The man looked confused. Zirak translated and the man pointed at a doorway, behind which rose a flight of steps.
‘Keep him with us.’
With Dima in the lead they dragged him across the courtyard, through the charred remains of men and machines. The stairwell was in darkness. They had never got as far as cutting the power to the compound, so the conflagration must have knocked it out. Dima waved Gregorin forward, who jogged silently up the steps. He beckoned Dima, who followed. A steel door, no handle or spyhole. Gregorin removed his helmet, pressed his ear against the door, signalled with his fingers — five, and five again.
Dima beckoned to the others and motioned for Gregorin to fall in behind him. When they were all lined up, Dima blasted the door frame with the Dragunov, then jammed the weapon right into the hinges and fired again. When the frame splintered, he fired upwards into the room and waited. No response. He peered round the aperture. Gregorin was right. At least ten men had taken refuge, most in some sort of uniform, but three in underwear. They must have been asleep when the choppers arrived.
‘On the ground, face down!’ he barked in Farsi. ‘Arms, legs stretched where I can see them. There are a hundred men dead out there. Full cooperation or you die too.’
He touched the hot end of the Dragunov against the temple of one of the men in underwear. The man flinched.
‘Kaffarov. Where?’
‘Gone.’
‘Nuclear device?’
There was no response to this. What a waste. All that effort, all that planning, for this. Dima felt what little residual patience he had ebb away.
‘No, no, please!’
He aimed at the man’s head, squeezed the trigger and twisted the barrel a fraction left as he fired. The man collapsed sideways, the remains of his ear running down the side of his face.
‘Right. Are you listening, you worthless pieces of shit? I will shoot everyone in this room unless and until I have all questions answered. Whoever’s in charge raise your hand. Now!’
A grey-haired man looked up at him. Dima’s eyes locked on to his. He reached down, grabbed the man by the collar and hauled him to his feet.
‘The rest of you, get out and do what you can for those poor bastards out there. Go. Now!’
They got to their feet and Kroll herded them out.
Dima turned to the grey-haired man, who smiled weakly.
‘Comrade Mayakovsky?’
17
Rajah Amirasani, former Colonel in the Iranian Revolutionary Guard and one-time cadet under Dima’s instruction, stood in front of him. The room was small, yet his old protégé seemed dwarfed by the space around him. Leaving Gregorin on guard outside, he closed the door. They were alone. Rajah came towards him to attempt an embrace, but Dima shoved him away. After such a debacle, the once-familiar face brought no comfort. Rage, frustration, suspicion and the worst feeling of all — impotence — simmered inside him. How had he let himself become part of this?
Rajah slumped on to a chair where he sat legs apart, elbows propped on his knees, the tears flowing freely down his cheeks and on to the floor. He had been the finest in his year, a natural leader who skilfully managed to impress his political masters with his devotion to the cause, without losing all sense of humanity. Now he looked battered and defeated.
‘Kaffarov left.’
So he had been there. At least that part was right.
‘You let him go?’
Rajah looked up, bewildered.
‘He was here. You were holding him here, yes?’
Rajah’s brow furrowed. ‘Holding him? Why would we do that? He was here to meet Al Bashir.’
‘He came here voluntarily?’
‘Of course.’
Something was seriously wrong with Paliov’s intelligence.
‘And Al Bashir is still coming here?’
‘Was. But there was a change of plan.’
‘A missile from somewhere south took out the chopper. Someone knew we were coming, didn’t they?’
‘As God is my witness, I have no knowledge of that. Kaffarov took off three hours ago in a big hurry. No explanation. We called Al Bashir’s people. One of his staff said the meeting location was changed. No one told us.’
‘To where?’
He shrugged, then sighed.
‘We had all these —.’ He gestured towards where the dead men lay. ‘We were instructed to put on a show of solidarity from the local population. The regional governor — we had orders. .’
‘To execute him in public.’
Rajah sighed and shook his head.
‘The things I’ve seen happen in my country. . Through the seventies we yearned for liberation from the Shah; after the Revolution, when it got even worse, we hoped again for freedom. But this. .’
‘What about Kaffarov’s armaments, a nuclear device?’
He shrugged. ‘Of that I know nothing.’
Dima reached down, grabbed his chin and forced him to look into his eyes. Once he had counted him as a friend. Not now. ‘You say you know nothing about the nuclear device Kaffarov had with him? Fuck with me and I swear I will find you and kill you.’
Rajah looked back into his eyes and Dima saw there was no deception. ‘Please understand, Al Bashir gives nothing away. Only those closest to him know his plans. Before, he was — I thought he was — the solution. Now. .’ He let out a long despairing sigh.
Dima felt his anger subside a little. This changed everything. The mission was fucked. Paliov had it all wrong. All that waste of life. . Rajah raised his hands. ‘Foreign influences.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Dima, you told us to respect ourselves, to listen to our instincts. . This country is sinking into madness. Al Bashir has let the genie out of the bottle.’
‘What does that mean?’
Rajah shook his head. ‘He wants revenge — worldwide — for what he says has been done to our country. Even if he doesn’t live to see it. That’s why he was so fixated on the weapons — the portable ones.’