Battlefield 3: The Russian

88

Paris

Dima’s driving had shot Bulganov’s nerves but he was wide awake when they pulled into the VIP parking area. Two heavies came forward to wave them away but Bulganov’s ID and VIP card did the trick. ‘Pardon, Monsieur.’

‘Only trying to do their job,’ said Bulganov.

‘Aren’t we all?’ said Dima.

An Atlantis steward was waiting with their tickets.

‘The flight leaves in twenty minutes. Do you have bags to check?’

‘We’re travelling light.’

Dima told Bulganov to hang back. He needed to do this alone and he needed full concentration. His heart was thumping. He was Doctor Frankenstein seeking to reclaim his monster. The lounge was all grey leather and glass tables. A lot more restrained than Bulganov’s penthouse, but this was France not Russia. Twenty or so passengers, almost all men, several hunched over laptops, some at computer terminals, several on the phone, a few lounging in comfy chairs. All this at five in the morning. When do people sleep? thought Dima. When did I sleep?

Dima scanned the lounge, methodically eliminating each passenger until he got to the one who was furthest from the door. His face was obscured by a Wall Street Journal, but there was something about the hands, the frame — indelibly imprinted on his memory. As Dima came nearer the paper was lowered. For the first time in twenty years, they faced each other.

If anything he looked younger. Perhaps he had had some work done on his face. His hair was a bit longer than before, parted in the centre and still jet black, as were his eyebrows. The cheekbones showed a few broken blood vessels and the whites of his eyes were pinkish and bloodshot. The suit was tailored and the white shirt open halfway down his chest was more consistent with a playboy than a West-hating terrorist.

Solomon glared at him through half-closed eyes, one eyebrow raised a little as if weary of being approached by yet another annoying interloper, rather than the person who had moulded him into a lethal asset.

Solomon spoke first. ‘You don’t give up, do you?’

Dima felt an uncomfortable mixture of hatred and tenderness. It was hard not to erase entirely your positive feelings for someone you once regarded as close. But judging by Solomon’s expression it was all too clear that the feeling wasn’t mutual.

‘You know me.’ Dima nodded at the surroundings — the rich men awaiting an expensive flight. ‘You’ve done all right, it seems. Is this what you wanted?’

Solomon looked away. ‘What I want, Mayakovsky, is something you could not possibly appreciate.’

‘Not being a psychopath.’

He gave a weary shrug. ‘The world is out of balance. Something has to give.’

He folded up the paper and placed it neatly on the table beside him. Then he folded his hands in his lap. Each movement had a precision that seemed robotic. That’s what he is, Dima thought — a machine, inhabiting a human form.

He smiled a thin smile. ‘When I heard you were on my trail I was amused. I hadn’t given you a second thought for — oh — longer than I can remember. So I decided to do a little research on you.’

Over the PA came the announcement that the Atlantis flight to JFK was ready to board.

Dima found his voice. ‘There’s not much to research.’

Solomon’s eyebrows rose. ‘You’ve certainly gone down in the world, that’s true, despite giving up alchohol — or have you lapsed? But there was much you never told me, Dima, when I was your eager pupil. I never imagined for example that you had once loved a woman, that you had even fathered a child.’

Solomon’s lips curved into a thin smile. ‘So very nearly the family man. How very touching. And how sad you never knew him. He’s at the Bourse, as you know. A nice boy, looks like you.’

Dima’s heart was smashing against his ribs, as if it was about to punch its way out of his chest.

‘Timofayev’s dead. I killed him. So’s Kaffarov. It’s over. You’re on your own.’

Solomon smirked. ‘You’ve forgotten, Dima, I was always on my own. I’ve never acted otherwise.’

‘You’ve missed your chance in Paris. You think you’ll get lucky in New York?’

He frowned, dismayed, his eyes glinting now. ‘Whatever do you mean? I never miss anything. Surely you remember that?’

Solomon’s eyes were wells of deathly black. ‘You know what I’m most disappointed about? That I didn’t arrange for an occasion to slice your irritating head off your sad old shoulders with a nice sharp blade. It would have given me such pleasure to watch you die.’

He started to get up. Dima lunged forward and grabbed his neck with both hands. Solomon’s crushing grip closed round his wrists. Immediately an alarm sounded and out of nowhere half a dozen security goons surged towards them. Four of them lifted Dima off and forced him to the ground.

Solomon straightened his suit and turned towards the other passengers hurrying away from the melee. Then he stopped and came back, bending down so his face was just inches from Dima’s.

‘Poor old Mayakovsky. Always in the wrong place. You should have been at the Bourse trying to save your son.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Too bad you’ll never have that reunion. Ten-thirty and—.’ He snapped his fingers in the air. ‘Au revoir, Paris.’

89

New York City

It was twenty minutes since Whistler had put in a call to Langley and he was still on hold. The CIA operative supposedly in charge of Homeland Security Liaison had called in sick and no one had been called to deputise.

‘So much for joined-up intelligence,’ Whistler said to the Vivaldi coming out of his cell phone.

The person who did pick up had to go away and double-check Whistler’s credentials before routing him to a department called Asset Registry. He asked a dreamy-sounding woman called Cheryl for available background on asset codename Solomon and was told that it wasn’t available ‘at this time’.

‘What time would it be available then, Cheryl?’

She snorted. ‘Like never. You don’t have the clearance, Hon.’

Whistler had had enough of being given the run-around. Blackburn had thrown down the gauntlet. What would Whistler say if Blackburn had something? How would it feel to be the one who dismissed him? He often thought of those guys who chose not to follow up on the suspicious trainee pilots who went on to down the Twin Towers. Would he have done the same? Would he want to live with that?

So Whistler did something that was bound to earn him a reprimand. He called Senator Douglis’s office and asked to speak to him. To his amazement he was put straight through.

‘Sir, I’m the agent detailed to follow up on Sergeant Blackburn.’

‘Very good to hear from you, Agent Whistler. How can I help?’

Whistler told him the gist and the Senator said he’d get right on to it. Three minutes later his cellphone chirped. It was the Deputy Director of Homeland Security, a man he had never met.

‘Whistler, you trying to get yourself fired?’

‘Sir, I’d rather be fired for trying to get a question answered than be the one who didn’t ask the question.’

Half an hour passed. Whistler took Blackburn a cup of coffee.

‘I want you to know that I just put my career on the line because of you.’

Blackburn didn’t respond. He was too busy experiencing the first cup of coffee he’d had since this whole nightmare started.

Another half an hour passed and three men he had never seen before came in, accompanied by Whistler’s immediate boss, Dumphrey, red-faced and still in his golfing kit. All three had the same grim expression. The shortest and baldest one carried a large ring binder of ID photos.

‘Okay. Let’s do it.’

‘This better be worth it, Whistler, or you are in so much shit.’ whispered Dumphrey.