‘He told me. He said it was leaving at seven a.m.’
Kroll was already on the phone to Omorova, checking the flight.
‘Under what name?’
‘I don’t know. That’s the God’s truth.’
Dima put his face closer.
‘OK, last question: why?’
Rossin swallowed, tears saliva and blood messing up his shirt.
‘Please. He made it impossible for me. Dima — you know what he’s like. You can’t refuse. You understand, Dima. You know me. I’m not cut out for the hard stuff. Surveillance — that’s me.’
It was a huge effort of will not to shove the knife right into his neck and have done with it but that would just mean more mess to clear up. He let go and Rossin crumpled to the ground. He looked at his watch — broken in the blast. He lifted Rossin’s. Five-fifteen. An hour and forty-five minutes.
He turned to Kroll, who had his cellphone pressed to an ear.
‘You want the passenger manifest?’
‘No time. You sort this lot out. Get his laptop — everything on it. Grill him for all he’s got. Kill him if he doesn’t co-operate. I’m going to the airport.’
‘You’ll never get past security.’
‘I’ll take Bulganov. I knew he’d come in handy.’
86
‘What is this?’ A look of disgust suffused Bulganov’s face when he saw the scuffed Citroen. Having just been dragged from his bed after three hours’ sleep he was not at his best.
‘It’s what us ordinary mortals use for transport. Get in.’
Dima brought him up to date as he drove.
‘Where do I fit in?’
Bulganov’s appetite for the chase seemed to have cooled overnight.
‘Just use your magic cards to get us through security. He’s going to be in the Atlantis VIP lounge and if we miss him there we’ll find him at the gate.’
‘But I’m not booked in.’
‘You are. Omorova sorted it. Plus one bodyguard. Except we’re not going to fly.’
Dima had also helped himself to some of Bulganov’s wardrobe. Even with a famous oligarch in tow he couldn’t have got past security covered in plaster dust and Rossin’s blood.
‘Have you thought how you’re going to stop him?’
‘They still have metal cutlery in VIP lounges? Otherwise I’ll have to disarm some airport security.’
‘We’ll make ourselves terribly unpopular.’
‘So? We’re Russians. We always get to be the bad guys.’
87
Department of Homeland Security, New York City
The last thing Blackburn remembered was Jackie’s smile. He clung on to the memory like it was a lifebelt that kept him from being sucked back into oblivion. After her smile, there were other faces. Then nothing, then the sensation of travel — on a stretcher still, but in the air, because he felt his ears pop. Now he was in a wheelchair, dazed from a chemical sleep, going up in a lift. He had heard traffic, horns, growling diesels, a city definitely.
Someone slapped his face. Not hard, but enough to feel hostile. But he was well used to hostility now. Maybe he was immune. He had heard that song. It was a message from Dima. He was on the case.
The room had windows but the lower glass was frosted. Two yellowy fluorescents gave the grey-green walls a sickly glow. There was a strong smell of cigarette ash.
‘Okay, Henry. Good flight?’
Blackburn focused on the man who had appeared in front of him. Grey, close-cropped hair, light stubble that seemed to cover his head and half his face. Thick neck, big shoulders. A quarterback’s build.
‘What time is it?’
‘Good. Glad to see you’re still able to think. Just gone two p.m. Welcome to the Big Apple.’
He leaned down.
‘I’m Agent Whistler, with Homeland Security. I’m hearing you’ve got an idea someone’s going to nuke the world’s favourite city.’
Blackburn didn’t respond.
‘Eight hours ago I get a call says there’s a Marine in detention in the brig in Donaldson for taking out his CO, and he’s got one crazy story to tell. And this is coming from a US Senator no less. Friends in high places, Henry.’
‘I don’t know anything about that part.’
‘Well, that’s the part that matters because we sure as hell wouldn’t of wasted tax dollars air-freighting you to New York if the Senator hadn’t told us to. So now you’re here we may as well kill a little time going over your story.’
Each time Blackburn told his tale he thought it sounded less believable. An evil mastermind, a former CIA asset gone rogue, bent on the destruction of the West, with simultaneous nuclear detonations in Paris and New York, together with the sum total of his and Dima’s pooled information — Blackburn’s sighting of the maps, the name on Bashir’s dying lips and Dima’s knowledge of Solomon. All the time he was speaking, Whistler stared out of the unfrosted half of the window, the morning sun bouncing off his glistening forehead. Blackburn couldn’t tell if he was paying attention or not. Maybe he was just going through the motions because someone had told him to. When he was done, Whistler turned and faced him.
‘So here’s what I’m getting from this. Stop me when I go off piste. You saw two maps in a Tehran bank vault: Paris and New York. Paris one’s got a big ‘X marks the spot’ right over the stock exchange.’
‘It was an inked circle.’
‘Whatever. And there’s another mark on New York, right on Times Square. Any dates, times?’
‘Two bombs the same day — maximum chaos. Like 9/11.’
‘Your theory.’
‘Dima’s.’
‘And he’s the expert right? He’s the one spun the yarn about this scheming devil. This ain’t a comic book and you sure ain’t no superhero, Blackburn.’
‘I saw him slice the head off an American Marine. I saw his face, I saw his eyes. I saw the same man leave the Tehran Bank with a pair of nukes.’
Whistler looked down, studied a broken fingernail, then picked at it.
‘Some story son. And your Russian pal, Dima. Why you covering for him, huh?’
‘I’m not covering for anyone.’
‘You killed your own CO to save his neck. I call that covering.’
Blackburn felt what little patience he had left draining away.’
‘Hey Whistler, why are you guys covering for Solomon?’
Whistler wheeled round, his lips almost curling with distaste.
‘Son, we ask the questions.’
‘Well I’ve got no more answers. Why doesn’t anyone go and check out Solomon? Does having been a CIA asset make him an untouchable?’
‘Son—.’
‘I AM NOT YOUR FUCKING SON.’
‘Solomon is a deep cover CIA asset. There is no question—.’
‘Is that how you’re going to explain it to your Senator when a nuke goes off on Wall Street? “Sir, there was no question in our mind so we DIDN’T FUCKING CHECK”.’
The outburst made Blackburn feel faint, but he kept his eyes fixed on Whistler. Something had to give. He owed it to Dima. He owed it to himself.
