Battlefield 3: The Russian

‘Don’t talk. Can you identify the deceased?’

‘The one on the poolside is Amir Kaffarov. The guy in the pool and the one you might have encountered under the Matisse are his personal bodyguards, Yin and Yang. They’re twins, from North Korea. Well, they were.’

There was no response from Blackburn, who seemed to be taking his time. Dima felt the passport he had waved at the PLR roadblock slide smoothly out of his pocket. The separate wads of rials and dollars were next, along with his phone. As Blackburn withdrew it from the sheath strapped to Dima’s belt, he bade a sad farewell to the knife that had come in so handy with Yin and Yang.

Dima heard the American’s radio buzz: something urgent and incomprehensible. As Blackburn continued the search Dima turned his head very slightly so he could look in the direction of the Uzi, in case some light from the American’s helmet torch fell on it, but he felt a hand on his neck.

‘Eyes on the wall, please.’

How polite. How many Russians would deploy such pleasantries in this sort of situation? Their idea of courtesy was usually to refrain from kneeing you in the balls. But Blackburn was struggling with his darker side. As his hand closed round the grip of the knife, part of him wanted to exact revenge right now, to plunge the blade into the man’s neck and let him know just how it felt.

But he was determined to do this by the book. What differentiated him from his prisoner, he thought, would be his underlying humanity. That was what distinguished them, the soldier from the executioner. It was important to let the likes of them see why the American way was superior.

‘Okay: turn, keeping your hands up.’

Dima obliged, the helmet torch blasting his face. His wet skin reflected some of the light back on to the American’s. Hard to put an age to, anywhere between twenty and thirty, intelligent.

‘Okay, give me your name now.’

‘Dima Mayakovsky.’

‘Not what this passport says. What’s your status in the PLR?’

‘I’m not with the PLR, I’m from Moscow.’

Dima thought he might as well fill the silence that followed.

‘Here to repatriate weapons obtained under false pretences from the Russian Federation.’

‘Yeah, right.’

Blackburn was leafing through the apparently well used Iranian passport he had found in Dima’s pocket: this was definitely going to work against him.

‘Taghi Hosseini it says here.’

Instead of responding, Dima said,

‘What brings you here? If you don’t mind me asking.’

Blackburn looked at him, not showing his dismay.

‘It might be that we have common interests.’

Blackburn snorted; the hatred for the man he called Solomon was building.

‘I sincerely doubt that.’

‘3–1, you copy over?’

Campo again.

‘3–1, Blackburn. You receiving in there? Structure in danger of further collapse, over.’

Blackburn ignored it. Dima could see the stripes on the American’s arm.

‘Sergeant Blackburn, yes?’

Blackburn didn’t answer. If the man carried on trying to ingratiate himself, he might have to take action to shut him up.

‘You and I are most probably here for the same thing, the suitcase nukes, right?’

Again, Blackburn didn’t respond but it was clear from his face that Dima had touched a nerve. He decided to risk another question.

‘How many — two?’

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