‘I never said it would be straightforward.’
‘I was hoping to take the kids to Eurodisney.’
‘Yeah, right. Their mothers won’t even open the door to you.’
‘They could have come too. I had it all worked out.’
The slow motion car crash that was Kroll’s personal life was the last thing Dima needed to hear about right now.
‘When you quit moaning, got any ideas?’
Kroll’s face brightened.
‘Well, this chopper’s worth a bit. We could trade it.’
‘Hilarious.’
‘I’m serious. Bilasuvar. Its only fifty odd ks across the Azeri border. By the time anyone’s noticed us we’ll be out of the sky.’
That’s what Dima loved about Kroll. Always ready with the least likely solution to a problem.
Bilasuvar. In Soviet times it had been a graveyard for air force hardware so old, useless or obsolete it couldn’t be persuaded to stay in the sky. Since Azerbaijan had got its independence, it had become a major centre for spare parts and aluminium recycling. It also did a roaring trade in aircraft of dubious provenance.
It was a long shot, but it was all they had.
The sky was lightening in the east as they crossed the border. Dima stayed low to keep off anyone’s radar. His mind wandered to Blackburn. The US Military were bound to want to know what happened to Cole. How much would he tell them? How much would they believe? Would he be handed over to the CIA? For Darwish, for Blackburn and for himself, stopping Solomon was the only option, if it wasn’t already too late.
‘Will you look at that?’
Kroll was suddenly a kid again, revitalised by the sight of a cornucopia of Cold War hardware. Surrounded by a flock of Mil helicopters of all types were half a dozen Tupolev-95 ‘Bears’, that would have spent their lives annoying NATO up and down the North Sea, and maybe as many as twenty MiG-15s, the first Soviet jet fighter with Rolls Royce-inspired engines. How considerate of the Brits to share their knowhow. Dima felt the mixed messages of Soviet nostalgia. In retrospect he knew the Soviet Union was fucked, but it seemed like a good idea at the time.
‘Surely with that lot we really ought to have won the Cold War,’ said Kroll, peering at the graveyard below.
‘We did: it was just the wrong “we”.’
‘Well, let’s hope they’ve got some decent wheels down there.’
Dima put the Kamov down in a gap between some corrugated iron sheds and a giant wingless Ilyushin II-76 transporter. A gang of labourers were slicing at the fuselage with chainsaws, like ants consuming some huge prey. Three men wearing tattoos and oil-stained overalls emerged from the sheds, with AKs at the ready, one prominently out in front.
‘Jesus,’ said Kroll. ‘Get a load of this.’
‘I’ve had warmer welcomes.’
Devoid of government markings and battle scarred as it was, the shiny new Kamov still reeked of officialdom.
‘Turn round and fuck off back to Moscow unless you want a bullet in the bollocks!’ yelled the largest of the three, an unlit cheroot flapping between his brown teeth.
‘Maybe Mad Max here thinks we’re from the tax office.’
Dima and Kroll lowered themselves slowly on to the ground, hands raised. A cocktail of rust, engine oil and unwashed bodies wafted in through the gap where Dima had shot off the door.
‘Mmm-hmh!’ Kroll inhaled appreciatively.
‘It smells a lot better than that car you live in,’ said Dima.
‘We’re just passing through,’ said Kroll, ‘and we wondered if—.’
‘Shut up and stand over there.’
Dima nudged Kroll as they went.
‘They don’t call it the Wild East for nothing’.
63
Azerbaijan
Mad Max looked them up and down, taking in Dima’s torn and blood-spattered shirt.
‘Who the fuck are you?’
‘Doesn’t matter. We’re looking for a trade,’ said Dima neutrally.
Surrounded by the rusting hulks in various stages of dismemberment, the shiny Kamov looked entirely alien. Some of the crew chipping away at the Ilyushin switched off their chainsaws.
‘Very funny. Do we look like a street market?’
But Max was leering at the chopper as if it was a lapdancer. For all the bluster, his eyes were saying ‘Come to me, baby.’
‘We need a change of transport. Something more — grounded. Two fast, reliable vehicles and the Kamov’s yours. You’ll never get another deal like it.’
At this, one of the others started towards the chopper. Kroll waved a finger.
‘Ah-ah. Look, don’t touch.’
Max had caught sight of Amara sitting in the rear, looking blank. His eyes widened even further. He circled the chopper, not sure whether he was believing what he was seeing, then took the cheroot out of his mouth and rolled it ruminatively between two oily orange fingers.
Dima glanced at Kroll, who said: ‘My sister.’
Max laughed. ‘A man can look, can’t he?’
‘She’s very shy: doesn’t like to be stared at.’
‘It’s a hell of a deal,’ said Dima. ‘You could retire. Get a nice villa somewhere.’
‘I live for my work: why would I want to retire?’