was dismayed when Dima told him he had accepted the assignment, and most probably guessed that there was more to it than he knew, he had the grace not to probe. They knew each other’s boundaries instinctively.
Dima reviewed what he had learned so far. The property at Bazargan had once been a monastery. Parts of it dated back to the fourteenth century. Arkov, credit where it was due, had come up with an archaeological survey that showed that the present walls were built on the original ones and were four metres deep. What had those Christians been anticipating? Artillery? Tank rounds? A nuclear strike? In which case they were about six hundred years too early. In the 1950s the Shah had had the place renovated as his northern retreat and hunting lodge. It had acquired a pool and a vast garage that housed some of his exotic car collection. The Ayatollahs probably had these symbols of Western decadence crushed. It was unclear how or when the property had come under Al Bashir’s control, or what he had intended it for. A regional command centre was a realistic assumption. Arkov had come back with an estimate of between twelve and twenty-five personnel currently on site. Some of this stuff was useful, but most of it merely raised more questions.
How much of precisely what weaponry Kaffarov had already sold to Al Bashir was also unknown. The compound could be an arsenal. For all Dima knew he might have enough gear in there for a full-blown campaign.
He became aware of a presence in front of him. And a faint scent of something pleasant: jasmine, was it? Or possibly gardenia.
He looked up. She was tall and angular, though not without curves. Around the same age as him but in better condition. Despite the formal, understated tailored Italian jacket, he could tell by the way she stood that she had trained in the field. Probably capable of killing every one of those screen-jockeys if she needed to, and giving him a run for his money. Her badge said Omorova.
She put down a fresh bundle of files.
‘I hope I have everything you want.’
He smiled.
‘I’m sure you do.’
The warmth in her eyes faded. He cancelled the smile.
‘Shouldn’t you be operational?’
I wish. But my father’s not well and my mother can’t cope so I’m taking some Moscow time.’ She looked down at the photos and sighed. Dima guessed what she was thinking. Maybe if they were going in, in full kit, but undercover? A six-foot blonde, in Iran? It wasn’t going to happen.
‘Okay, show me Kaffarov. I want everything, down to which hand he jerks himself off with.’
She didn’t alter her expression.
‘That may be difficult. He has a very attentive harem.’
‘“Many hands make light work.”’
Kroll looked up from his laptop. ‘What?’
‘English proverb. Go back to work.’
Omorova spread out the files and took a deep breath. ‘I’ll skip to the highlights. He’s fifty-four, a sixty a day smoker and despite tennis twice a week is not fit. Don’t expect him to do anything physical like scale a wall or run very far. He’s nervy, pushy and impatient. He won’t be taking kindly to being held but values his life and is not physically fearless. He uses a lot of cocaine so you can expect him to be wired — or strung out if he’s separated from his stash. Could be helpful to give him a top-up if you’ve got time before you lift him. He’s also a control freak who hates to be driven. He used to pilot himself everywhere before he did a hard landing in Ghana and ripped the undercarriage off his Falcon.’
‘Is he likely to have loved ones with him?’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘Interesting choice of words. He’s got a second wife in rehab and at least two mistresses, one here in Moscow, another who was in Tehran.’
‘Could be with him?’
‘Maybe. She’s Austrian. Kristen. I don’t have her cup size.’
‘I’ll use my imagination.’
‘Put it this way, he’s never been over-attentive to any of them. The first wife was kidnapped. .’
‘And?’
‘He didn’t pay.’
‘What was the demand?’
‘A million dollars.’
‘Cheap. What happened to her?’
‘Never seen again.’
‘Okay, I’m getting the picture now. Where is he based?’
‘Apart from his Moscow house on the Arbat and a dacha in Peredelkino, he’s based himself in Iran for the last ten years. And as a Tajik, he gets by in Farsi and has taken full advantage of Iran’s non-aligned status, smoothing access to some of his more — unconventional clients.’
‘By which you mean terrorists. Tell me about his background.’
‘Russian passport. Only son of a Tajik assembly worker and seamstress mother. Father worked in the Togliatti Lada plant until an injury put him on crutches. They devoted their lives to his advancement. He’s had no contact with them for twenty years but funds all their care.’
‘Anything about his time in the air force?’
‘Undistinguished. Mostly a tender pilot, passed over for combat training. Always a troublemaker. He was investigated for dealing ammunition to Mujahideen in Kandahar. Unproven, but it was generally accepted that he was guilty. No long-term friends, no attachments to any causes or other individuals. He’s believed to have fathered at least three children, none of whom he recognises as his own. He lives for his business. He negotiates harder and longer than anyone else, and when a client can’t meet his prices he takes a stake in whatever land or mineral reserves might be going. In fact his property and oil earnings exceed his arms trading, according to our estimates. He’s so off the grid it’s hard to say, but he’s probably Russia’s richest man.’
‘What does he do for security?’
‘It’s all handled by a pair of twins. North Koreans known as Yin and Yang.’
‘Not really?’
‘Really.’ Her perfect mouth tweaked itself into the hint of a smile: the Mona Lisa in Armani. ‘He used to use a gang of Azeri mafia boys, but he caught them with their hands in the till so they had to be “retired”.’ She held up her hands and made a pair of quotation marks with her fingers. ‘Legend has it he did it himself, with a hacksaw — as a warning to their replacements. The twins have their own posse of Koreans who do the driving and so on.’
‘Were they with him?’
She shrugged. ‘It’s not clear. He certainly counted Al Bashir as a valued customer, so it could be he’d let his guard down, though it would be out of character.’
‘What’s our contact with Al Bashir?’
‘Officially, none.’
‘Meaning?’
‘One officer in our Tehran embassy has kept a line open with them but it’s all gone dead the last fifteen days. Plus we’ve pulled most of our diplomatic staff out of there because of the crisis. The country’s unravelling.’
‘So it’s about arms the PLR wants access to?’
Omorova blinked. ‘Presumably.’
Dima peered at her. ‘You blinked.’
She did a kind of I’m-not-smiling smile, sphinx-like. ‘I do sometimes.’
‘But not until then, when I asked you a question.’
Kroll sighed. ‘Oh come on. Leave the lady alone.’
‘Keep out of this Kroll. She’s a big girl, she doesn’t need your protection.’
Dima raised his fingers from the table. She maintained her smile. They had both been too long in the job to pretend. Dima took a moment to consider. He could make a fuss, demand from Paliov that he be given the full facts. He probably wouldn’t give them. Perhaps Paliov didn’t know them. Omorova and he were doing well so far. It would be a shame to ruin a good rapport. He calculated that she could probably be more help in the long run if he didn’t pressure her.
