Andy McNab: Battlefield 3: The Russian

85

Paris

This time Dima drove while Kroll and Vladimir tried to brace themselves. He hurled the Xantia at the Paris streets, throwing it into extreme broadsides and drifts rather than so much as touch the brakes. He didn’t know for sure that Rossin still lived at the same address and he doubted he would still be there, but right now he didn’t have a better idea.

Timofayev could have tipped off Solomon, but Rossin?

Solomon had been his best pupil, bar none. He soaked up everything Dima could teach him as if he already knew it and was just getting a refresher. He had answers before Dima had finished the question; he grasped techniques first time and never needed to practise. He could stab kick and punch more accurately and with more force than any other trainee. He solved whatever challenge Dima threw at him with an effortless ease that was intimidating. More than once it felt to Dima as if Solomon could see into his head and anticipate just what was coming. And right now he felt it again. Solomon, always a step ahead.

Dima brought the Xantia to a halt broadside in front of Rossin’s Espace. He was out of the car before it had stopped, wrenching open Rossin’s door and pulling him out on to the pavement. Before the Frenchman hit the ground Dima had a knife at his neck. Rossin’s eyes bulged like they were about to pop their sockets. Dima caught a glimpse of the Espace interior. It was stuffed with luggage.

‘I think your trip’s just been called off.’

‘Dima, please. I–I don’t understand.’

Dima gripped the Frenchman’s throat with one hand and applied the knife with the other. ‘You don’t understand why we’re still alive?’

It was all Dima could do not to plunge the knife right into his neck but he’d made enough mistakes for one night. Rossin needed to get the message fast. He flicked the blade up and sliced off an earlobe.

Rossin squealed like a pig until Dima put the flat of the blade against his mouth, the point half up his nostril.

‘Where is he — NOW!’

Saliva was running down Rossin’s cheek mingling with the steady course of blood oozing from his ear.

‘Headed for the airport. He’s going to New York.’

‘What about Paris? What about the Bourse?’

He shook his head. ‘The Bourse is under extra guard. They had a tip off.’

‘The nukes. Have they been shipped?’

Rossin nodded. Then stopped.

‘I don’t know. I don’t—.’

‘What flight’s he on?’

‘Atlantis — it’s one of those all business class—.’

‘Why should I believe you?’

Dima pressed the knife harder against his ear.

‘He told me. He said it was leaving at seven a.m.’

Kroll was already on the phone to Omorova, checking the flight.

‘Under what name?’

‘I don’t know. That’s the God’s truth.’

Dima put his face closer.

‘OK, last question: why?’

Rossin swallowed, tears saliva and blood messing up his shirt.

‘Please. He made it impossible for me. Dima — you know what he’s like. You can’t refuse. You understand, Dima. You know me. I’m not cut out for the hard stuff. Surveillance — that’s me.’

It was a huge effort of will not to shove the knife right into his neck and have done with it but that would just mean more mess to clear up. He let go and Rossin crumpled to the ground. He looked at his watch — broken in the blast. He lifted Rossin’s. Five-fifteen. An hour and forty-five minutes.

He turned to Kroll, who had his cellphone pressed to an ear.

‘You want the passenger manifest?’

‘No time. You sort this lot out. Get his laptop — everything on it. Grill him for all he’s got. Kill him if he doesn’t co-operate. I’m going to the airport.’

‘You’ll never get past security.’

‘I’ll take Bulganov. I knew he’d come in handy.’

86

‘What is this?’ A look of disgust suffused Bulganov’s face when he saw the scuffed Citroen. Having just been dragged from his bed after three hours’ sleep he was not at his best.

‘It’s what us ordinary mortals use for transport. Get in.’

Dima brought him up to date as he drove.

‘Where do I fit in?’

Bulganov’s appetite for the chase seemed to have cooled overnight.

‘Just use your magic cards to get us through security. He’s going to be in the Atlantis VIP lounge and if we miss him there we’ll find him at the gate.’

‘But I’m not booked in.’

‘You are. Omorova sorted it. Plus one bodyguard. Except we’re not going to fly.’

Dima had also helped himself to some of Bulganov’s wardrobe. Even with a famous oligarch in tow he couldn’t have got past security covered in plaster dust and Rossin’s blood.

‘Have you thought how you’re going to stop him?’

‘They still have metal cutlery in VIP lounges? Otherwise I’ll have to disarm some airport security.’

‘We’ll make ourselves terribly unpopular.’

‘So? We’re Russians. We always get to be the bad guys.’

87

Department of Homeland Security, New York City

The last thing Blackburn remembered was Jackie’s smile. He clung on to the memory like it was a lifebelt that kept him from being sucked back into oblivion. After her smile, there were other faces. Then nothing, then the sensation of travel — on a stretcher still, but in the air, because he felt his ears pop. Now he was in a wheelchair, dazed from a chemical sleep, going up in a lift. He had heard traffic, horns, growling diesels, a city definitely.

Someone slapped his face. Not hard, but enough to feel hostile. But he was well used to hostility now. Maybe he was immune. He had heard that song. It was a message from Dima. He was on the case. He wanted me to know.

The room had windows but the lower glass was frosted. Two yellowy fluorescents gave the grey-green walls a sickly glow. There was a strong smell of cigarette ash.

‘Okay, Henry. Good flight?’

Blackburn focused on the man who had appeared in front of him. Grey, close-cropped hair, light stubble that seemed to cover his head and half his face. Thick neck, big shoulders. A quarterback’s build.

‘What time is it?’

‘Good. Glad to see you’re still able to think. Just gone two p.m. Welcome to the Big Apple.’

He leaned down.

‘I’m Agent Whistler, with Homeland Security. I’m hearing you’ve got an idea someone’s going to nuke the world’s favourite city.’

Blackburn didn’t respond.

‘Eight hours ago I get a call says there’s a Marine in detention in the brig in Donaldson for taking out his CO, and he’s got one crazy story to tell. And this is coming from a US Senator no less. Friends in high places, Henry.’

‘I don’t know anything about that part.’

‘Well, that’s the part that matters because we sure as hell wouldn’t of wasted tax dollars air-freighting you to New York if the Senator hadn’t told us to. So now you’re here we may as well kill a little time going over your story.’

Each time Blackburn told his tale he thought it sounded less believable. An evil mastermind, a former CIA asset gone rogue, bent on the destruction of the West, with simultaneous nuclear detonations in Paris and New York, together with the sum total of his and Dima’s pooled information — Blackburn’s sighting of the maps, the name on Bashir’s dying lips and Dima’s knowledge of Solomon. All the time he was speaking, Whistler stared out of the unfrosted half of the window, the morning sun bouncing off his glistening forehead. Blackburn couldn’t tell if he was paying attention or not. Maybe he was just going through the motions because someone had told him to. When he was done, Whistler turned and faced him.