Battlefield 3: The Russian

Blackburn, US Marine and Viet Vet, grandson of Lieutenant George Blackburn, decorated hero of World War Two: good men who gave themselves in service to their country. So what happened Henry? Where’d it all go wrong?’

65

The Road to Moscow

‘So nice to be back on terra firma, and in the bosom of Mother Russia,’ said Kroll.

Kroll was driving, one hand draped over the wheel, a can of Coke in the other. They were five hundred ks into the drive to Moscow. Another fifteen hundred to go.

‘You know, I think these S-Class W220s are my favourite. This or possibly the W126. I didn’t much like the one in between — you know the one that Princess Di—.’

Dima reached a hand round and pressed it against his mouth.

‘Two things, friend. One: shut up. Two: you’ll be taking off for Paris tonight or tomorrow, so don’t get too settled. Concentrate on the road and try not to get pulled over by the cops. They see the Azeri plates they’ll think we’re human traffickers.’

It was time for Dima to make his first call to Paris. Rossin picked up straight away. Dima tried to imagine him at his favourite table in the Cafe des Artistes in the Marais, a covert roll-up snagged in the cleft of two fingers and his Paris Match and the Economist spread out in front of him, for the two sides of his personality.

‘Bonjour. C’est Mayakovsky.’

He thought he heard the sound of a falling coffee cup.

‘I’m sorry, I don’t know anyone of that name.’

‘Don’t be a prick, Rossin.’

He sighed.

‘Your ugly Russian mug is on all the police and security websites. Apparently you’ve stolen some WMDs and are bent on starting World War Three — mainly for the purpose of shaming Russia.’

Dima tried to sound dismissive. ‘A clerical error. The guilty party is actually an old mutual friend of ours.’

‘Who?’

‘You ready for this? Solomon.’

He expected a silence. The name tended to provoke one.

‘Goodbye, Dima.’

‘Wait! Hear me out.’

‘I’m retired.’

‘You can’t afford to retire. None of us can.’

‘I just did, thirty seconds ago.’

‘One last favour, for old time’s sake. You’ll never hear from me again. Promise, on my mother’s grave.’

‘Your mother died in a gulag. She has no grave.’

‘Just a few shreds of information. A little surveillance. Nothing more.’

‘Solomon’s dead. We all know that.’

‘We were wrong. He was biding his time. This is his big Fuck-You to the West. So just please hear me out. The target’s the Bourse. He’ll be most likely using canteen staff or security as cover — maybe cleaners.’

‘There’ll be over a hundred.’

‘Check them all out.’

‘How long have I got?’

‘Twelve hours.’

‘Ha ha.’

‘I can pay.’

After Dima hung up, Kroll said, ‘Speaking of pay. .’

‘We weren’t.’

‘Well, I’ve been meaning to—.’

‘Remember about “Shut up”? I’ll remember you in my will.’

‘When’s that going to happen?’

‘Soon. By tonight I’ll almost certainly be dead. Now leave me alone while I talk to Omorova again.’

66

Moscow

There was nothing pretty about the Matruska Bathhouse. It had been built in the 1930s with none of the baroque decor that adorned the other two hundred-odd facilities in the city. But even with its brutalist architecture designed to appeal to the commissariat, Stalin’s claim, just before it was due to open, that hygiene was a decadent bourgeois obsession, ensured that it remained mothballed for decades. Dima was fond of it, not only because it reminded him of his youth, but because it was almost entirely patronised by immigrants and gypsies. Despite being at the top of the world’s ‘Most Wanted’ list, he stood as good a chance here as anywhere of going unnoticed.

He gave the steam room ten minutes longer than usual to shift the various layers of grime that had accumulated over the last few days. Then he leapt into the cold pool, did forty lengths and emerged a new man, ready to save the world. He shaved, had a hair cut and a manicure and, after slipping on the special set of clothes Kroll had procured, stepped out into his favourite city.

He had lived in far more places than your average Russian, been a globetrotter — though the term wouldn’t have meant anything to most of his comrades — but this was one city he loved more than any other. And he hoped that when the time came, and in his business who knew when that was, that he would die here in Moscow.

The cab took him to the Liberia Bank of Credit and Commerce. They didn’t do much in the way of credit, and commerce was somewhat on the back burner too, but they did a nice line in security deposit boxes. And that was where Dima kept his spare life. Passports: EU, Brazilian and Egyptian; Cash: Euros, US Dollars, some Yen; Amex and Visa cards; and a Makarov with enough ammunition for a small skirmish.

The concierge gave him an odd look. But Dima’s mind was elsewhere. He went to the desk and asked for access to his box, giving the name Smolenskovitch, a name he only used at this bank. The bank clerk looked uncomfortable, but beckoned him to follow him into the vault. He had a loose sole on his shoe that slapped the carpet as he strutted ahead. He let Dima into the vault and stood at a safe distance while he watched what was about to happen. Having first clocked the security camera, Dima opened his drawer and found — nothing. Not even his spare French birth certificate. He slammed the drawer shut and marched out past the hapless clerk and past the main desk and the concierge, pushing the revolving door so hard that it was still spinning when he reached the pavement.

He felt a blow to his chest and fell straight down. No one said ‘Stop’ or ‘Freeze’. The team leader had decided to shoot on sight, at close range, to avoid other pedestrians. One to the heart. From a GSh-18 pistol, much noisier than the PSS Silent favoured by the Special Forces, but the operator wasn’t interested in being discreet. The twenty-odd pedestrians couldn’t have missed it.

A female onlooker screamed and screamed, almost blotting out the siren of the unmarked GAZ mid-size van that slewed to a halt beside the body. Though it was all over in a matter of seconds, some wiseass had managed to pull out their cameraphone, capture the incident and upload it on to YouTube before the van was gone. For good measure the phone guy did a separate shot of the pool of blood spread across the forecourt of the Liberia Bank.

Inside the van, the shooter pulled off her mask and shook out her hair.

‘I still can’t believe I agreed to this,’ said Omorova.

67

Baghdad Green Zone, Iraq

It was Blackburn’s first time in Baghdad’s Green Zone, not that he saw any of it, blindfolded as he now was.