‘Just cleaning you up.’
Dima tried to look round. A flash from somewhere lit up Zirak close by, watching the procedure.
‘Where am I? Where are we going?’
Vladimir turned Dima’s head back again.
‘I said hold still. The Chief of Intelligence has very sticky brains, congealed I suppose from lack of use.’
His eyes started to focus. He recognised the khaki interior of the Rakhsh they had hijacked. Suddenly the life surged back into him as he realised where he was.
‘We’re in the fucking APC. We should be in the bank. What the fuck are you all doing?’
He pushed Vladimir away and sat up. A massive thudding pain spread out across the left side of his head. For a few seconds he blacked out, then he collapsed back to where he had been lying. He felt the dressing on the side of his head.
‘You’re going to have a very interestingly shaped left ear,’ smirked Vladimir, closing up the first aid kit. ‘Something that may make a good conversation starter with the ladies.’
The Rakhsh slewed to a stop. Gregorin was at the wheel, Kroll beside him. The whole vehicle rocked madly as the wash from a huge blast hit it. Then they were reversing, gears whining madly.
‘How long have I been out?’
‘Twenty, thirty minutes. You missed a good firefight. Some of Hosseini’s henchmen came back into the bank when they heard his shot, so we had to deal with them. Then a whole lot more surged up from the floor below. All got a bit much.’
You retreated. You’re pathetic.’
Dima tried to lift himself again. Vladimir held him down.
‘Hey You’re alive. We got you out of there. Break the habit of a lifetime and show some gratitude.’
Two massive explosions rocked the vehicle. Kroll leaned forward.
‘Oh yeah, we forgot to mention: Uncle Sam’s in town. That’s the tank having a go at them.’
Dima pushed Vladimir’s hand away and raised himself, more slowly this time. ‘We had a clear fix on the nuke: we were right in the PLR’s lair.’
Kroll craned round. ‘It moved.’
‘What moved?’
‘The nuke.’ Kroll patted the device in his lap. ‘Told you it worked. Looks like we’ll be heading back into the mountains.’
The APC rocked as Gregorin spun the wheel to avoid an obstacle. Flashes of blue and red came through the windscreen.
‘Uh-oh. US Humvees ahead. They’ve just blasted a PLR technical.’ He stamped on the brakes and slammed into reverse, sawing at the wheel. ‘Fuck, they’re moving our way.’
He never completed the manoeuvre. A second later a white flash lit up the inside of the Rakhsh and the front end reared skywards, as if a giant hand had scooped it up and then dropped it on its roof. For a few moments there was silence.
‘Out, out. Now!’
‘Where the fuck’s the door on this?’
‘US approaching on foot. Forty metres. Go go go.’
Flames from the smashed front end spread through the windscreen.
‘Why the fuck do they make these things so hard to get out of?’
‘So you’ll stay at your post and fight like a good soldier of the revolution.’
‘Well they can fuck their revolution.’
Zirak got the side door open. They spilled out on to an expanding pool of fuel from the wrecked APC. As they rolled across it a bullet from the Americans ricocheted off the pavement and it became a lake of fire.
They were saved by a yawning gap in the street, opened up by the earthquake. A whoosh of flame and heat and the APC became an inferno. They watched their transport disintegrate in front of them. A couple of Marines dismounted from the Humvee and circled the burning Rakhsh.
‘We fucked that up good.’
‘Yeah, right. Fried Iranian anyone?’
‘Fuckin’ A, man.’
They ambled off as if they owned the place, got back in the Humvee and drove away.
Dima, tired, hungry, sore, scorched and stinking of gas, found himself in a place beyond rage, beyond swearing. He glanced at his watch, now with a big crack across the face but still functioning. Twenty-four hours had passed since he had taken off with a hundred plus men, two helicopters and two cars. And here he was twenty-four hours later, in a hole in the ground, all but four of his men gone, both choppers lost, no car and no nuke to show for it. As bad days went, this took some beating.
30
The doors were too big to breach. Besides, there weren’t enough of them to go in with a bang, guns blazing. Stealth was the only option.
‘Every chain has its weak link,’ said Blackburn.
‘Every dog has its day.’
‘Black didn’t make Sergeant by being no dog.’
They found the weak link. Someone had added a fire escape to the rear of the building. The lower half of it had been shot away but a vent tube ran up close beside it. Blackburn went first, reached for the lowest rung and caught it just as he let go of the vent. The ladder stopped at a window that was frosted. Blackburn prised it open: a toilet. He put one foot on the top of the cistern and the other on the seat. He peered over the stalls, there were at least five. None seemed occupied. He jumped down and checked each stall: all open. He leaned out of the window and beckoned the other two.
Matkovic was next, Blackburn guiding his feet, then Montes. Campo’s foot caught the handle of the cistern. They froze as it flushed, the sound bursting the silence like a shell. None of them moved. There were footsteps outside. Blackburn pointed at his gun and shook his head: no shooting. Quick to right his mistake, Campo ran to the door and stood behind it, knife in hand. An officer — judging by his uniform — stood facing them, his eyes widening. He felt for his holster, about to shoot when Campo reached round, covered his face with one hand and sank his knife into his chest. There was a muffled protest and the body slumped to the floor.
Black was through the door and into the corridor.
‘Let’s find this vault.’
The lift doors were jammed half open. The car had stalled, leaving a two-foot gap.
‘Must be stairs nearby.’