Andy McNab: Battlefield 3: The Russian

‘Now you’re making stuff up. He’s the one told you it was Solomon.’

‘And you knew him for what — two hours?’

‘I’ve had romances shorter than that.’

Omorova looked at Vladimir, a trace of disgust in her otherwise sphinx-like expression, then smiled at Dima.

‘You proved one thing wrong — about us Ruskies always being the bad guys. In fact, it would be a good starting point for your memoirs. Could be a bestseller.’

‘Except I’d have to make up the last bit. I don’t remember a thing about it.’

‘The detonator blew, the rest didn’t because you’d detached it. You saved Paris.’

‘Yeah, but the French aren’t too happy with our role as their saviours. That’s why they majored on all the damage we did on the way.’

Dima found what he was looking for, put down the binoculars, grabbed his stick and heaved himself up from the table.

Omorova wagged a finger. ‘Steady now, we don’t want to have to scrape you off the tarmac a second time.’

‘Where’s he off to?’ asked Vladimir.

‘Unfinished business, I think,’ said Omorova.

Dima hadn’t worked out anything about what would happen as he struggled forward, the cast on his broken leg chafing. He hadn’t prepared a speech. He opted just to go with the flow, see where the conversation went and maybe — or maybe not. And that was just as well because what he had failed to spot as he tracked Adam Levalle and his girlfriend through the binoculars was the older couple not far behind.

‘Hey!’

Adam waved when he spotted Dima.

‘Well, this is a surprise.’

He grasped Dima’s hand, shook it hard, then embraced him. His girlfriend smiled.

‘Natalie, this is Dima — Mayakovsky.’

Adam turned to the older couple behind him, who were deep in conversation.

‘Dima, please — let me introduce you to my parents.’

‘Hey Mom, Dad — meet the Saviour of Paris. And my new hero.’

But Dima could find no words.

FIN