Andy McNab: Battlefield 3: The Russian

‘Some people have no manners.’

The next two rooms each had a copier. Both had been used. Could it be in a functioning machine? No way.

In the fifth room he found a lone woman. He came in so fast she shrieked and leapt out of her seat.

‘New photocopiers — from Imajquik?’

A look of recognition.

‘Are you from maintenance?’

She smiled. ‘You want Adam’s office — upstairs.’

‘Where upstairs?’

‘You look — is everything all right?’

‘Just — tell me where.’

‘Adam Levalle, Deputy Director of Communications.’

Dima took the stairs three at a time, and burst through the door marked Director of Communications. Another woman, on the phone: young, dark, pretty and indignant. She frowned, putting her hand over the phone.

‘Have you an appointment?’

‘Photocopier!’ said Dima, struggling for breath.‘Where is it?’

Dima scanned the room. None in sight.

She sighed, pointed at a pair of closed double doors, and went back to her call.

‘You’ll have to come back though. Monsieur Levalle’s on a call.’

Dima marched towards the doors. She dropped the phone as if it were infected, got out of her chair and came forward to intercept him.

‘Did you hear what I said? And where’s your ID?’

He pushed her gently back into her seat with a look that suggested she should stay there, and pushed open the doors.

A smart office: wood panelling, a desk, a meeting table and chairs, nice leather ones. A young man was on the phone, his face half-hidden by the receiver. The woman was persistent. She grabbed Dima by the elbow.

‘Sir — you can’t.’

Adam Levalle, Deputy Director of Communications looked up: a clear, bright face, full of promise — instantly recognisable.

Dima froze.

96

New York City

Gordon, Whistler and Dumphrey exchanged glances.

Whistler spoke first.

‘Well, does he exist or not, this Solomon?’

Gordon was hanging on to the threads of his authority.

‘I have to make a call. Is there somewhere I—?’

Dumphrey exploded.

‘Well, make it here then, and make it fast. Either this is the biggest goddamn hoax since Adolf Hitler’s Diary — or we’re about to have World War Three.’

Gordon called Langley and waited while the call-holding music wafted out of his phone. Then he suddenly straightened himself. ‘ Sir, Good Afternoon . . Yes Sir, yes but . . I need identification on Asset 240156 L.’

His cheeks reddened. ‘ Yes I understand Sir, sorry to have troubled . .’

Gordon looked deflated.

‘240156 L is on deep cover long term. His image is not available at this time.’

He looked thunderously at Whistler, who was enjoying Gordon’s humiliation.

‘My advice is that you continue your interrogation a little more forcefully until you have something useful and STOP JERKING US AROUND!’

Dumphrey slammed the table with the flat of his hand.

‘Okay, I’m calling time on this.’

97

Paris

Adam Levalle finished his call and looked at the strongly-built, dishevelled stranger who stood before him, breathing rapidly. He clearly didn’t belong in the building. He looked exhausted, yet on high alert.

‘I’m sorry, Sir: this — person — just burst in here, babbling about the photocopier. Shall I call security?’

Dima struggled to breathe. Paliov’s photographs: the young man on the bridge, in the park. Solomon saw them too . And sending the bomb to him, to Dima’s son, was all part of his plan.

‘Ah,’ said Adam Levalle and nodded at the copier. ‘Shouldn’t be in here anyway. We hardly use them these days.’ He smiled. ‘The paperless office. Supposedly.’

‘And he pushed me.’

‘Thanks, Colette: I’ll take it from here.’

Dima snapped back into the moment. Took his eyes off Adam. Went towards the copier.

‘Has anyone touched it?’

‘Colette said it doesn’t work. I looked for a plug but—.’

The clock on the wall said ten to ten. He turned back to Adam.

‘You need to leave. Get far away from here. As far as you possibly can.’

Adam Levalle was not the sort of person who just did what he was told, especially in his own office. And the unannounced stranger’s intensity, his appearance, like someone who had come through a lot to reach this spot, at this particular moment, aroused his curiosity. Clearly there had to be a reason.

Dima examined the machine. No power connection. No wires. He turned back to Adam.

‘I can’t raise the alarm. It’s been sabotaged. And I can’t defuse it. If you do what I tell you, it could save your life. Does the Bourse have a bomb shelter?’

Adam Levalle nodded.

‘Go there now. Take as many as you can, quickly. Don’t wait if they protest. And do not let anyone try to stop you. Please — just go.’ Dima, arms spread, was trying to herd them towards the door.

Colette stood her ground. ‘Sir, this man has no ID. I think I should call security.’

‘What are you going to do?’ Adam asked him, unfazed, curious.

‘I have to get this away from here — as far away as possible. Please do as I say.’

Dima’s eyes were on fire now.

Adam considered this.

‘You’ll need some help. I think there’s a trolley — in the stationery store down the hall.’

Colette’s hand was on the phone.

‘I’m calling security.’

Dima strode across the room, prised the receiver from her hand.

‘Okay, now listen. Inside this copier is a bomb. We have minutes — if we’re lucky — to save the lives of everyone in this building and in Paris. If you get security they will detain me and I’ll resist and they’ll end up shooting me and everyone in the city will die.’

‘But — who are you?’

‘Yes,’ said Adam. ‘Who are you?’

Dima could hear rapid footsteps outside. He took a step towards Adam, and breathed in, daring himself to say the name.

‘Was your mother’s name Camille?’

Adam frowning, nodded. ‘My. . my natural mother yes, but she’s — how do you know that?’

‘Then if nothing else, do this for her.’

98

Adam and Dima wheeled the copier along the corridor and into a lift. Adam kept glancing at the intense stranger who had just burst into his life, warning of imminent apocalypse. And who, mystifyingly, seemed to know a detail from his life that he had shared with very few people.

‘Can I ask you how you knew—?’

Dima interrupted. ‘Just let’s get through this.’ He couldn’t tempt fate by imagining anything beyond the next few minutes.

Kroll materialised in front of them, breathless from running up the stairs. As soon as Dima saw him he waved the young man away.

‘Go Adam — go to the shelter,’ Dima shouted, waving Kroll forward. ‘Go there and don’t come out until there’s some kind of all clear.’ He pushed him away as Kroll took his side of the trolley.

‘Strange location to plant it. I’d have thought a better place would be closer to the ground. Closer to the foundations, more likely to demolish everything in one go. On the other hand, it isn’t a conventional bomb. .’

It was Kroll’s trademark way of handling tension — to talk incessantly, until Dima shut him up. But Dima had tuned him right out. He wasn’t hearing anything. He was thinking about where and how. He did notice that Kroll was wearing identical overalls to the unhelpful men in the cargo dock — though with a telltale small red-ringed hole in the chest.

It was cramped in the servicelift. The copier took up almost all of the space. Kroll squashed up against the doors and jabbed Basement. The best bet was back to the cargo dock and whatever van they could hijack. The lift struggled into action. It was old and slow. Agonisingly slow.