Battlefield 3: The Russian

not the prosperity of Comrade Mayakovsky, eh Dima?’

‘I did all right.’

‘But still a tall poppy nonetheless. My predecessors had a fatal tendency to be suspicious of excellence. Mediocrity was their watchword.’ Timofayev swept his hand through the air. ‘Like Thrasybulus, who advised Periander to “Take off the tallest stalks, indicating thereby that it was necessary to do away with the most eminent citizens.”’

He turned to Paliov, who looked blank.

‘Aristotle,’ said Dima.

But Timofayev was warming to his theme. ‘You were too good, my dear Mayakovsky, and you paid for it. It’s a credit to your patriotism that you didn’t go West in search of better terms and conditions.’

He put his face close to Dima’s. His breath was mint fresh with a hint of garlic. Dima’s desire for breakfast evaporated.

‘How would you like a real reward?’ He squeezed Dima’s shoulder, eyes blazing. ‘You’ll find our terms are much improved these days — entirely competitive with the best private security outfits. Your chance to get that Lexus, or the nice little hunting lodge you promised yourself. Somewhere comfortable and private to take the ladies: Jacuzzi, satellite porn, roaring log fire. .’

Both of them looked at Dima who showed no reaction. Eventually Paliov gave a short cough.

‘It may well be, Secretary, that Mayakovsky is not motivated by, er, remunerative compensation.’

Timofayev nodded. ‘Fine sentiments, rare in our brave new Russia.’ He got up and paced over to Peter the Great, his handmade shoes squeaking very slightly. ‘For a chance to serve, then.’ He seemed to be addressing the portrait. He wheeled round and fixed his gaze on Dima. ‘Your chance not only to serve your country — but to save it.’

The words failed to have the desired effect. The suits could never believe it, but persuasion seldom worked with him. If anything it had the opposite effect. He had heard it all before; too many opportunities for glory and reward sold to him in the past had turned to shit. His stomach rumbled as if by way of response.

Timofayev strode over to the window and jutted his chin at the view. ‘Did you know that on the Khodinka field there, Rossinsky became the first Russian to fly an aeroplane?’

‘In 1910.’

‘And Tsar Nicholas the Second had his coronation there.’

‘In 1886.’

He wheeled round. ‘You see Dima, you can’t help yourself. You are a Russian through and through.’

‘Twelve hundred were killed in the stampede. They say their patriotic fervour got the better of them.’

Timofayev pretended he hadn’t heard. He strode back over to Dima and put a hand on each arm of the chair. ‘Come back to us for one last mission. We need a genuine patriot — one with your skills and experience, and commitment.’ He glanced at Paliov. ‘We could even — overlook the matter of the operatives this morning.’

New furniture, new computer, same old threats. Your country needs you to get your bollocks shot off, if you wouldn’t mind. Your choice naturally, though if you say no we have ways of making you change your mind. What the hell was he doing listening to this crap, when he could have been at Katarina’s Kitchen, eating pancakes with Georgian cherry jam? Or better still, screwing the receptionist, whose fiery red hair framed a perfect white skin in a delicious vision of purity, with the promise of some very sluttish behaviour to come? Why not both? He’d done his bit, and deserved to enjoy himself for a couple of days — for good. Yet in some obscure part of his brain a small pulse of curiosity was beating.

Dima got to his feet and glanced at his watch, which still had a small smear of blood on the face, turning the ‘12’ into a shape very slightly like a heart. He gestured at the frosted glass and the ghostly shapes of minions moving about in the outer office.

‘You have a whole army out there. Young fit men and women jockeying for a chance at the big time, desperate to climb the career ladder. Whatever it is, the answer’s no. You retired me. I’m staying that way. Besides, I’m hungry. Good day, gentlemen.’

He marched out.

For a few seconds neither of them moved. Then Paliov gave his master an ‘I told you so’ look and reached for the phone. Timofayev put his hand down on top of the old man’s. ‘Let him go. Forget about your casualties. But find something to make him agree.’

‘He’s immune.’

‘Nobody’s immune. There must be something. Find it. Today.’

3

Al-Sulaymaniyah, Iraqi Kurdistan/Iran Border

It was a 104°F inside the Stryker and the smell wasn’t getting any better. The shift had just stretched into its thirty-second hour, which would do nothing to improve the personal hygiene of the inmates in full kit: Kevlar helmets, bullet-resistant glasses, heat-resistant gloves, body armour, knee pads, elbow pads, 240 rounds of ammunition for their M4s in pouches attached to the body armour. It was like being in an armour-plated coffin, but not so spacious. Up until a few weeks ago they’d been leaving the body kits at the base. But things had changed.

Marine Sergeant Henry ‘Black’ Blackburn reached up and lifted one of the hatches, then another. It didn’t produce much of a breeze, however, as they were keeping to a steady 25 miles an hour. In the early days they used to go full pelt, until it became clear that they stood a better chance of avoiding trouble if they saw it before they drove into it. He put his head out and squinted at the sun-bleached landscape around them. It had been years since outright war had devastated this part of Iraq but the damage remained. None of the trillions of dollars spent on reconstruction had made it to Al-Sulaymaniyah, or if it had the myriad layers of middlemen and subcontractors had got there first. The sheer number of them made your head spin. They all creamed off their cut, producing paperwork for men who were never hired, buildings that were never built. True, a few roads had been resurfaced, sewers relaid, but after a few months they all sank back into the same state of decrepitude as before. Any unrest and the first casualty after the local population was the infrastructure. They passed the remains of a freshly shelled gas depot, whole sections of concrete hanging by the rusting steel reinforcement rods. Two small children in nothing but T-shirts were throwing small rocks at nothing in particular from the top of a mound of rubble. Half a dozen goats looked on, grazing in the carcass of the depot.

Campo was mid-story. ‘. . And I’m, like, on station ready for deployment, and she says, “Honey do you have any protection?” so I say, “Baby I left my M16 at home, but if you wanna see it I’ll go get it. .”’

No one responded. They’d all heard it at least twice before.

Montes reverted to his favourite refrain.

‘I mean, who even wants to be here? TV say soldiers want to be here. Where they get that from? Make folks feel better? Maybe if you wanting to get your star, make some rank. All we want is get the fuck outta here, right Black?’

Black shrugged, not because he didn’t have an answer: he just didn’t want to have this conversation right now. He was thinking about the email home he would write tonight. Dear Mom and Dad. Today was 115°F. That’s the hottest we’ve had. He spent another ten minutes trying to come up with the next line. Three positives. That was his rule. His mother could find a silver lining in a tornado. The school they built just by the base has opened. He’d leave out the fact that no kids had turned up, that the deputy head had become the head because the original head had been shot in front of his family. He couldn’t think of two more positives right now. He abandoned that and considered writing to Charlene. Just to let you know I’m still sane. . Perhaps she’d take it the wrong way, think he was in doubt. She’d always known he’d enlist from the get-go, all through Senior High, but when it came to it, she said it had to be her or the army — not both. There wasn’t going to be any waiting for him. You may come back — she’d struggled for a word — different. She thought his father would sway him. She knew what he thought about the whole army thing. She just didn’t get it. But Blackburn still loved her, still hoped she’d come around.

He had been counting the days to September 1st, when they were due to go home, crossing off the days on a grid he had drawn in the back of his log. Since last week he’d stopped. Home didn’t seem to be getting any closer.