‘No one’s seen him all day. We’ve all been reassigned.’
They both knew what that meant. Mission aborted.
‘Kaffarov was gone before we even got to the compound. Did anyone report that?’
Her voice suddenly became more formal.
‘I’ve got no information about that.’
‘The missiles that hit the chopper over the compound. Do you where they came from?’
‘I have no information about that either.’
Dima felt he was about to vent his anger on her, the person least responsible for the debacle.
‘Sixty of our best men were fried.’
Silence: she was sticking to protocol. They both knew they were being listened to.
‘Thank you, Omorova. Goodnight.’
Dima needed space to think, to work out his next move. Gregorin and Zirak appeared in the study. They glanced at each other. Dima could only assume they’d been discussing whether to go on with the mission. That was all he needed. Wanting to destroy something, he picked up the satphone, about to hurl it to the floor when another call came through. A blocked number — on a scrambler, from an untraceable line. He gave Vladimir a shove to wake him and put it on speaker so they could all hear. It was Omorova. She spoke fast.
‘We were told everyone was lost, that the choppers collided. Paliov has been held personally responsible for bungling the mission. Timofayev has taken control. If they know you’re not dead they’re behaving as if you are.’
‘What about Kaffarov? Two days ago Paliov was desperate to get him back.’
‘No one’s talking about him, or the bombs. Al Bashir’s believed dead, killed by US forces. Be very careful Mayakovsky: the GRU isn’t the place it was.’
Gregorin broke the silence.
‘Is that it then? They’re giving up?’
‘What?’ Vladimir was wide awake now.
Kroll looked away. He already knew what Dima’s answer would be.
Dima glared at Gregorin.
‘Have I said that?’
Zirak jerked his chin up, which he always did when out of his comfort zone.
‘It’s not an unreasonable question, Dima. We don’t seem to have got any nearer to Kaffarov or the nukes.’
Gregorin was next. ‘Where’s that leave us? We’re government servants. Those bastards in Mosow pull the plug, they’re not going to pay.’
Zirak said, ‘We don’t see how we can go on from here.’
Dima looked at the two of them. They were younger than him, younger than Kroll and Vladimir: Spetsnaz staff officers, with careers and futures. Dima knew what was going through their heads. The thrilling assignment they had jumped to sign up to thirty-six hours ago had turned to shit. All support for it from Moscow seemed to have vanished. The most likely outcome was that they’d get killed either by the PLR or the Americans. As if to confirm the precariousness of their situation, another tremor shook the house.
He took a deep breath.
‘You’re right. The most dangerous thing a good Spetsnaz can do is put their faith in a comrade. Assume the worst, and avoid disappointment. Trust no one. Above all, look after yourself. Congratulations, you’ve passed the test.’
Zirak, not sure where this was going, glanced at Gregorin, who was staring fixedly at the floor.
Dima pressed on. ‘This is the life you chose. A Spetsnaz. I don’t need to remind you what that means. You have no life beyond what you are here to do. You are here because you were selected, because of your strength both mental and physical, your loyalty and commitment. You’ve given up so much to be here. There is no life outside. .’
He could see his words falling to the ground like spent bullets, his own doubt resonating inside them. How could he convince them of the rightness of the cause when he was losing his own faith? He had given his life to Spetsnaz and it had spat him out, a used shell of a man. What did he have to show for the years? One woman, loved and lost. A child he’d never seen. All for the good of the Motherland. Kroll, Vladimir, they weren’t much of an advertisement either. He looked round at Kroll. He had fallen asleep again, the scanner still blinking on his lap. Vladimir was sitting up now, finishing another beer.
‘Well, I don’t mind,’ he said. ‘I’ll do anything so long as I don’t have to go back inside. Oh, hey, Mrs Gazul.’
Dima looked up. Amara was standing in the doorway. She walked up to the desk, looked down at the papers and with a slightly chipped dark red fingernail, pointed at a blank space on the map.
‘There.’
‘What?’
‘Kaffarov’s mountain retreat.’
They all looked at her.
Dima said, ‘You’ve been there?’
She nodded. ‘Sure. For the skiing.’
37
Northwest Tehran
Cole had thrown down the gauntlet: come back with Bashir or don’t come back at all, he seemed to be saying. Or had Blackburn imagined that? He had lost count of the hours he had gone without sleep. The last two days had been relentless. He had neutralised an IED, smoked Al Bashir out of his lair and secured the nuke. Why was Cole singling him out?
All this ran through his head as he and Campo flattened themselves against the perimeter wall that ran round the edge of the shopping mall roof. They had exited the Osprey into a hail of fire from what seemed like all corners of the LZ. In four seconds he saw four men go down, as tracer lit up the sky above the Osprey. He and Campo followed instructions and made for the west corner, jinking left and right as they ran. They crushed themselves up against the edge of the perimeter wall, soaked in sweat and gulping in oxygen. But for the last hour they were pinned down by fire from two PLR gun emplacements either side of them.
‘Fuck our luck,’ screamed Campo in a fit of exhausted rage. ‘Fuck this war. Fuck the PLR. I see that Bashir I’m going to cut his fucking head off.’
Blackburn gripped his arm as they lay in the tiny area of cover they enjoyed, looked him hard in the face. ‘Just stay cool, Campo. We’ll get out of this, okay?’
Campo looked blank for a few seconds then nodded half-heartedly. They listened to the radio chatter of the men who had reached the floors below, systematically clearing every room, every space, finding no one.
Campo was still cursing. ‘Fucking intel’s fucked. They drop us into PLR central and there’s nobody home and we’re gonna get fried.’
Blackburn gripped his friend’s shoulder. ‘Cool it Campo. Think. They wouldn’t be defending if there wasn’t something to defend.’
There was a mad look in Campo’s eyes. He threw down his M4. One engagement too far. Blackburn cursed Cole for sending them back in. He grasped Campo by the upper arms and shook him. ‘You want to die here? No. Do you want to get home in one piece? Yes. How are you going to do that? By getting this done.’
There were tears in Campo’s eyes.
‘It’s okay. You’re only human. One day you’re a hero doesn’t mean the next you’re not going to have a meltdown. This isn’t the movies. I need you bro. You need me, if we’re going to get out of this.’
Campo took several breaths, nodded, picked up his gun. ‘Yeah, okay.’
The quake had torn away a whole section of the mall. When the firing subsided, they took a look over the edge into the void and saw the silhouettes of figures balanced precariously, as if undecided whether to jump. I must be losing it, thought Blackburn, until Campo put him right.
‘Fuckin’ mannequins. It’s a goddam dress shop.’
The realisation cheered Campo. Blackburn, still not sure, allowed himself to look a split second longer than he should have and a volley of shots skimmed his helmet. But just before he ducked he caught sight of an SUV, a Land Cruiser, parked among a row of dumpsters as if for camouflage, lights off but exhaust coming from the rear — occupied. He raised his M4 and peered at it through the night sight. One occupant. Then to the left he saw a second figure moving towards it. He nudged Campo.