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 Musee 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.’
Well, you did choose to become an arms dealer, thought Dima. If you want to sleep well at night sell eggs, or oranges.
‘By the way, I passed the US Marines on my way in. And I don’t think they’re here as customers.’
Kaffarov’s smirk now twisted up at one end.
‘Yes, the Americans seem to think they should have a monopoly of the world’s armaments market. So narrow-minded of them. And —’ he adjusted his grip on the Uzi ‘ — out of date.’
‘You know, those guys have had quite a bit of practice at this stuff. It’s only a matter of time before they figure out how to get in here.’
For a man who had the US Marines knocking on his door he wasn’t breaking into much of a sweat. Dima glanced at the dead North Korean, turning his pool pink.
‘And who’s going to guard you now?’
‘Do you want to apply for the job?’
It should have been a joke, but his face said otherwise. A rat in a hole too deep to dig his way out alone?
‘I can offer very attractive terms.’
Keep humouring him, Dima thought.
‘Well, it’s the first time I’ve been offered a job at gunpoint.’
No smile was forthcoming.
‘Farouk Al Bashir is dead. I heard it on CNN so it must be true. So I guess the PLR’s finished.’
Kaffarov shook his head.
‘On the contrary. 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 hoped this was an empty boast. He feared it wasn’t.
‘You don’t know it, Dima Mayakovsky, but you’re quite naive. I know your exact type. Steeped in the Spetsnaz folklore, never quite able to shake off that old Soviet bullshit.’
He shook his head. ‘And here you are, struggling to make a living doing other people’s dirty work. There are hundreds of you out there, bitter and twisted after having served the Motherland so faithfully. You should have grasped the opportunity when it was there. I saw the writing on the Berlin Wall. You know what it said?
Kaffarov was getting into his stride now. He pulled the Uzi in towards him a little: were his arms getting tired?
‘I know exactly why you’re here. Because some apparatchik in Moscow got to hear that yet another item of supposedly top secret weaponry had found its way on to the open market. You know what his first thought was?
Dima felt a surge of rage. Kaffarov knew all along, just as he had suspected. He nodded, pleased with himself.
‘I have many friends, Dima. I am a very popular man. Being rich makes you very popular. You should try it someday.’
Dima could feel his patience wearing out. The Uzi was still pointing his way but Kaffarov seemed to have got absorbed by his own smugness. He could see the inferior officer who lurked underneath, who had never succeeded in the military, who had probably taken a fair amount of shit from his more successful peers. How sad that a man of his wealth and influence was wasting time bragging on like this. More than sad: stupid.
Dima kept up a pensive expression, as if he was gratefully absorbing his wisdom. Standing over him, Kaffarov had overlooked the fact that while he was talking, Dima, slumped at the edge of the pool, drenched but no longer
