‘Suppose you stop trying to be clever, and just tell us what you’ve done with them.’
‘The snacks? We finished them on the way. Is the airport cafe not open yet?’
Dima looked at Kroll: his expression was now unreadable. Where
Dima heard a door open behind them: two more men in black. Beside him, head bowed and bloody was Darwish. He was half frogmarched, half dragged to a table and dropped into a chair.
Darwish’s face was almost unrecognisable. The flesh around his eyes was so battered and swollen his eyelids were just bloody slits. His nose had been broken and his lips were split and oozing. A clotted icicle of blood and saliva hung from his chin.
‘Hold up your hand: splay your fingers.’
Darwish, utterly defeated, complied.
Weasel turned to Vladimir. ‘You want to see how accurate the Grach is? Watch.’ He fired. Darwish’s hand flew back, knocking him off the chair.
‘Not really much of a challenge,’ said Dima. ‘A real man gives his opponent a fair chance.’
‘Get up you fuck,’ ordered the third man. He was bigger than Weasel and very bald.
‘Any more jokes?’ he demanded. ‘Or shall we just get to the bombs?’
‘Sure. They’re on their way to Paris and New York, with a former Spetsnaz non-national, codename Solomon or Suleiman, depending which side he chooses to be on. They came from the late Amir Kaffarov, purveyor of Russian arms to the highest bidder. How do I know he’s dead? Because he died in my arms. Of a heart attack, oddly enough.’
‘Can’t you do better than that? You sold them on obviously. Oh, did I forget to say? You’re under arrest for illegal arms trading.’
Dima, surging with rage, could feel the zip cuff cutting into his wrists.
‘Then I have the right to remain silent.’
‘You have the right to
He turned to Darwish who was clutching the bloody stump of what was left of his thumb.
‘Your pal Mayakovsky’s not playing ball. Put your other hand up.’
Darwish was shaking, tears running from his blood-rimmed eye slits, as the shot rang out.
They all looked round. The left half of Weasel’s head had dissolved into a sticky shower of blood and brain. Dima lunged for the PP-2000 on Weasel’s shoulder and took out Shorty with two short, sharp bursts of fire. Baldy scurried away through the rear of the terminal in a hail of fire from Vladimir, who had grabbed Shorty’s gun as he fell. Vladimir kept on after him while Dima and Kroll raced for positions to take out the GAZ boys, who were leaping out of its four doors. Only then did he catch sight of Amara, gun still frozen in her firing stance. She let the gun fall and ran to her father.
‘Back at the Land Cruiser while we were waiting for you, she went for a pee,’ said Kroll. ‘I gave her the Makarov, just in case.’
The Land Cruiser erupted in a ball of flame, the victim of an unhelpful round from one of the falling GAZ men. A second later the jeep exploded. Dima ran back to Amara, who was gingerly embracing her injured father.
‘The chopper. Just try and get there. Kroll will cover you.’
He yelled to Kroll and pointed at them as he ran back to the chopper, detouring to one of the downed GAZ guys to scoop up his AK. How long since he had piloted a helicopter? Like carrying a tray of water, he’d complained to an instructor. Don’t think about it, just do it. This one looked brand new. Showroom condition. First problem: the doors were locked. No time to figure that out. A carefully aimed shot blew a huge chunk off the door where the handle was. He levered himself in. Jesus, it all looked so unfamiliar. Okay, just concentrate. .
Collective control left of the seat, like a handbrake, the one that made it go up and down. Leave down. Cyclic control, the stick in front, unlocked. Master fuel valve in. Electrics on. Transmission light, check, clutch light, check. Fuel cut-off out — or was it in to start? Try with it in. Throttle twist grip on the end of the collective — half open. Fuel boost on. Starter. Dima pushed the switch forward. Fuck — nothing. He went through the routine again. Fuel cut-off out. Fuel boost off this time. He could see Amara struggling across the apron with her father. Opened the throttle wider. Engine starter again. Another explosion outside. A big ball of flame from the back of the terminal. What the fuck was that? Not Vladimir. Where are you Vladimir? Heard the whine of the rotor shafts — then nothing. Kroll had two AKs, firing both at once from each hip. Good old Kroll.
He tried the starter again. Better hope it’s not flooded.
He could feel the blades grabbing at the air, ready to fly. Dima pulled on the collective, depressing the right pedal to counteract the torque generated by increasing the pitch of the blades. Just like riding a bicycle — except so not. Nonetheless, he gave himself a mental pat on the back for remembering. He kept pulling on the collective until the chopper started to feel lighter on its skids and turn. More pedal to keep it straight.
Darwish, his remaining strength gone, slumped against the open door. Kroll helped Amara load him in. Come on, Vladimir. Out from beside the hangar, a limping figure approached. Dima prodded Kroll.
‘Help him.’
Vladimir was dragging an injured left foot. Kroll dropped back on to the ground and with difficulty scooped him into the chopper. As soon as they were airborne, Dima shoved the stick forward — too much — so the nose tipped as if it had tripped on its own skids. He pulled back again — too much — and they lurched back.
‘Got a message for your commander, when you’ve scraped him off the ground. Hands are very delicate things, and thumbs indispensable.’
Gripping the stick between his knees (definitely not in the manual) Dima lifted the PP-2000 and fired a round into the man’s left hand. The hand vanished. But he was still there. Dima fired into his right hand and he was gone.
At fifteen knots he felt the shudder that told him they had passed through ETL into full forward flight. Time to ease off the collective and lose pedal pressure but force the cyclic forward. Dima felt a surge of relief as the chopper powered forward and climbed into the sky.
‘Now: which way’s Russia?’
59
Iran Airspace
The Osprey back to Spartacus smelled of aviation fuel, medicine and vomit. The casualties were strapped down on stretchers, slotted into the framework of the hold to form bunks. The walls were draped with tubes. The medics were in the small folding jump seats that lined the sides of the hold, where they could check on their patients and adjust the drips hooked up to the overhead bars. Once in the air they paced the aisle in their beige overalls and blue plastic gloves, like mechanics with unusually gentle hands. One or two of those men weren’t going to make it. Blackburn thought of Cole, under the rubble, with his bullet in him. This wasn’t even friendly fire, it was vengeance.
Blackburn was on a jump seat at the back beside Ableson, a young staff officer on Major Johnson’s team. Ableson was one of those thin, clever ones who fought their war from behind a laptop screen. He said nothing at all to Blackburn the whole two hour flight, which was fine with Blackburn. Eventually he noticed a spare stretcher and asked Ableson if he could use it.
He went straight to sleep, and dreamed that he was a kid again in his own bed, sick and hot but feeling safe, his mother smiling, coming in with French toast and hot milk. ‘
When they landed at Spartacus it was night. He offered to help unload the casualties, but Ableson hustled
