Battlefield 3: The Russian

‘You want to drive?’

‘You know I hate these things.’

‘Do something useful. I want to talk to Omorova.’

‘Well, if you’ve got a hard on, it’ll have to wait.’

Dima dictated the private number she had used last time they spoke. When Kroll got a line he patched her into Dima’s headset.

Her voice had the same sleepy quality as last time.

‘Do you always have to call in the middle of the night? It’s getting to be a habit.’

‘It’s when I seem to miss you most. I’ll work on it.’

‘What’s all that noise?’

‘A helicopter I borrowed.’

‘You’re going up in the world. How’s the mission going?’

‘Terrible. Kaffarov’s dead. The nukes are AWOL. Some goons tried to ambush us.’

‘There’s an alert out for you. You’ll enjoy this — “wanted in connection with the trafficking of nuclear weapons”.’

He heaved on the stick to clear another power line, his brain trying to compute what he was hearing.

‘So why are you talking to me? Doesn’t sound like a good career move.’

She sighed rather attractively.

‘My career’s going nowhere. Everyone on the operation’s been sidelined.’

‘I have to see Paliov.’

‘He’s been put under house arrest. I’d stay out of Moscow airspace if I were you.’

‘Just tell me where he is. And I need as much as you can glean on an ex-Spetsnaz CIA asset lately allied to the PLR, name Solomon aka Suleiman. Please?’

‘I need to get back to sleep.’

‘Would you believe me if I said the future of the world depends on it?’

‘Okay, okay. Call me later.’

She hung up.

Vladimir leaned over Dima’s seat and lifted one of his cans.

‘Darwish has gone. I’m sorry.’

How in God’s name do we tell Amara, thought Dima, but he followed Vladimir’s gaze: she was bent over her father’s body, silently weeping.

62

As well as keeping clear of power lines, Dima had a lot on his mind as he flew north. The thrill of lifting the goons’ own chopper had ebbed away as he digested the news about Darwish. His death rekindled his determination for some kind of payback. Darwish must not have died in vain: that much at least he owed his old friend. What Omorova had told him meant that the sense of freedom the helicopter offered was temporary. In the air he was a target. He needed to get out of the sky, and into something else that would get him back into Moscow unnoticed. Kroll had overheard the conversation on his headset. He knew what they were up against.

‘So now we’re outlaws. Guess we can say bye-bye to any remuneration for this jaunt.’

Dima braced himself for a volley of Kroll moaning.

‘I never said it would be straightforward.’

‘I was hoping to take the kids to Eurodisney.’

‘Yeah, right. Their mothers won’t even open the door to you.’

‘They could have come too. I had it all worked out.’

The slow motion car crash that was Kroll’s personal life was the last thing Dima needed to hear about right now.

‘When you quit moaning, got any ideas?’

Kroll’s face brightened.

‘Well, this chopper’s worth a bit. We could trade it.’

‘Hilarious.’

‘I’m serious. Bilasuvar. Its only fifty odd ks across the Azeri border. By the time anyone’s noticed us we’ll be out of the sky.’

That’s what Dima loved about Kroll. Always ready with the least likely solution to a problem.

Bilasuvar. In Soviet times it had been a graveyard for air force hardware so old, useless or obsolete it couldn’t be persuaded to stay in the sky. Since Azerbaijan had got its independence, it had become a major centre for spare parts and aluminium recycling. It also did a roaring trade in aircraft of dubious provenance.

It was a long shot, but it was all they had.

The sky was lightening in the east as they crossed the border. Dima stayed low to keep off anyone’s radar. His mind wandered to Blackburn. The US Military were bound to want to know what happened to Cole. How much would he tell them? How much would they believe? Would he be handed over to the CIA? For Darwish, for Blackburn and for himself, stopping Solomon was the only option, if it wasn’t already too late.

‘Will you look at that?’

Kroll was suddenly a kid again, revitalised by the sight of a cornucopia of Cold War hardware. Surrounded by a flock of Mil helicopters of all types were half a dozen Tupolev-95 ‘Bears’, that would have spent their lives annoying NATO up and down the North Sea, and maybe as many as twenty MiG-15s, the first Soviet jet fighter with Rolls Royce-inspired engines. How considerate of the Brits to share their knowhow. Dima felt the mixed messages of Soviet nostalgia. In retrospect he knew the Soviet Union was fucked, but it seemed like a good idea at the time.

‘Surely with that lot we really ought to have won the Cold War,’ said Kroll, peering at the graveyard below.

‘We did: it was just the wrong “we”.’

‘Well, let’s hope they’ve got some decent wheels down there.’

Dima put the Kamov down in a gap between some corrugated iron sheds and a giant wingless Ilyushin II-76 transporter. A gang of labourers were slicing at the fuselage with chainsaws, like ants consuming some huge prey. Three men wearing tattoos and oil-stained overalls emerged from the sheds, with AKs at the ready, one prominently out in front.

‘Jesus,’ said Kroll. ‘Get a load of this.’

‘I’ve had warmer welcomes.’

Devoid of government markings and battle scarred as it was, the shiny new Kamov still reeked of officialdom.

‘Turn round and fuck off back to Moscow unless you want a bullet in the bollocks!’ yelled the largest of the three, an unlit cheroot flapping between his brown teeth.

‘Maybe Mad Max here thinks we’re from the tax office.’

Dima and Kroll lowered themselves slowly on to the ground, hands raised. A cocktail of rust, engine oil and unwashed bodies wafted in through the gap where Dima had shot off the door.

‘Mmm-hmh!’ Kroll inhaled appreciatively.

‘It smells a lot better than that car you live in,’ said Dima.

‘We’re just passing through,’ said Kroll, ‘and we wondered if—.’

‘Shut up and stand over there.’

Dima nudged Kroll as they went.

‘They don’t call it the Wild East for nothing’.

63

Azerbaijan

Mad Max looked them up and down, taking in Dima’s torn and blood-spattered shirt.