She tried to repeat the word again but nothing came and Blackburn watched helplesss as the life emptied from her.
4
Moscow
It was after two a.m. when Dima got back to his hotel room. Getting out of the Aquarium had been more difficult than getting in: one tradition that had been kept on. When he left Paliov, he’d found a trio of Internal Affairs heavies in the outer office. Hoping they were merely for decoration he started to move past them, but they blocked his way. He decided to deploy the sweet talk before punching anyone. A bit of foreplay, he thought to himself as he sized up the leader of the three, a face he recognised from way back.
‘And what can I do for you gentlemen?’
Two of them looked out of practice, their muscles gone soft from years of hitting those too weak to fight back. The one he had to worry about was Fremarov, a Mongolian who had served with him in Afghanistan. The once proud soldier was now in the slow lane, eking out his time up to retirement doing the shit jobs reserved for older operatives who hadn’t been smart enough — or unpleasant enough — to progress up the greasy pole. Just the sight of him made Dima thankful that he’d got out when he had.
‘Fremarov, old friend. How’s life treating you?’
The pair of bookends looked bemused, thrown by this unexpected greeting from someone they’d been sent to detain.
Eventually Fremarov spoke. ‘This is awkward.’
‘What did they tell you? That I’ve broken ranks, failed to follow orders, spun out of control?’
‘Something like that.’
‘A simple misunderstanding: bit of a crossed wire that’s all. Right hand doesn’t know what the left hand is doing. You know what they’re like.’
‘Yeah.’ Despite his instructions, Fremarov gave a shrug. With fifteen years to go till he could collect his pension, why not use up another five minutes? The bookends looked less convinced.
‘Your comrade here is a bloody good bloke,’ said Dima. ‘Saved my life on more than one occasion.’
Fremarov smiled. They both knew it was crap, but it sounded good. ‘It was the other way round, you bastard, as well you know.’
‘Was it? I can never remember. Well, it was a laugh anyhow.’
‘Do you two know each other?’ said Bookend One. Fremarov rolled his eyes.
‘The trouble with our superiors,’ Dima continued, watching Bookend Two and shifting his weight on to his other foot in readiness, ‘is they have such short memories. They forget who’s done them a favour.’
‘True,’ said Fremarov, just as Bookend Two chose that moment to make his move. As he swung a clumsy right at Dima’s jaw, Dima bent and flipped him over his back like a sack of potatoes and shoved him hard against the wall. He collapsed on to the thin carpet, panting. Not wanting to be outdone on the initiative front, Bookend One tried to knock Dima off balance by hooking one foot round his left leg while simultaneously slicing him hard across the solar plexus. Dima swung round to see Fremarov’s huge hand squeezing the man’s neck. He carried on squeezing while Dima stepped neatly out of the way.
‘I’ll say you fought us off and gave us the slip,’ said Fremarov.
‘Yes, three against one — I like that,’ said Dima. ‘Nice to run into you. Give my best to your beautiful daughter.’
‘She’s married now.’
‘Shame.’
When he reached the hotel, the pretty brunette at reception had finished her shift, to be replaced by a severe-looking type, possibly with potential if you liked the feel of stilettos on your back, which he didn’t. He walked to the Polezhaevskaya metro and took the purple line back into the centre. It had been a funny old day — handling $5 million one minute, taking the metro to breakfast the next. Not to mention all the killing in between.
He let himself into the room. The curtains were open, the neon sign of the club opposite — The Comfort Zone — striping the walls with red and green in hectic succession. He left the light off, threw his coat on the bed. Sometimes he wondered what it would be like to be one of those people on the metro, getting up, going to work, arguing with the wife, leading a normal life. Nothing about his life had been normal and it was too late to change that now. He was who he was, for better or worse. The question was whether he could live with himself.
5
Dima spent the rest of the day with Kroll. Breakfast had merged into lunch, which meant Kroll was too out of it to drive, so Dima took him home. While his old friend napped, Dima flipped between news channels. Vatsanyev had been right. The PLR were clawing their way up the news agenda. Al Jazeera had footage of a big rally in Tehran, the PLR leader saluting the crowd as if he’d already taken over.
He turned and addressed the mirror.
‘For fuck’s sake put that toy away: I’m too tired to do a runner.’
Paliov got up stiffly, emerging out of a shadow by the window; the XP9 semi-automatic looked absurd in his gnarled hand.
He pocketed the pistol, went over to the TV and turned up the volume: more Iran, and CNN footage of Al Bashir in his air force days before he went rogue, saluting a flypast.
Dima rolled his eyes. ‘Is that really necessary?’
‘You never know who’s listening.’
‘Thought that was your job.’
Paliov’s lipless slit of a mouth widened into what could have been described, at a push, as a grim smile.
‘These days. . It’s complicated.’ He shrugged, then gazed round the room from under his heavy-lidded eyes. ‘Rather modest surroundings for someone of your reputation.’
‘I like to keep things simple.’
‘This is a bit extreme.’
‘I like extreme. You know that. That’s why you fired me, remember.’
‘Oh Dima, that was a long time ago. Water under the bridge, eh?’
‘I think the bridge got swept away in the flood.’
Dima flopped on to the bed and kicked off his boots. ‘So what is it that your shiny new politician wants you to get me to do?’
‘You know I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t serious.’
Dima lay down anyway and stared at the ceiling. ‘Tell you what, you begin my bedtime story and I’ll see how quickly it puts me to sleep.’
‘We have a situation.’
‘You do: I don’t.’
Paliov wafted a hand at the TV, still playing pictures from Iran.
‘I noticed.’ Dima sighed and slid his hands under his head. ‘You only have yourselves to blame. You’ve been supplying Iran ever since they fell out with America. T-72 tanks, MiG 29s, SA-15 Gauntlet surface-to-air missile systems, TOR-M1 air defence missile systems, S-300 anti-aircraft missiles, VA-111 Shkval torpedoes. Arms transfer agreements to the value of $300million between 1998 and 2001, $1.7 billion between 2002 and 2005. You couldn’t help yourselves.’
‘Arms exports have kept this country solvent; we’re outselling the Americans two to one.We are the majority supplier to the developing world. It’s a great source of national pride.’
‘Now you sound just like Timofayev. If you go on like that I may have to shoot you.’
‘Okay, okay.’ Paliov rubbed a gnarled hand over his face. ‘It doesn’t get easier, you know. The Cold War was a lot simpler.’
‘You’re tired Paliov. Take a tip from me. Get yourself sacked.’
‘That may be sooner than you think, if I get this one wrong. What do you know about Amir Kaffarov?’
‘Ethnic Tajik, mediocre air force lieutenant who helped himself to a fleet of Antonovs during the Glorious Liberation, when everyone was looking the other way. Filled them with stolen kit and flew them off to destinations unknown. Now Russia’s foremost and dodgiest arms dealer. You want him killed I take it?’