‘Your girlfriend’s under the rubble. If you hurry you might just be able to save her.’
His head went under again: a cold, suffocating horror, no space, no air. Don’t try to breathe. How long would it be this time? He counted twenty seconds — and then another. Kaffarov’s face was closer this time.
‘You are going to tell me exactly who you are, and why you’re here, or Yin will drown you.’
‘Ah, so it was Yang I killed then. You boys really do look alike.’
‘Do it.’
Down he went again. Okay, start counting. The water was tepid, sort of stale. Dima knew what to do. He’d trained for this, come first in his Spetsnaz group for lasting the longest. It was all a matter of relaxing. The more relaxed you were, the less energy you used. Keep counting. Entire extra seconds could be gone without that next lungful. Learning how to suffer through all the misery and punishment of his training, being thrown naked on to the hard frozen snow and made to fight, the beatings, the humiliation, all about controlling pain, managing anger, channelling it into patience, kneading it into raw aggression, conserved for just the right moment.
The trick was not to care, to keep counting but just give in to it. So I’ll die: so what? I’ve had my moments. The record for staying under water was eleven minutes thirty-five seconds. His best was just under eight. But that was after a really good sleep. I should have fucked that receptionist, he thought: she had red hair and smelled of apples. That would have been a good memory to go out on.
Three minutes. He had glimpsed the pool, seen that this was the deep end. What else could he use? Focus on the surroundings, the hand pressing down, where Yin’s weight on top of him was distributed, the knees on his shoulders, not his lower arms which were free. Dima inched them round until his hands could grasp the edge of the pool. Four minutes. Not as good as he was. He needed that lungful of air right now.
He let his muscles go, stopped resisting, and used the weight of his head, which he had been pushing against the twin’s hand, to pull him further down, boosted by the leverage from his hands on the edge. With an extra pull he pushed himself deeper. Yin lost his balance, keeled over Dima and hit the water: not what he was expecting. Dima plunged a hand down, grabbed the knife from his pudgy hand, brought it straight up under Yin’s flailing ribcage and plunged, then twisted, then plunged again. He felt a wall of muscle, withdrew and plunged once more.
46
There was a collective shout of pain in the Osprey as they felt the jolt. The AA fire took the tip of the starboard rotor off, stalling the engine before the flames started. The ramp doors were already opening for a fast exit, but the door gunners had been blown away. Not by a hail of fire but by short sharp bursts expertly aimed. The F-16s had reported the AA guns neutralised. Mistake. So many mistakes in warfare, Blackburn now understood. It was a miracle anybody survived, let alone triumphed.
The port engine revs rose as it sucked at the air, trying to compensate, but the Osprey was halfway through its transition from flight to hover. Blackburn felt the craft climb and then hang for a tantalising few seconds before it gave up the fight and started its progression downwards. The pilot did what he could but the ground rushed towards them. Men frozen into position clung to the grab handles on the fuselage interior. Futile. Blackburn lurched towards the open ramp, tripped and slid headfirst. He smashed through several trees he never had time to identify, but boy did he love those trees. The arms of angels breaking his fall. His arrival back on earth was still painful though and he blacked out for several seconds. Further down the hill, he saw the Osprey roll on to its side: the wings, with their still-spinning rotors, snapped off like bits of a plastic kit.
He looked up at the chalet, the plans of which he had memorised down to the last room. But at first sight it was unrecognisable, the whole facade and all of the verandas smashed off by the rocket. If there’s anyone alive in there it will be a miracle, thought Black. But he knew there were rooms far into the rock. He had to get there. He didn’t think about the casualties. If he went back to the Osprey and tried to help, Cole might accuse him of flunking out again. Well fuck you, Cole, if you die because no one helped you, it’s your fault. In fact I hope you do die.
Where had this come from? At school he had been the mediator, the breaker-up of fights. The one willing to see the other side. On this assignment — excess baggage. From now on he was travelling light. He picked up his M4, checked it and took off for the rubble.
47
The bodyguard’s vast form turned slowly as he sank, the blood pumping out of him forming fine curls as it gradually turned the water from blue to pink. Dima hauled himself out of the pool, gasping for breath. He sucked it in, the stale underground air reeking of chlorine — the best he had ever inhaled. Kaffarov stood over him, holding Yin’s Uzi. He may have bought and sold guns — a lot of them — but the way he held it showed that he wasn’t in the habit of using one. That was the trouble with delegating: you could become seriously deskilled.
Even so, sprawled there like the catch of the day, Dima was an easy target. Kaffarov might not have had much practice with the Uzi, but he could pick him off no problem. There was nothing Dima could do — except play for time.
‘Nice place you’ve got here. Must be useful having the old panic room to retreat into at times like this.’
Kaffarov didn’t respond. Dima suspected he wasn’t too keen on the word ‘retreat’.
As he got his breath back, he got his first proper look at Kaffarov. A slight man, drooping shoulders. A pointed, foxy face with a couple of days’ stubble. Thick eyebrows furrowed in a permanent frown that betrayed a lifelong disinclination to compromise.
‘Kristen was pretty badly hurt out there. I don’t know if she’ll make it: I’m sorry.’
He didn’t respond: not even a flicker of regret. But what did he expect from the man who refused to pay the million dollar ransom for his wife, who repeatedly armed every evil or misguided combatant the world over, right down to the child soldiers of Darfur? How lucky for him that the Americans had devoted so much time and money going after Osama, allowing the real monster to spread his weapons of mass destruction unhindered.
‘By the way, the Matisse and the Gauguin: I hope you didn’t pay too much for them.’
Now he had his attention: money was what mattered to him, not people: of course.
‘Why?’
‘They’re fakes.’
‘Bullshit. Who cares what you think?’
‘I used to live in Paris: spent a lot of lunchtimes in the Musée d’Orsay: it has a better collection than the Louvre, and fewer tourists.’
Could he appeal to the man’s love of art? Doubtful. The paintings were only there because he’d believed them valuable. Kaffarov smiled, a sinister approximation of a smile with no warmth.
‘Ah, Paris. Beautiful city. Such a pity.’
What did he mean?
‘Look,’ said Dima, trying to keep still and look unthreatening. ‘I’m not your enemy: I was sent to rescue you and stop the nukes falling into the wrong hands. When we got to the compound, you weren’t there. I’m Dima Mayakovsky: one of the good guys.’
‘Mayakovsky? You don’t look Russian.’
There were definitely pros and cons to that.
‘My mother was Armenian. No, really. I am. The Kremlin hired me to keep you safe. Is that so hard to believe?’
‘And you have the credentials from them to prove this?’
On a deniable black op? The man was joking. Mind you, he didn’t look like someone who enjoyed a laugh.
‘A man in my position arouses envy. I have to keep track of my enemies. You have to watch your back all the time in this business.’