‘The Chechens would kill for one of these.’
‘I think you could have put that better,’ Dima said.
‘Back to fucking work, you useless shites!’ yelled Max. The whole place had ground to a halt at the sight of Amara.
Just visible behind the shed was an S-Class Mercedes: metallic blue with contrasting red front fenders. Dima nodded at it.
‘Got any more of those?’
‘It’s my own personal runaround. But — throw in the sister and you’ve got a deal.’
Amara looked terrified. Max pulled his head back out of the Kamov, which he’d been checking over. He looked at the row of horrified faces and laughed.
‘I’m joking, you idiots! Lost your sense of humour or what?’
‘Yeah, good one,’ said Vladimir.
‘I’ll take it. And there’s a nice Volvo here. Hardly any miles on it.’
‘Just one old lady owner, yeah, I know.’
In spite of himself, Dima smiled. Maybe they were going to get out of this okay. They wrapped Darwish in a tarp and loaded him gently into the rear of the Volvo.
‘I was hoping to get the Merc,’ said Vladimir.
‘You’re taking Amara and her father home. Then I’m going to need you in Paris.’
Vladimir’s eyes widened. ‘We’re really going to do this?’
Dima shrugged. ‘No choice.’
Although it was not yet nine a.m., Max produced a bottle of vodka from an old-fashioned chest freezer.
He poured the fiery liquid into shot glasses with ‘A Gift From Chernobyl’ embossed on the sides.
‘Valuable antiques, those.’
‘Bit early for me,’ said Dima, ‘But it’s the thought that counts. None for you: you’re driving,’ he said to Vladimir.
There was no time to waste. It was two thousand ks to Moscow. Dima took Amara aside.
‘You saved our lives back there. And your father gave his for us. If I get through this—.’
Amara put a slender finger against his lips.
‘No promises.’
‘Did your father say anything before he—?’
She smiled, the tears welling up.
‘Just that he was “very proud”.’
They embraced briefly and she got in.
‘See you in Paris. Be there by tomorrow night.’
Vladimir nodded. ‘Adios Amigos.’
Dima turned to Max, who looked as if Christmas had just come early.
‘You never saw us, right?’
‘Do we look like informers?’
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to insult you.’
‘No problem. Take care out there. And take these.’ He opened a drawer. ‘They might come in handy.’
He handed over a set of jump leads.
64
FOB Spartacus, Iraqi Kurdistan
Two MPs stood at the door. What a waste of their time, thought Blackburn. He could barely stand, let alone make a run for it, but they had still shackled his feet. He was a prisoner now, maybe for ever.
Andrews and Dershowitz had been joined by a third man in combats and a Bruce Springsteen T-shirt. He wasn’t introduced, but the other two addressed him as Wes. He had brought with him a field laptop with a hi-def screen.
They played the satellite footage for the third time. The full image included the chalet and the tunnel entrance, but each time they played it Wes zoomed in closer. And with each zoom it seemed to get more, not less, clear.
‘Okay, let’s see them groundhogs pop out one more time.’ Wes had a Texan drawl that was full of the wide outdoors, not suited to a stifling Portakabin full of perspiring men. They watched again. First Dima exiting the tunnel, recceing the hill, turning back to the tunnel, beckoning. Then Blackburn, shielding his eyes from the sudden glare. Dima lifted the phone to his ear.
‘Left-handed. Interesting.’
The other two glanced at Wes.
‘Guys from those parts save their left for when they’ve taken a shit.’
He fast-forwarded through Dima and Blackburn’s walk to the camo-covered remains of the shed.
‘Kinda touching they threw that camo over the Land Cruiser, ain’t it, like we’re gonna miss it.’
All three of them managed to find that quite funny.
The screen zoomed in on Vladimir and Kroll.