outer doors it had once had being long gone. So was the lift.

‘Nine stories. Fuck,’ said Vladimir.

‘Do you good. Come on.’

Three floors up they stepped over a couple zoned out on substances. Syringes crunched underfoot. Several apartments were doorless and burned out. Some that did have doors sounded like they wouldn’t have them much longer, judging by the arguments underway inside. On floor eight they were confronted by a posse of young men, their faces covered, each with a pistol.

‘Turn round if you don’t want to die.’

‘We’re busy: fuck off out the way,’ said Dima and, without even raising his Glock, shot the gun out of the leader’s hand.

The man folded into a ball and the others melted into an empty doorway.

Floor nine. Apartment six. They checked the scanner one more time. A bright green pulsing light. Dima put his night vision lenses on. The other two followed. They examined the door carefully. Then Dima and Vladimir stood either side ready to rush in when Kroll shot out the lock.

Dima fired a few rounds as he burst in — high in case he caught the bomb. There wasn’t much to the flat: bedroom, living room, kitchen and bathroom. Every wall was sprayed with graffiti swirls. It stank of urine. There was nobody home.

‘Fuck. We’ve got the wrong one,’ said Kroll.

‘No we haven’t,’ said Vladimir. He was in the bathroom, pointing at a small pulsing green light. It was coming from the bomb’s signaller all right. But it wasn’t attached to any suitcase nuke.

80

Fort Donaldson, USA

The next time he heard the footsteps Blackburn was on his feet. The slot his food came through had a small gap down one side that let a sliver of light in from the corridor. He wanted to press his face up close to it, to see if he could catch a glimpse of the singer. But then there was the camera in the ceiling watching him twenty-four/seven. Schwab told him he was on suicide watch. He was pretty sure he had dreamed the song. How could Dima be sending him a message? How could he know where he was?

But what if the person was giving him a message from Dima? Blackburn could blow him wide open if he tried to speak. So he whistled the tune.

No response. Just the scraping of the ladder, then the steps.

He whistled again.

Nothing.

George went to his truck. He often went back to it during the day to pick up a fresh pack of Winstons. But he didn’t want a cigarette. He took out the emergency use, once only Pay As You Go cell phone and called Hal.

‘He answered the whistle. What do I do?’