‘Rescued actually.’
Dima laughed. ‘I’ve been on the wrong end of Kaffarov’s merchandise in three different theatres. Half the boy soldiers in Liberia and Congo are toting his AKs, he’s putting weaponry into the Tribal Areas faster than the Coalition can take it out with their drones. The guy’s an A-list merchant of death.’
Dima glared at Paliov, a man of the past trying to keep up, out of his depth. He raised his hands and let them drop on to his knees.
‘He’s in Iran. We have to get him back. Now.’
‘He’s in cahoots with Al Bashir?’
‘Was: they fell out over a deal.Al Bashir’s holding him, demanding a ransom.’
‘Leave him. Let Bashir do his worst. He’ll be doing the world a service.’
‘The Kremlin doesn’t see it that way. The Americans find out, that would be bad for us, which together with the international loss of face. .’
Paliov didn’t sound convinced by his own words. For all his rank and status, he seemed pathetic.
‘Go away, will you? I’m tired. It’s been a long day.’
Paliov looked up. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I admire your principles. God knows I envy your freedom to pick and choose from the jobs that come your way.’
‘You know me as well as I do — probably better, easily well enough to know I’d never consider something like this. You’ve got hundreds on your books who’d jump at the chance to die pointlessly for the Motherland.’
Paliov slowly got to his feet. ‘I don’t have a choice here. As you say, I know everything about you.’
Dima felt the indignation boiling up in him. ‘If you’re about to bring up Solomon — don’t. You hung his defection round my neck nearly twenty years ago. I’ve done my time for that one, believe me.’
Paliov shook his head. ‘Not Solomon — though he might turn out to be in the mix.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘In Iran. There’s been a sighting.’
‘Just go. Get out of my life and don’t come back.’ Dima lunged forward and grabbed the old man’s lapels.
‘Hear me out, Dima. I’ve got something for you — that could mean a lot more than Solomon.’
He took a slim manila envelope from his inside jacket pocket. ‘Something that may help you decide to — reconsider.’
Those old Soviet euphemisms — so hard to give up. He let the envelope drop on to the bed.
Dima kept his eyes on the ceiling. ‘Compromising photographs? You really do live in the past. I’ve not done anything exciting enough for too long. And anyway I’m not interesting enough for anyone to care.’
‘Open.’
Dima sighed, lifted himself on to an elbow, flicked on the bedside light, tore open the envelope and shook the contents on to the bed. A pair of photographs fell out. The first was a long-range close-up of a young man, mid twenties, tall, strong frame, black hair, good suit, among a crowd of commuters on a bridge. Dima didn’t register who he was at first. He examined the background, then recognised the Pont Neuf: Paris. Dima felt his pulse shift a gear. He looked at the other photo: the same man, in a park, sharing a joke with a pretty blonde, pushing a buggy with two children.
Dima sat up. Held the photos under the light. He stared at the young man for some time but it was the child’s face — the image of his mother — that left him in no doubt. Now his heartbeat was smashing against his ribs. He looked up. Paliov had managed to contort his mouth into something resembling a smirk.
‘Do what we ask and his name and address is yours.’
Suddenly Dima wasn’t tired any more.
6
The Aquarium, Moscow
The Ops Room stank of sweat and smoke. If there was a ‘No Smoking’ sign it wasn’t visible through the exhaust from Kroll’s Troikas. He and Dima had been there since seven a.m. At first they’d had the place to themselves, then a swarm of archivists and researchers had descended, armed with dossiers, maps and photos, until the big polished table where they were seated disappeared under an avalanche of intelligence. Two technicians arrived to fire up the big screens that lined the walls, each one displaying satellite images of Iran. Then came a platoon of uniformed young men who took their places at the row of consoles that ran down either side of the room. Seeing Kroll puffing away gave them an excuse to light up as well. What else they were doing was a mystery.
Kroll glanced at the massed ranks of the GRU’s finest. ‘Well, at least if World War Three starts we’re ready.’
Dima coughed. ‘If we don’t all die of lung cancer. Maybe we should decamp to Chernobyl for some fresh air.’
Now it was past ten and the air conditioning had given up the ghost. Portable backup units were wheeled in, which just wafted the smoke around while filling the room with more noise. Also disturbing Dima’s concentration was a trio of Ops Room supervisors, supposedly standing by to fulfil his every need. Lavishing manpower on a job like this was out of character, not just for Paliov but for the GRU in general, with its reputation for stinginess and corner cutting.
He pored over the shots of Al Bashir’s compound near Bazargan, north of Tabriz, close to the Azerbaijan border, all taken by satellite in the last forty-eight hours. The intelligence team had gone to town with a three-dimensional plan of the compound and all of its buildings, plus a full analysis of how many rooms, whether there were any basements, where the power lines came in, what the door and window frames were made of, if there were any security bars, whether the glass was strengthened or bullet-proof and finally if there were any drains.
Ablack Mercedes G-Wagen, believed to be Kaffarov’s, was clearly visible among a cluster of trucks and pick-ups. Without looking up, Dima addressed the trio.
‘Nothing from the ground yet?’
Arkov from Reconnaissance stepped forward.
‘Sir, these images were captured by the very latest SSR 809 and bounced back to us just two hours ago. We can live-link and show movement minute by minute.’
‘So at least we’ll know if they’re sending out for pizza.’
Irony hadn’t been on Arkov’s syllabus. At a loss to know what to say next, he drew a pointer from under his arm and traced lines on the photo. ‘The perimeter walls are clearly visible from above, Sir.’
It amused Dima to be addressed as Sir, though he couldn’t help but detect a hint of scorn in the inflection. He knew that for the likes of Arkov his presence was a breach of protocol. This inner sanctum of the GRU was the preserve of the permanent staff, out of bounds to outsiders, and Arkov was having trouble concealing his disapproval. Dima found the man’s movements irritatingly robotic, as if he was being operated by remote control. He had an urge to knock him off course and pull out his wiring.
Kroll, his twentieth Troika of the day burning close to his yellowed fingers, looked up from his laptop and addressed the robot. ‘He needs to know how high the walls are.’
Arkov gazed imperiously at him, as if he was a vagrant who had come off the street in search of somewhere warm. Considering he lived mostly in a car, Kroll had made a creditable effort to look normal, reliable even. For once his jacket and trousers looked like he hadn’t slept in them and he had even had a shave.
Arkov’s nose seemed to rise as he opened his mouth to reply. ‘As I said, we are not in a position to determine that at this time.’
Dima was prepared to expend only as much energy as was needed to cut through this crap. Computers and cameras had their place, but his natural habitat was the field, the real world, not this glorified stationery cupboard manned by shop window dummies who wouldn’t know their arse from the White House. In parts of Africa there were boys Arkov’s age who’d already seen several lifetimes’ worth of action, who knew as much as he did about how to make war, yet couldn’t even read. To Dima, he personified everything that was wrong with the new Russia. A triumph of arrogance over experience.