Arkov wasn’t getting the message. ‘Our information based on special analysis is that there is a clear case for helicopter insertion.’
Kroll’s face contorted with menace. ‘He’ll be inserting something else if you don’t get the information he needs. NOW.’
Without looking up Dima added, ‘Also, I want a full analysis of all movements of vehicles, plus numbers of visible personnel on-site. Look for any uniforms, insignia and arms.’
‘That will take—.’
‘You’ve got half an hour, starting now.’
Flushed with indignation, Arkov flounced out.
There were a whole lot of uncertainties about this mission, Dima thought, not least why it was being mounted at all, why he had been singled out, why Paliov had gone to such trouble to make him commit. That’s why he had insisted on having Kroll at his side, someone he could trust absolutely, who knew how his mind worked. Maybe Paliov understood, but to most people inside the GRU Dima’s regard for his old comrade was a mystery. For a start Kroll didn’t look anything like your typical Spetsnaz veteran, but Dima regarded that as an asset. Kroll had the sort of colouring that meant he could pass for a whole variety of nationalities, and his unmilitary, stooping frame gave no hint of his training. To say he was battle-scarred was an understatement. His hearing had been permanently damaged by a car bomb in Kabul; he bore several livid scars after being tortured in Chechnya and he had taken a bullet in the Beslan siege. He had his weaknesses, chiefly a fatal attraction to volatile women. He was a terrible shot and harboured a fixed-wing pilot’s innate suspicion of helicopters. If God had meant them to fly he would have given them proper wings, was a favourite refrain of his. But he had an almost supernatural ability to anticipate whatever Dima was thinking and they shared an impatience with the military rulebook that had been the undoing of so many missions.
Kroll waited till the last possible moment before extinguishing the cigarette, pressing it down with his thumb into the five-sided Pentagon souvenir ashtray. Someone, Dima noted, had emptied it at least once since they arrived. ‘If we go in from above we’ll wake the whole place up and lose any element of surprise. I’m thinking we could get on target with vehicles.’
‘You would be. Time to face up to your fear of helicopters. Besides it’s most unpatriotic: you know they’re a Russian invention.’
‘Sikorsky fled to America first. That makes him a traitor in my book.’
There was no point trying to reason with Kroll. Besides, Dima knew that in the end he would always do what he was told. He glanced briefly at his old friend, lost in thought, his fingers pressed against his temples, which exaggerated the slant of his eyes. He hadn’t told him about the photographs in Paliov’s envelope. Even though Kroll was dismayed when Dima told him he had accepted the assignment, and most probably guessed that there was more to it than he knew, he had the grace not to probe. They knew each other’s boundaries instinctively.
Dima reviewed what he had learned so far. The property at Bazargan had once been a monastery. Parts of it dated back to the fourteenth century. Arkov, credit where it was due, had come up with an archaeological survey that showed that the present walls were built on the original ones and were four metres deep. What had those Christians been anticipating? Artillery? Tank rounds? A nuclear strike? In which case they were about six hundred years too early. In the 1950s the Shah had had the place renovated as his northern retreat and hunting lodge. It had acquired a pool and a vast garage that housed some of his exotic car collection. The Ayatollahs probably had these symbols of Western decadence crushed. It was unclear how or when the property had come under Al Bashir’s control, or what he had intended it for. A regional command centre was a realistic assumption. Arkov had come back with an estimate of between twelve and twenty-five personnel currently on site. Some of this stuff was useful, but most of it merely raised more questions.
How much of precisely what weaponry Kaffarov had already sold to Al Bashir was also unknown. The compound could be an arsenal. For all Dima knew he might have enough gear in there for a full-blown campaign.
He became aware of a presence in front of him. And a faint scent of something pleasant: jasmine, was it? Or possibly gardenia.
He looked up. She was tall and angular, though not without curves. Around the same age as him but in better condition. Despite the formal, understated tailored Italian jacket, he could tell by the way she stood that she had trained in the field. Probably capable of killing every one of those screen-jockeys if she needed to, and giving him a run for his money. Her badge said Omorova.
She put down a fresh bundle of files.
‘I hope I have everything you want.’
He smiled.
‘I’m sure you do.’
The warmth in her eyes faded. He cancelled the smile.
‘Shouldn’t you be operational?’
I wish. But my father’s not well and my mother can’t cope so I’m taking some Moscow time.’ She looked down at the photos and sighed. Dima guessed what she was thinking. Maybe if they were going in, in full kit, but undercover? A six-foot blonde, in Iran? It wasn’t going to happen.
‘Okay, show me Kaffarov. I want everything, down to which hand he jerks himself off with.’
She didn’t alter her expression.
‘That may be difficult. He has a very attentive harem.’
‘“Many hands make light work.”’
Kroll looked up from his laptop. ‘What?’
‘English proverb. Go back to work.’
Omorova spread out the files and took a deep breath. ‘I’ll skip to the highlights. He’s fifty-four, a sixty a day smoker and despite tennis twice a week is not fit. Don’t expect him to do anything physical like scale a wall or run very far. He’s nervy, pushy and impatient. He won’t be taking kindly to being held but values his life and is not physically fearless. He uses a lot of cocaine so you can expect him to be wired — or strung out if he’s separated from his stash. Could be helpful to give him a top-up if you’ve got time before you lift him. He’s also a control freak who hates to be driven. He used to pilot himself everywhere before he did a hard landing in Ghana and ripped the undercarriage off his Falcon.’
‘Is he likely to have loved ones with him?’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘Interesting choice of words. He’s got a second wife in rehab and at least two mistresses, one here in Moscow, another who was in Tehran.’
‘Could be with him?’
‘Maybe. She’s Austrian. Kristen. I don’t have her cup size.’
‘I’ll use my imagination.’
‘Put it this way, he’s never been over-attentive to any of them. The first wife was kidnapped. .’
‘And?’
‘He didn’t pay.’
‘What was the demand?’
‘A million dollars.’
‘Cheap. What happened to her?’
‘Never seen again.’
‘Okay, I’m getting the picture now. Where is he based?’
‘Apart from his Moscow house on the Arbat and a dacha in Peredelkino, he’s based himself in Iran for the last ten years. And as a Tajik, he gets by in Farsi and has taken full advantage of Iran’s non-aligned status, smoothing access to some of his more — unconventional clients.’
‘By which you mean terrorists. Tell me about his background.’
‘Russian passport. Only son of a Tajik assembly worker and seamstress mother. Father worked in the Togliatti Lada plant until an injury put him on crutches. They devoted their lives to his advancement. He’s had no contact with them for twenty years but funds all their care.’