dealer, with a dead Korean in the pool, and now being detained by a US soldier in the collapsed bunker. And if that wasn’t strange enough, the mention of Solomon put the cherry right on it.
The building shuddered, sending another shower of concrete fragments raining down on them. They were entombed. Blackburn’s comrades were calling him but he had turned off his radio. Whatever was going on here, Dima thought, it was important enough for Blackburn to be disobeying orders. Was the man unhinged? He looked angry but not crazy.
‘Say your piece and keep it brief.’
‘I’ll try. He was a kid when he first surfaced in a refugee camp in Lebanon in the late ’80s, claiming to be suffering from amnesia — didn’t even remember his name but had a gift for languages. American missionaries thought he was some kind of prodigy, christened him Solomon like the wise king in the Old Testament. They took him home with them to Florida. It didn’t go well. He was bullied at school. It went on for months. He bided his time. That’s a hallmark of his — he doesn’t like to rush things. Then young Solomon exacts his own brand of revenge on his high school tormentors with a machete — not in a frenzy, more surgical. I’ll skip the details, but you should know that at least three heads were severed. He disappears — stows away on a merchant ship bound for the Gulf. Roll on two years he’s ‘Suleiman’, fighting with the Mujahideen in Afghanistan — against the Russians. But he wants more. He has no allegiances — except to himself. He gets recruited by the Russians, who realise his potential — ruthless, natural linguist, natural everything, plus a deep hatred of America. So they take him on and train him up as an asset. He can play all the parts: Yank, Arab, Eurasian. He’s a secret weapon, but he’s also impossible to handle. In the chaos after the Soviet Union collapses he disappears — goes his own way. Then 9/11 happens. The Americans pick him up, lock him in Guantanamo. But Solomon’s no fool — guess what he does to get out? He offers his services. Gives them a treasure trove of intelligence on terror outfits, on Russian Intelligence, and next thing he’s ‘Solomon’ again, on the CIA payroll doing black ops.’
Blackburn listened. ‘How do you know all this?’
‘Because I found him in Afghanistan. I was his GRU handler.’
‘
Blackburn was silent for a full thirty seconds, digesting what he had just heard. Did he believe him? He needed time to decide if he did, time he didn’t have. Eventually he spoke, his voice distant.
‘In the bank vault — there were maps.’
‘What of?’
‘New York. Paris.’
Blackburn was also battling to keep his emotions out of his thoughts. Was this guy for real? What was his true agenda? At least he had the guy contained while he worked out what to do next. Cole was out there somewhere, he would be wanting to know what was happening, scrutinising Blackburn’s performance. How he loathed his CO.
He pressed the muzzle of his M4 against Dima’s neck.
‘Okay, very convincing. Now get down.’
He turned Dima round and pushed him on to his knees.
‘I can see how you’d
‘Shuddup!’ Blackburn yelled, inches away from Dima’s ear.
It couldn’t have been the shout that caused it, but it was still echoing in Dima’s head when they were engulfed by a much louder noise.
51
It felt as if the whole mountain was caving in on them as plaster, concrete and stone rained down. Dima passed out — for how long, he didn’t know. When he came to his head was throbbing hard. His eyes and mouth were caked in dust. At first he couldn’t see Blackburn at all. He raised himself — slowly, in case the M4 was still trained on him. He needn’t have worried. Blackburn was lying on his side, the concrete beam that had given way pinning him down across his arms and torso. He was conscious, panting hard.
Had Dima not obeyed Blackburn’s order and knelt, he would have been crushed to death.
‘Can you hear me?’
‘Course I can fucking hear you,’ Blackburn yelled back.
Dima felt for a hand.
‘Okay: I’m going to check your reflexes.’
‘Fucking don’t touch me, okay?’
‘Try to be calm, or you will bleed even faster.’
He was staring ahead, wide-eyed. Dima realised why. The knife. It was inches away from Blackburn’s face, the blade pointing right at him. Dima reached down for it. Blackburn let out a huge roar of anguish. Dima hesitated, carried on, picked up the knife.
‘Not with the knife, not the knife. Just shoot me okay!’
Dima lifted the knife and Blackburn’s breathing reached a crazy pitch.
‘Look.’ Dima turned so Blackburn could see him slip the knife into the sheath on his belt. There was another loud thud from somewhere near the way in to the bunker. All Dima could see was a fresh pile of rubble. Blackburn’s comrades trying to blast their way in?
‘Give me your torch and I’ll check you over, okay.’
‘No!’
‘Okay, okay. Can you feel your arms and legs?’
Blackburn flexed his limbs.
‘Okay, good. Can you wiggle your toes?’
‘A bit.’
‘Does it hurt?’
‘What do you think?’
Dima grasped the lump of concrete and heaved. It wouldn’t move. He tried again, putting all the force he could summon into lifting it. It moved about an inch.
‘Tell me about the maps. Everything you remember.’
Blackburn’s breathing subsided.
‘I don’t get it.’
‘Anything. What kind of maps? As if for a briefing? Were they on a wall? Were any locations highlighted?’
Blackburn didn’t speak for several seconds. Dima struggled with the beam.
‘On the Paris one — a marker said
‘That’s the Stock Exchange.’
‘You sure about that?’
‘Oh yes.’
Blackburn shifted his head and looked up, mystified. Dima slumped down, exhausted.
‘You trying to free me?’
‘What does it look like?’
‘I don’t get it.’
‘Look: what you saw in that bank vault is probably the most important piece of intelligence anyone’s got since they found Bin Laden.’
Dima looked round for inspiration. He saw the Uzi, its muzzle just clear of the rubble, reached over and grabbed it. Blackburn’s eyes widened again.
‘Shit, my arm’s going numb.’
‘Okay, let’s be intelligent here. I may be able to break up the beam by taking a shot at it.’ He examined the Uzi doubtfully.
‘No, no: that won’t do it.’
