No answer.
Dima pressed on. ‘I believe there are three, one of which is already in American hands.’
Blackburn couldn’t help himself this time.
‘What makes you think that?’
‘We had a scanner that followed them from the Metropolitan Bank in downtown Tehran. One went northwest in the direction of the US encampment, and two came here.’
At the mention of the bank, a cold feeling spread across Blackburn’s chest. Was this the confirmation he needed that he was looking at the man who had left the bank with Bashir?
He took a step closer to Dima, watching his eyes as he spoke.
‘Your codename is Solomon. Right?’
His captive’s eyes widened and his mouth dropped open a fraction. Recognition.
50
Solomon. There were only a very few names Dima had ever known that delivered an emotional kick when said out loud.
The last time had been a year ago, when Kroll mentioned him in connection with the bombing of a hotel in Abu Dhabi, where a Middle East peace delegation was gathered. All those present were wiped out so comprehensively that what little was left had to be buried in one grave. There was also a particularly bloody attack on a party of American aid workers on their way out of Afghanistan. The emphatic denials of responsibility by the local insurgents on both sides of the border, and the mutilations which even for Dima were hard to comprehend, suggested an agenda that went beyond simple hostility to the American presence. Each of the twenty-four victims, it was reported, was made to commit degrading acts on each other before being beheaded with a sword — a hallmark that caused Dima particular disquiet.
Here in this bunker, with Kaffarov dead at his feet, and Sergeant Blackburn pointing his M4 at him, was the last place he expected to hear the name Solomon, least of all from the mouth of an American serviceman.
‘Say that again?’ said Dima, checking that he hadn’t misheard.
Blackburn repeated the name, slowly, emphasising each syllable as Bashir had. Dima exhaled a long breath.
‘What do you know about Solomon?’
Blackburn kept his gaze on Dima. His voice was almost trembling with rage.
‘I know that in the last seventy-two hours a man believed to be of that name was responsible for the beheading of an unarmed American serviceman on the Iraq border, and for the execution by sword of a tank driver. I also know that a man of that name was last seen with Farouk Al Bashir, leaving the Metropolitan Bank in Tehran.’
Dima let this sink in. There was a look of certainty in Blackburn’s eyes that was going to be hard to shift. Not only certainty, but the expression of someone battling hard to keep his emotions in check. Whatever Dima said next could be decisive.
He took a breath.
‘Okay. I can say two things about Solomon which I don’t expect you to believe straight off. One is that I am emphatically not him, and the other is that I can probably tell you more about him than anyone else still living.’
Yeah, right, thought Blackburn, in no mood to doubt that the man standing before him was anyone other than Solomon. But he wanted to be sure first. He hadn’t killed in cold blood before. He could do the right thing and hand him over — and then what? He didn’t want the conflict raging inside him to show in his face.
‘Misfit 3–1 this is Misfit actual, over.’
This time it was Cole.
‘Misfit 3–1, give your sitrep, over.’
Dima and Blackburn looked at each other. Blackburn switched off the radio, which was strange, Dima thought. In fact the whole situation was decidedly weird. To be at the Shah’s old ski chalet with a dead arms dealer, with a dead Korean in the pool, and now being detained by a US soldier in the collapsed bunker. And if that wasn’t strange enough, the mention of Solomon put the cherry right on it.
The building shuddered, sending another shower of concrete fragments raining down on them. They were entombed. Blackburn’s comrades were calling him but he had turned off his radio. Whatever was going on here, Dima thought, it was important enough for Blackburn to be disobeying orders. Was the man unhinged? He looked angry but not crazy.
‘Say your piece and keep it brief.’
‘I’ll try. He was a kid when he first surfaced in a refugee camp in Lebanon in the late ’80s, claiming to be suffering from amnesia — didn’t even remember his name but had a gift for languages. American missionaries thought he was some kind of prodigy, christened him Solomon like the wise king in the Old Testament. They took him home with them to Florida. It didn’t go well. He was bullied at school. It went on for months. He bided his time. That’s a hallmark of his — he doesn’t like to rush things. Then young Solomon exacts his own brand of revenge on his high school tormentors with a machete — not in a frenzy, more surgical. I’ll skip the details, but you should know that at least three heads were severed. He disappears — stows away on a merchant ship bound for the Gulf. Roll on two years he’s ‘Suleiman’, fighting with the Mujahideen in Afghanistan — against the Russians. But he wants more. He has no allegiances — except to himself. He gets recruited by the Russians, who realise his potential — ruthless, natural linguist, natural everything, plus a deep hatred of America. So they take him on and train him up as an asset. He can play all the parts: Yank, Arab, Eurasian. He’s a secret weapon, but he’s also impossible to handle. In the chaos after the Soviet Union collapses he disappears — goes his own way. Then 9/11 happens. The Americans pick him up, lock him in Guantanamo. But Solomon’s no fool — guess what he does to get out? He offers his services. Gives them a treasure trove of intelligence on terror outfits, on Russian Intelligence, and next thing he’s ‘Solomon’ again, on the CIA payroll doing black ops.’
Blackburn listened. ‘How do you know all this?’
‘Because I found him in Afghanistan. I was his GRU handler.’
‘You?’
Blackburn was silent for a full thirty seconds, digesting what he had just heard. Did he believe him? He needed time to decide if he did, time he didn’t have. Eventually he spoke, his voice distant.
‘In the bank vault — there were maps.’
‘What of?’
‘New York. Paris.’
Paris — such a pity. Kaffarov’s words came back to Dima. With Bashir out of the way, the true force of the PLR will be unleashed: 9/11 will just be a footnote in history after what’s coming. Dima, his thoughts whirring, was fighting to keep focused on Sergeant Blackburn and his M4.
Blackburn was also battling to keep his emotions out of his thoughts. Was this guy for real? What was his true agenda? At least he had the guy contained while he worked out what to do next. Cole was out there somewhere, he would be wanting to know what was happening, scrutinising Blackburn’s performance. How he loathed his CO.
He pressed the muzzle of his M4 against Dima’s neck.
‘Okay, very convincing. Now get down.’
He turned Dima round and pushed him on to his knees.
‘I can see how you’d like me to be him. .’
‘Shuddup!’ Blackburn yelled, inches away from Dima’s ear.
It couldn’t have been the shout that caused it, but it was still echoing in Dima’s head when they were engulfed by a much louder noise.
51
It felt as if the whole mountain was caving in on them as plaster, concrete and stone rained down. Dima passed out — for how long, he didn’t know. When he came to his head was throbbing hard. His eyes and mouth were caked in dust. At first he couldn’t see Blackburn at all. He raised himself — slowly, in case the M4 was still trained on him. He needn’t have worried. Blackburn was lying on his side, the concrete beam that had given way pinning him down across his arms and torso. He was conscious, panting hard.