Battlefield 3: The Russian

He called the main GRU field emergency number. He hadn’t used it in twenty years, but like his mother’s birthday it was a number he never forgot.

‘Speak slowly, state call-sign, mission status and ID code followed by hash.’

An automated response: the GRU was moving with the times! But this was a black op, deniable. No one had given him any of the above. He pressed the hash key and waited some more.

‘You have entered incorrectly.’

Being Russia, and being the GRU, there would, of course, be someone behind the voice, listening.

Dima cleared his throat and spoke in his best Chechen.

‘Regarding the incriminating pictures of Secretary Timofayev and the schoolgirl. . ’

The voice was clipped, weary, instantly recognisable.

‘Who is this?’

‘Smolenk! How heartwarming to hear your voice. So glad some things are constant in an ever- changing world.’

What the man had done to condemn himself to a life as the GRU’s out-of-hours phone operator didn’t bear thinking about.

‘Dima Mayakovsky for Senior Strategist Omorova.’

‘Do you have accreditation?’

‘No, no, this is a black op; just put me through to her.’

‘Do you know what time it is here?’

A massive explosion followed by a blast from three low-flying jets obliterated all sound. Kroll jerked awake again, spilling more ash. It was a miracle he never caught fire.

Smolenk suddenly sounded concerned.

‘Are you under fire?’

He glanced at Vladimir on the couch surrounded by beer cans and the semi-conscious Kroll.

‘Yes, we’re all being killed: get on with it.’

‘I will post a message in her inbox. You’re not authorised to speak to staff after hours.’

Dima sighed. You could be in the middle of an actual nuclear meltdown and this lot would be demanding your lunch ticket reference numbers.

‘Then I’m calling the CIA in Langley. At least they’ll want to talk to me.’

He sighed. ‘You people.’

The line went dead, then there were several clicks.

‘Comrade Mayakovsky, this is a surprise.’ Even at three a.m. Omorova’s voice had an invitingly velvet tone.

‘I’m sorry about the time.’

A couple of seconds passed before she spoke.

‘We thought you were all dead.’

‘I’ve got a — situation. I can’t raise Paliov.’

‘No one’s seen him all day. We’ve all been reassigned.’

They both knew what that meant. Mission aborted.

‘Kaffarov was gone before we even got to the compound. Did anyone report that? ’

Her voice suddenly became more formal.

‘I’ve got no information about that.’

‘The missiles that hit the chopper over the compound. Do you where they came from? ’

‘I have no information about that either.’

Dima felt he was about to vent his anger on her, the person least responsible for the debacle.

‘Sixty of our best men were fried.’

Silence: she was sticking to protocol. They both knew they were being listened to.

‘Thank you, Omorova. Goodnight.’

Dima needed space to think, to work out his next move. Gregorin and Zirak appeared in the study. They glanced at each other. Dima could only assume they’d been discussing whether to go on with the mission. That was all he needed. Wanting to destroy something, he picked up the satphone, about to hurl it to the floor when another call came through. A blocked number — on a scrambler, from an untraceable line. He gave Vladimir a shove to wake him and put it on speaker so they could all hear. It was Omorova. She spoke fast.

‘We were told everyone was lost, that the choppers collided. Paliov has been held personally responsible for bungling the mission. Timofayev has taken control. If they know you’re not dead they’re behaving as if you are.’

‘What about Kaffarov? Two days ago Paliov was desperate to get him back.’

‘No one’s talking about him, or the bombs. Al Bashir’s believed dead, killed by US forces. Be very careful Mayakovsky: the GRU isn’t the place it was.’

Gregorin broke the silence.

‘Is that it then? They’re giving up?’

‘What?’ Vladimir was wide awake now.

Kroll looked away. He already knew what Dima’s answer would be.

Dima glared at Gregorin.

‘Have I said that?’

Zirak jerked his chin up, which he always did when out of his comfort zone.

‘It’s not an unreasonable question, Dima. We don’t seem to have got any nearer to Kaffarov or the nukes.’

Gregorin was next. ‘Where’s that leave us? We’re government servants. Those bastards in Mosow pull the plug, they’re not going to pay.’

Zirak said, ‘We don’t see how we can go on from here.’

Dima looked at the two of them. They were younger than him, younger than Kroll and Vladimir: Spetsnaz staff officers, with careers and futures. Dima knew what was going through their heads. The thrilling assignment they had jumped to sign up to thirty-six hours ago had turned to shit. All support for it from Moscow seemed to have vanished. The most likely outcome was that they’d get killed either by the PLR or the Americans. As if to confirm the precariousness of their situation, another tremor shook the house.

He took a deep breath.

‘You’re right. The most dangerous thing a good Spetsnaz can do is put their faith in a comrade. Assume the worst, and avoid disappointment. Trust no one. Above all, look after yourself. Congratulations, you’ve passed the test.’

Zirak, not sure where this was going, glanced at Gregorin, who was staring fixedly at the floor.

Dima pressed on. ‘This is the life you chose. A Spetsnaz. I don’t need to remind you what that means. You have no life beyond what you are here to do. You are here because you were selected, because of your strength both mental and physical, your loyalty and commitment. You’ve given up so much to be here. There is no life outside. .’

He could see his words falling to the ground like spent bullets, his own doubt resonating inside them. How could he convince them of the rightness of the cause when he was losing his own faith? He had given his life to Spetsnaz and it had spat him out, a used shell of a man. What did he have to show for the years? One woman, loved and lost. A child he’d never seen. All for the good of the Motherland. Kroll, Vladimir, they weren’t much of an advertisement either. He looked round at Kroll. He had fallen asleep again, the scanner still blinking on his lap. Vladimir was sitting up now, finishing another beer.

‘Well, I don’t mind,’ he said. ‘I’ll do anything so long as I don’t have to go back inside. Oh, hey, Mrs Gazul.’

Dima looked up. Amara was standing in the doorway. She walked up to the desk, looked down at the papers and with a slightly chipped dark red fingernail, pointed at a blank space on the map.