As the Mil Mi-24 lost height he could see them, like ants crawling on the surface of the mud, the new recruits being put through their paces. How many would last? How many would end it all with a bullet — for themselves, unable to bear the shame of failure, or if their anger got the better of them, a particularly hostile stariki? It was an unspoken agreement between Spetsnaz graduates — and those who’d fallen by the wayside — never to speak about the training. Dima exchanged glances with Kroll, a look that needed no explanation. Each knew exactly what the other was thinking. Soldiers learn to work together, Spetsnaz learn to operate alone. Once he believed it had been a good training for his life — the best possible. But then maybe if he hadn’t been one of the élite, he wouldn’t have ended up alone — might have had a real life. But there was no time to think about that now.
Today, it wasn’t recruits Dima was after: he had come for the instructors, the hardest and the smartest, full of pent-up energy for a return to the field, men to whom he could leave the more basic task of clearing the compound. Paliov had set no limits on how many men or how much kit, but that in itself bothered Dima. Paliov had made his name as a master of efficiency, never one to use a regiment where a platoon would do, who had fought long and hard against campaigns for better, more expensive, equipment. Why was he suddenly splashing out like this? Was this his last stand? Or something else?
He glanced at the other passengers, all eight of them Paliov’s underlings: Baryshev — surveillance, Burdukovsky — logistics, Gavrilov and Deniken, Yegalin and Mazlak — human doorstops. Only Burdukovsky, despite his girth, had the look of a field man, beady-eyed, his expression one of permanent quiet amusement, as if in on a joke to which only he knew the punchline. The rest looked like Aquarium lifers, unaccustomed to being let out into the daylight. He thought of Omorova’s blink — what exactly was it she’d hinted at in the Ops Room? All day the news had been full of Iran, Americans on alert along the Iraq border, the PLR consolidating control of at least three centres. And to cap it all, more earth tremors in the east. It was all happening in Iran, and they were going in to snatch a single rogue arms dealer with a small airborne army. Something wasn’t right.
They disembarked on to the apron outside the main building. Dima and Kroll were ushered straight to a prepared interview room. Three chairs, one table, a jug of water, two glasses. It was all eerily familiar. The only sign Dima could detect that put them in the post-Soviet era was the slice of lemon floating in the jug.
The door swung open to reveal the Camp Commandant, Vaslov. His gleaming hairless scalp was reminiscent of a baby’s, but the resemblance ended there. He had no neck to speak of, so that his head appeared to rise out of his collar like one of those wide, pillar-shaped rock formations Dima had seen once in a picture of Arizona. On his face, the features were crowded round a broken nose, as if reluctant to spread out. The famous glass eye stared fixedly into the middle distance, its predecessor taken out by an Afghan sniper’s bullet that was reputed to be still lodged in his brain — some said because it didn’t dare ask permission to leave. It was this injury, the last of several, which had eventually condemned him to this administrative role. Now and then, the bullet — or something — provoked him to uncontrollable bursts of temper, victims of which included a clerk, whose wrist had been broken when a document was found in the wrong file. He ran a tight ship, you could say. He lived on the camp all year round; he had nowhere else and no one else. Spetsnaz was his life, his family, his reason for being.
Vaslov glared at Dima, who didn’t rise. He was just a contractor now. No need for military niceties.
Without meeting his glare Dima spoke.
‘I thought someone would have killed you by now.’
What little there was of Vaslov’s lips disappeared altogether as he stepped into the room.
‘I’d shake you by the hand but I may have some use for it after.’
‘I’m glad we see eye to eye, at last.’
Dima couldn’t resist the joke. When they had first encountered each other he had just stepped on to the towel. Vaslov was an instructor and from day one he had had it in for him. Dima was smarter than him and they both knew it. Vaslov had made it his mission to break him. He never managed it, but what eventually evolved was a grudging mutual respect.
‘Still growing roses?’
Vaslov gave a lipless grin as he nodded and patted his tunic side pocket. He was known to carry a pair of secateurs with him at all times. His favourite humiliation was to order anyone who flunked an exercise to strip in front of his fellow recruits, whereupon he would produce his rose cutters and close them round the offender’s cock until he wet himself. He even had a pickle jar on view in his office that contained items closely resembling human penises. No one had ever got close enough to be sure.
He put his hands on the table and leaned forward until his face was almost touching Dima’s.
‘You seem to have a lot of clout for someone who was let go’, he said. For once both eyes were looking the same way. ‘The powers that be appear to have signed off your request for the pick of my best instructors.’ He leaned even closer. ‘If any of them don’t come back in showroom condition you know what the consequences will be.’
‘I’ve got my titanium underpants on.’
He stood up, dropped a stack of files on the table, turned and marched out. Kroll rolled his eyes, reached for the files and started rifling through them.
Dima felt his phone vibrate. He examined the message and then turned the display towards Kroll. A gallery of pictures of the compound walls appeared.
Kroll’s eyes widened. ‘Who the fuck sent these?’
‘Darwish, lives north of Tabriz. I called him this morning. Got him to drive up and have a look-see.’
‘Trust you to have your own spies.’
Kroll took the phone and pored over the images. ‘Those walls are massive.’
‘Yes, but look closer. Parts of them are patched with brick and breeze block. And see where those cracks are — they’re from the tremors. You could knock it down with a mallet.’
Kroll looked up. ‘Confirms my feeling — no call for heavy metal. A big entrance, with lots of bangs, bullets flying everywhere — more likelihood of Kaffarov not making it out in one piece. We really don’t need all these men.’
They were both spooked by the same thing. Dima was silent for a moment, lost in thought.
Kroll shuffled the files. ‘So how many do you want?’
‘Three to lead the Go Teams.’
Kroll shrugged. ‘Have it your way.’
Dima lifted a finger. ‘No, wait: change of plan. Three for an advance team with us.’
Kroll’s face brightened. ‘By road?’
Dima got up, paced, thinking aloud. ‘A heavy Mil drops us first in a neighbouring valley. On board, two cars. We’ll recce, confirm what we need, then call in the Go units once we’ve cut the power. That way we’ve got more options if there’s a change of plan.’
‘Change of what plan?’
Dima looked at Kroll. Inside, he wondered what he was getting his old friend into. ‘I don’t know. I just want to be prepared — in case.’
He nodded at the files. Kroll picked up the phone on the desk. ‘Okay, we’re ready. Lenkov first.’