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What followed was something he would never forget. Like all soldiers, he had seen some things in Iraq that he would have preferred not to, but that was part of the job. If you didn’t like seeing innocent people get killed and mutilated, don’t join the army. Then seeing the light go out of that girl’s eyes in that kitchen had upped the ante somehow: he had held her, the first and last man in her life, in a single intimate embrace before death. And now, even that would soon be subsumed by what came next. Sometime later he would grimly acknowledge that it had served his purpose. After that, he would no longer entertain any of that shit about the nobility and rightness of war.

The injured soldier, hearing the convoy, had managed to haul himself up on one elbow and was waving. The BTR shuddered to a halt. One of its armoured doors flew open and a figure clad in a shalwar kameez, face masked by part of his turban, jumped down and spoke to him. Several others armed with AKs tumbled out of the machine and took up positions around him. More young men, similarly dressed, crowded round. The turbanned guy and the Marine appeared to have found a common language — presumably English — but then the turbanned guy signalled to one of the crowd, who came forward with a camcorder and started filming. The turban stepped back and produced a blade, serrated like a breadknife but longer, as if specifically designed for what he was about to do. He grabbed the Marine by the hair and slashed at his neck, blood flying as he sawed with such ferocity that the decapitation was over in twenty seconds. Blackburn felt his lungs fill with breath for a shout, but self-preservation took over. As the man held the Marine’s head aloft for his comrades to admire, the flap of his turban slipped and Blackburn took a mental picture of the face — clean-shaven, which was unusual, high cheekbones and small eyes narrowed to slits. He bared his teeth and bit off the nose of the beheaded Marine and spat it out. His crew went wild, firing their AKs in the air and chanting something Blackburn couldn’t make out, then he waved them back into the vehicle and it moved off east at walking pace, the crowd chanting behind.

10

Ryazan, Russia

However good it looked, Dima didn’t like what he was seeing. He watched from his temporary Ops Room as the giant Mi-26 ‘flying slug’ he’d ordered, the world’s largest chopper, eased its way down on to the apron. Able to carry eighty troops with ease, it could even swallow an eight-wheeled APC. He wondered briefly whether Zirak and Gregorin would arrive to find Vladimir with his bags packed, all ready and waiting for them at the gates of Butyrka.

Half of him marvelled at the speed with which whatever he wanted was provided. The other half — the doubter, the sceptic, the half he listened to the hardest — knew this was all too good to be true, which was why he had called Paliov.

We have to talk.’

‘We’re talking now.’

‘Face to face, not over your phone. Or else it’s off.’

He’d hung up before the old man could protest.

Dima’s plan had come together quickly. The Slug would drop them and their transport ten klicks from the compound, well out of earshot. Burdukovsky had sourced a pair of Peykans, Iran’s most popular car, for his advance party. They would conduct a final recce before cutting the compound’s power. Then they would rappel in over the walls — and with silenced weapons methodically clear each room until they had Kaffarov. Meanwhile, the Slug would have moved to the location ready to lift them all out. Back before breakfast.

But the team who had choppered in with him made him suspicious. Then he learned he had been ‘given’ a team of fifty airborne ‘for backup’, plus a second chopper team from a separate agency.

The GRU’s ‘executive’ Mi-8 parked by the Slug. Its passenger door flipped open and out stepped Paliov. As he watched the old man progress stiffly to the building, he saw the Commandant striding out to greet his unexpected guest. Paliov appeared to be alone. That was telling. People of his rank usually never travelled without aides and security. Vaslov directed him to the building where Dima had set up his post and started to walk alongside him until Paliov waved him away. This was going to be a one-to-one.

Dima was back behind his desk when Paliov came in. As if it was an unconscious reflex he did a quick recce of the room, his eyes darting to each corner.

‘I’ve already swept it; you have nothing to worry about.’

Paliov lowered himself carefully into a chair as if he’d walked from Moscow. ‘Have you been getting all the assistance you require?’

‘My every whim fulfilled. Imagine that.’ He smirked at Paliov. ‘Thank you for opening all the channels.’

He accepted the compliment with a nod.

‘If this doesn’t work out the way you want it, I’m still expecting you to keep your half of the bargain.’

‘Ah, the photographs. .’ He sighed. ‘If this doesn’t work out I doubt you will see me again.’

‘I thought as much. You’re so desperate for this not to go wrong you’re throwing everything you’ve got at it. And there’s more to collect than just Kaffarov, isn’t there?’

Paliov folded his hands in his lap. ‘I’ve no idea what you mean.’

Dima slammed his hands down on the desk. ‘Dont fuck with me.’

‘There are. . operational obstacles. Even Timofayev has to tread carefully. One foot wrong, even at his level, and we all go down the crapper.’

The sheen of sweat on the old man’s brow told Dima his instincts were correct. ‘Okay then I’m going to tell you. There’s another team who go in when my lot come out. Because Kaffarov’s left something precious there.’

Paliov looked ashen.

‘The Chernobyl cleaner team landed their chopper here an hour ago. They’re repatriating warheads.’

Paliov raised his hands and let them fall on his knees. He smiled wanly. How pathetic, Dima thought. To be so high up, at such an age, and to be so scared. Perestroika, the transformation of the evil old USSR into the shiny new Russian Federation. Nothing had really changed. They might as well be back in Stalin’s time.

‘And Timofayev insisted I wasn’t told.’

Paliov had managed to stop the flow of sweat down his forehead.

‘Their existence is classified at the highest level. Only three people in the Kremlin know of it. It is therefore most embarrassing for those who do know that this has come to pass.’

‘Al Bashir gets his hands on this, he gets the nuclear capability his country’s been craving, to put them in the game with Israel and Pakistan. The Americans get wind of this, if they haven’t already — they’re going to be seriously pissed off with Russia for supplying a rogue state. I mean, seriously.’

Paliov reached into his jacket and pulled out a packet of cigarettes. He helped himself, lit up and drew on it deeply like a man enjoying his last one before the firing squad.

‘As I recall, the smallest we ever made weighs in at over 90 kilos and is about the same size as a medium-sized domestic refrigerator.’

Paliov shifted in his seat and gazed at his knees.

‘There have been developments. The use of carbon fibre and the miniaturisation of key components has brought the size down to that of a normal suitcase. The blast potential is the equivalent of 18 kilotons of TNT — about the same as the Hiroshima bomb.’

‘How do you know it’s still there, in the compound?’