Andy McNab: Battlefield 3: The Russian

‘Open these or you’re dead. Now!’

Bending his head slightly as if to avoid being shot, the young man took the keys with trembling hands and undid the cuffs.

‘And give me your phone.’

A new iPhone.

‘Sorry. Hope it’s insured.’

Dima was off, running now in the direction of the Bourse — but it was more than a mile away. He dialled Kroll as he ran. The street was choked with traffic. He leapt into the road in front of a girl on a scooter.

Kroll picked up.

‘Hang on.’

He showed her the gun.

‘ Mademoiselle, je suis désolé.’

She dismounted, her hands upturned and her eyes wide.

‘You’ll find it near the Bourse.’

He jumped on and sped off down the pavement, which was less congested than the street, steering one-handed, phone in the other.

‘I just heard from Bulganov,’ said Kroll.

‘Call the Bourse security. There is definitely, repeat definitely, a bomb in there. Persuade them to get everyone out. Something must have been planted in there. Unobtrusive. Grill Rossin. Maybe he knows something.’

Pedestrians flattened themselves against shopfronts as Dima tore down the pavement. Ahead, the Bourse loomed over the surrounding streets, a neoclassical monument to the creation of wealth. Its pale, timeless columns looked invulnerable.

Dima ditched the scooter, almost pulling it with him as he ran. His cell rang again. Kroll.

‘Dima! It’s in a photocopier.’

‘How many offices have they got in there? It’s going to be like looking for a needle in a fucking haystack.’

‘The police alert says “Shoot on sight”. You’ll never get in the building.’

‘I’m going to try.’

Kroll’s next words were just audible before his voice was blotted out by sirens.

‘The copier, could be an Imajquik. Logo’s blue and red.’

93

New York City

Blackburn turned the pages slowly, struggling to take in each face. Something about the nature of those mug shots gave them all the same sort of blank, impassive look. But then they were meant to be unmemorable. They’d been trained to give as little of themselves away as they could, to blend in and disappear.

‘Gentlemen, please.’

Gordon gestured at Whistler and Dumphrey, who had edged forward. ‘Let’s give the guy some space. We’ve come this far, we don’t want any mistakes.’

Blackburn kept looking. The room was so quiet that all he could hear was the hum of the traffic somewhere far below. New York at work, but for how much longer? He tried once more to conjure up the face in the Harker footage, the face on the security screen. The image in his memory was bleaching out, as if Solomon was willing it to fade.

He got to the last page. He recognised none of them as Solomon. He looked up, felt the atmosphere in the room change.

Then he turned the book over and started again from the back. On the fifth from the last page there were only three mugshots and one blank space. He paused at the page and looked up again.

‘Ah, for fuck’s sake,’ groaned Dumphrey.

Blackburn just kept looking at them, his finger on the page. Under the blank space was the serial number: 240156 L.

‘Now you want us to think Langley doctored the book.’

Whistler found the idea amusing. Gordon didn’t. He clenched his chubby fists, little white dots showing on the tips of his knuckles.

‘That’s an outrageous suggestion.’

Blackburn tried to keep his voice steady, but anger and frustration gave it an alien vibrato. He dropped it to a whisper.

‘Solomon isn’t here. He’s your agent. But he’s not here. Why?’

Dumphrey sighed and looked at the others.

‘I think I’ve had enough of this freak.’

94

Paris

Dima mounted the steps, tucking the gun out of sight and holding the airport security pass in his hand. Two armed guards blocked his way. He held up the pass as he walked quickly towards them, not stopping.

‘Security chief’s office, quick! You’ve got a suspect package in there.’

They seemed about to stop and question him, then thought better of it.

‘First floor: top of the stairs.’

Beyond the massive ancient doors the trading floor was swarming with men in those loose-fitting red jackets. The walls were ablaze with lines of orange and yellow prices.

Nine forty-four. Dima hit the grand marble stairs running, barely taking in the rich gold panelling. He slammed his hand against the first fire alarm he saw. Nothing: disabled. Solomon wanted everyone at their posts for maximum carnage. He turned round and headed for the basement, where he almost collided with a man in overalls.

‘Where do your deliveries come in?’

‘The cargo dock. But you can’t just—.’

He ran through some double doors, his eyes scanning everything. In the cargo dock, a fork-lift truck, several trolleys and boxes stacked on pallets. And in a glass booth, three men hunched over mugs of coffee.

‘Sorry to disturb you. I’m looking for an Imajquik photocopier, delivered by Cargotrak.’

None of them looked up.

‘We’re on our break,’ said one.

Dima was tempted to shoot all three, but he needed their help.

‘Cock-up our end. Sent you the wrong model. Need it back or my life’s not worth living.’

One of them stopped chewing and looked at the others.

‘Like he said. We’re on our break.’

Faces glazed as they chewed and gulped.

‘Just tell me where it is and I’ll find it.’

They looked at each other. One sniggered.

‘It?’

‘Yeah, what d’you mean, it? ’

‘Guys — I’m in a hurry here.’

‘You got authorisation? This is a global financial trading institution, friend. Only authorised contractors.’

They exchanged the complacent looks of men with safe jobs and generous pensions. It would serve the French right if they were all blown up, thought Dima: their love of bureaucracy was downright pathological.

Dima grabbed the nearest one by his shirt collar. Hot coffee spewed out of his mug across the other two. He put the airport goon’s gun against his temple, grinding it left and right, twisting his overfed skin over the muzzle.

‘This is my authorisation.’

The other two leapt out of their chairs cowering.

‘There’s — they’ve been coming in all week.’

‘Four over the weekend.’

‘That’s better.’

Nothing like a gun to the head to inspire sudden helpfulness.

‘They went up to the second floor.’

‘And the third.’

95

Dima considered his options as he ran up the flight of stairs. No alarm. No way of evacuating — even if he got anyone to believe him. Start screaming ‘Terrorist bomb! Get out!’ and he risked arousing the attention of security, who would most likely shoot him on sight.

He had to just keep looking, knowing that every second brought detonation closer. He got Kroll on his mobile.

‘Second floor. Get here, now!’

He reached the second floor and ran straight into the first room he saw. Five women looked up at him from their screens.

‘Any photocopiers — newly delivered?’

They all looked blank. He ran to the next room: more people at screens.

‘Sure,’ said one, pointing. Dima wheeled round. In the corner, to the left of the door, a woman was lifting the lid on a grey machine and placing a piece of paper on the glass.

‘Don’t!’ screamed Dima. He leapt forward and pulled her arm away.

‘Excuse me,’ said the woman, wrenching herself free. ‘I was here first.’

She jabbed a button on the console. The machine whirred, produced its copy, and she pushed past him to the door.