‘There.’
‘What?’
‘Kaffarov’s mountain retreat.’
They all looked at her.
Dima said, ‘You’ve been there?’
She nodded. ‘Sure. For the skiing.’
37
Northwest Tehran
Cole had thrown down the gauntlet: come back with Bashir or don’t come back at all, he seemed to be saying. Or had Blackburn imagined that? He had lost count of the hours he had gone without sleep. The last two days had been relentless. He had neutralised an IED, smoked Al Bashir out of his lair and secured the nuke. Why was Cole singling him out?
All this ran through his head as he and Campo flattened themselves against the perimeter wall that ran round the edge of the shopping mall roof. They had exited the Osprey into a hail of fire from what seemed like all corners of the LZ. In four seconds he saw four men go down, as tracer lit up the sky above the Osprey. He and Campo followed instructions and made for the west corner, jinking left and right as they ran. They crushed themselves up against the edge of the perimeter wall, soaked in sweat and gulping in oxygen. But for the last hour they were pinned down by fire from two PLR gun emplacements either side of them.
‘Fuck our luck,’ screamed Campo in a fit of exhausted rage. ‘Fuck this war. Fuck the PLR. I see that Bashir I’m going to cut his fucking head off.’
Blackburn gripped his arm as they lay in the tiny area of cover they enjoyed, looked him hard in the face. ‘Just stay cool, Campo. We’ll get out of this, okay?’
Campo looked blank for a few seconds then nodded half-heartedly. They listened to the radio chatter of the men who had reached the floors below, systematically clearing every room, every space, finding no one.
Campo was still cursing. ‘Fucking intel’s fucked. They drop us into PLR central and there’s nobody home and we’re gonna get fried.’
Blackburn gripped his friend’s shoulder. ‘Cool it Campo. Think. They wouldn’t be defending if there wasn’t something to defend.’
There was a mad look in Campo’s eyes. He threw down his M4. One engagement too far. Blackburn cursed Cole for sending them back in. He grasped Campo by the upper arms and shook him. ‘You want to die here? No. Do you want to get home in one piece? Yes. How are you going to do that? By getting this done.’
There were tears in Campo’s eyes.
‘It’s okay. You’re only human. One day you’re a hero doesn’t mean the next you’re not going to have a meltdown. This isn’t the movies. I need you bro. You need me, if we’re going to get out of this.’
Campo took several breaths, nodded, picked up his gun. ‘Yeah, okay.’
The quake had torn away a whole section of the mall. When the firing subsided, they took a look over the edge into the void and saw the silhouettes of figures balanced precariously, as if undecided whether to jump. I must be losing it, thought Blackburn, until Campo put him right.
‘Fuckin’ mannequins. It’s a goddam dress shop.’
The realisation cheered Campo. Blackburn, still not sure, allowed himself to look a split second longer than he should have and a volley of shots skimmed his helmet. But just before he ducked he caught sight of an SUV, a Land Cruiser, parked among a row of dumpsters as if for camouflage, lights off but exhaust coming from the rear — occupied. He raised his M4 and peered at it through the night sight. One occupant. Then to the left he saw a second figure moving towards it. He nudged Campo.
‘Guy’s alone. Our HVT should have a whole entourage with him.’
But Blackburn wasn’t listening. The man was jogging in a lumbering kind of way towards the Land Cruiser, not a young man. A burst of tracer lit his face. That was all he needed. The same face that looked out from a hundred posters he’d seen since they’d entered Iran, the same face he had seen on the bank vault security monitor. Al Bashir.
‘Okay, he’s mine.’
Blackburn didn’t call it in. Instead he trained his sight on the occupant of the SUV, a younger guy sitting in the driver’s seat. A clean shot: the driver slumped forward as the side window exploded. Al Bashir reeled back, nearly lost his balance, then wheeled round to look in the direction of the shot before he moved towards the Land Cruiser.
Campo raised his M4. Blackburn shook his head. He ran along the perimeter wall, jumped the gap on to the section of the mall that the quake had separated, then down on to the lid of a dumpster, which broke his fall. He paused for a second to see Al Bashir reach the driver’s door, heave the wounded man out of the driver’s seat and let him fall on to the tarmac. Then he took a step over him and slid behind the wheel.
Blackburn ran along the edge of the roof to get closer to the Land Cruiser but Al Bashir slammed the shift into drive. With tyres screaming, the vehicle bolted out from its cover by the dumpsters. Blackburn took aim, shot out a rear tyre, but the four-wheel drive vehicle didn’t falter. He followed the vehicle in his sights, took another shot, missed, prepared to take another, when he saw it reach the gate where a shelled tank was still smouldering. Without slowing, Al Bashir swung the Land Cruiser into such a sharp right that it nearly toppled over. He then headed back towards the mall, disappearing from view behind a row of containers. Blackburn, as if powered by another force, vaulted on to the top of the nearest containers to get a better shot, only to find the vehicle headed straight towards him, too close to fire at. As Al Bashir slowed to take another right Blackburn leapt, landing sprawled across the windscreen. He grabbed a wiper. It immediately came off in his hand. He lunged at the door mirror as Al Bashir threw the Land Cruiser into a series of snaking swerves. Blackburn scrabbled with his legs, trying desperately to keep from sliding off the hood and under the front wheels. The windshield disintegrated as Bashir took a shot at his unexpected passenger. The bullet zinged past Blackburn’s left ear, the blast deafening him. Enraged, he slammed a fist through the remaining screen and grabbed Bashir’s gun arm. The gun discharged again.
Whatever it was Bashir ran into Blackburn never saw. The impact catapulted him on to the tarmac. As Bashir, dazed, struggled to engage reverse, Blackburn got back on his feet, wrenched open the door and grabbed the PLR leader with both hands. They fell in a heap beside the Land Cruiser, their faces inches apart.
The first he knew that Bashir had taken a bullet was the bubbling, bloody phlegm that oozed from his mouth and nostrils.
Campo was rushing towards them. ‘Good fucking job, man.’
Blackburn screamed back at him. ‘He’s hit, he’s hit. Adrenalin.’
Campo threw him a sachet which he tore open before banging the needle through Bashir’s tunic straight into his chest. He overheard Campo on the radio. ‘
Fuck preparing to move, thought Blackburn. He’s dying. Al Bashir’s eyes swivelled up under his drooping lids. Blackburn pumped his chest, wiped the blood off his chin and performed mouth to mouth. Al Bashir jerked back into consciousness, panting wheezy bubbles of blood, but he managed a smile.
‘Should you be going to all this trouble? Or are you planning to bring me to justice?’
He coughed up the blood pooling in his mouth. Blackburn looked for the entry wound, found it in his neck. Blood was pulsing out of it. Blackburn jammed his thumb in it, yelling to Campo.
‘Tourniquet!’
‘Forget about me, soldier. It’s you who are done for. All of you.’
His eyes swivelled again. Blackburn pumped his chest, banging life back into him.
‘The suitcase devices — the nukes. Where?’
He shook his head slowly. ‘It’s not me you should be concerned about. I am history. The baton has passed. .’
Campo was on his knees beside Blackburn, stripping the plastic off a tourniquet. ‘He’s bleeding out, stop him talking.’
‘Try all you want soldier, whatever happens to me you are done for, my friend.’
Blackburn put his face close. ‘The other one who you were with, taking the nukes.’
