The first one marched in. Two metres plus: sandy hair, Nordic features. He didn’t even make it to the table.
Dima shook his head. ‘We’re invading Iran, not Finland.’
Lenkov obediently turned on his heel and left.
Kroll frowned. ‘He might be a good fighter though.’
‘He looks like a poster boy for the Waffen S S. They need to blend in.’
‘Fair enough. Next is Hassan Zirak.’
‘Good Kurdish name.’
‘A Shi’a from Lachin.’
Zirak entered and stood to attention in front of the table, his eyes fixed on the wall. He was short, no more than 165 centimetres. His prematurely aged face and slightly bowed legs betrayed his peasant origins.
Dima addressed him in Farsi. ‘I’ll give you four hundred rials to drive me from Tabriz to Teheran.’
Zirak blinked then answered. ‘I shit on my mother first. Four thousand, plus your daughter for the night.’
Kroll tried to hide his smile, but Dima stared back thunderously, then switched to Tajik.
‘A Persian goes on holiday to Africa. Right as he’s about to take a swim a gorilla jumps out of a tree and rapes him. He’s in a coma for three months; when he comes home reporters are waiting at the airport. One asks if he was hurt. How does he answer?’
Zirak looked down, stroked his chin then looked up.
‘He didn’t call, didn’t write, sent no flowers. Of course I was hurt!’
Dima allowed himself a smile. ‘Wait outside.’
The next two flunked the question, either because their languages weren’t up to it or they were too distracted by the gorilla. Dima and Kroll examined the remaining files. When they looked up again the next was standing in front of them: Gregorin, another blond candidate. Kroll was about to send him away but Dima spoke first.
‘I didn’t hear you come in. Go out and come back in.’ The soldier obliged, returned to position.
Dima turned to Kroll. ‘Did you hear anything?’
‘No.’
‘Neither did I. How did you develop that skill, Gregorin?’
Gregorin stared at the wall behind them, his face devoid of expression, like an actor waiting to be given a part. ‘I studied ballet before I enlisted, Sir.’
‘A red rag to the stariki. How did you deal with that?’
‘After I killed one of them it ceased to be a problem.’
‘In a fight?’
He lowered his eyes and met Dima’s. They looked cold and dead. ‘I made it look like that.’
‘Premeditated? Why weren’t you court-martialled?’
Gregorin kept his gaze on Dima. ‘No one found out.’
‘But you’re telling me.’
‘If I’m to be accepted for this mission Sir, it’s probably better we have no secrets.’
Kroll looked up from Gregorin’s file. ‘Impressive. How did you do it exactly?’
‘Following the fight, the man in question was hospitalised. I was concerned that he might make a full recovery, so I obtained access to the facility and administered a lethal dose of diamorphine.’
Dima reached for his file. Nothing run of the mill in there either. As well as tours in Afghanistan and Bosnia, he had worked undercover in Brussels, infiltrated a drug cartel in Dubai, carried out assassinations in the Dominican Republic and had been put in quarantine for a period over allegations, unproven, of collusion with the CIA while operational in Pakistan. Most commanders, Dima knew, would keep this man at a distance. He was perfect.
‘Thank you for being so candid. Wait outside.’
Gregorin saluted and left without a sound.
Kroll took a deep breath. ‘Better not get on the wrong side of him.’
Dima ignored him. His mind was elsewhere. Eventually he spoke. ‘I want Vladimir.’
‘You said you’d never work with him again.’
‘I said the same about you. Look where that got me. Do you have an actual objection?’
Kroll pushed out his lower lip. ‘Not at all. He’s in prison though. Drug trafficking.’
‘Then let’s get him out.’
‘Paliov could have a problem with that.’
‘He needn’t know. Which facility is he in?’
‘Butyrka.’
Dima let out a long breath.
‘Great. We’ll be lucky if he’s not dead from TB or AIDS.’
‘We’ll get Vaslov to order him transferred to a military facility and stop off on the way.’
‘He considers Paliov to have been a brake on his career. It’ll be an opportunity to get one over on him.’
‘You know everyone’s weak spot, don’t you?’
‘Except my own.’ Paliov’s photos had flashed up again.
Kroll stood up. ‘While I get it sorted, don’t you think you should put those two through their paces?’
Dima nodded. Kroll picked up the phone. ‘Send Zirak and Gregorin back in.’
The two candidates stood side by side, an unlikely pair. That was good, thought Dima.
He peered at each one. ‘The mission starts now. Your first task is to deliver Vladimir Kamarivsky to me by first light tomorrow. He’s incarcerated in Butyrka. You’ll find his details on the database. If there’s anything blocked to your report level, Vaslov will open it. I don’t care how you do it. Just bring him to me.’
Zirak looked mystified.
‘The “Jewish Ayatollah”?’
Vladimir, a Latvian Jew, was a legend at Spetsnaz for infiltrating the Iranian Supreme Leader’s staff. He prided himself on his knowledge of the Koran and his grasp of the intricacies of Iranian power was second to none.
Dima nodded. ‘Yup, that’s the one. Be back here by dawn.’
When they’d gone, Kroll turned to Dima and looked at him warily. ‘Is there something you’re not telling me? Don’t fuck about now.’
‘Just a feeling that this is going to be my last mission. I want my favourite people with me.’
9
Iraqi Kurdistan/Iran Border
Black had lost all track of time. His watch was gone, his radio smashed, his headset also gone. To escape the cavity in the rubble he’d had to strip himself of all the things that were designed to keep him alive. The sixty extra pounds of weaponry and bulletproofing the soldiers carried was useful, but also a liability. Even his water bottle had gone. His mouth felt as if someone had emptied a sack of brick dust into it, and the wind was full of particles that shot-blasted his features. The light was failing fast: it had to be around 1900 hours. That meant he’d lost six hours in the rubble. Once he managed to get on his feet he found cover under a pair of pillars that were drunkenly holding each other up. He stood still. He couldn’t hear anything so he looked for movement. The devastation was total. It reminded him of his grandfather’s pictures of Dresden, an entire living, breathing city reduced to nothing but rubble.
A dog came past, skinny and limping. It looked at him, hesitated as if uncertain as to whether he was friend or foe, thought better of it and padded away. Blackburn thought about his crew. Buried as well, or had they made their escape? The wind noise of his deafness was lessening. He became aware of a low intermittent moan and decided to head towards it. Perhaps there was something he could do. The street was strewn with debris and his balance was still uncertain. As his eyes began to focus he was able to pinpoint the source of the sound. A figure in military fatigues lay sprawled on the street, half hanging into one of the fissures that the quake had unzipped. Once he recognised the battledress as US he quickened his pace.
Black was less than a block away from the stricken soldier when he heard the vehicle. Definitely heavy duty, probably military. Help on the way? Something about the sound slowed him to a halt. The engine note — not the Stryker’s familiar Caterpillar diesel but a lower guttural thrum, more like a V8. Definitely not a Stryker or any other friendly vehicle he could think of. He crouched down behind a half-crushed van as the first of three Russian-made BTR-152s — six-wheeled APCs — nosed into view, alongside them a crowd of young men in improvised combat gear.