Dima’s hands moved rapidly as he responded.
‘And Goofy here’s probly sayin’, “Uh-uh. This here’s a traitor to his country. He ain’t no US Marine. Fact is, this here fella ain’t even human. He’s one great big log of dawg do”.’
Wes looked up at Blackburn and laughed appreciatively at his own improvisation.
‘Sheesh, we sure get some shit to deal with, these days.’
He shook his head at the screen. ‘So “Sergeant” Blackburn. You can if you wish remain silent. What good it’s going to do you, I ain’t rightly sure, since our people will go on analysing these here bird shots till we pretty much know just exactly what you-all are sayin’ down there.’
Blackburn’s stomach took another lurch. There wasn’t much left in it. He hadn’t eaten or drunk anything in six hours, but whatever was left he vomited into the waste bin, over the burger and Coke that Dershowitz had dropped in it.
Wes closed the laptop. The other two sat back. Dershowitz picked something out of his nose and examined it.
‘It’s a crying shame, Sergeant Blackburn,’ said Dershowitz. ‘All that expensive training, son of Private Michael Blackburn, US Marine and Viet Vet, grandson of Lieutenant George Blackburn, decorated hero of World War Two: good men who gave themselves in service to their country. So what happened Henry? Where’d it all go wrong?’
65
The Road to Moscow
‘So nice to be back on terra firma, and in the bosom of Mother Russia,’ said Kroll.
Kroll was driving, one hand draped over the wheel, a can of Coke in the other. They were five hundred ks into the drive to Moscow. Another fifteen hundred to go.
‘You know, I think these S-Class W220s are my favourite. This or possibly the W126. I didn’t much like the one in between — you know the one that Princess Di—.’
Dima reached a hand round and pressed it against his mouth.
‘Two things, friend. One: shut up. Two: you’ll be taking off for Paris tonight or tomorrow, so don’t get too settled. Concentrate on the road and try not to get pulled over by the cops. They see the Azeri plates they’ll think we’re human traffickers.’
It was time for Dima to make his first call to Paris. Rossin picked up straight away. Dima tried to imagine him at his favourite table in the Café des Artistes in the Marais, a covert roll-up snagged in the cleft of two fingers and his Paris Match and the Economist spread out in front of him, for the two sides of his personality.
‘Bonjour. C’est Mayakovsky.’
He thought he heard the sound of a falling coffee cup.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t know anyone of that name.’
‘Don’t be a prick, Rossin.’
He sighed.
‘Your ugly Russian mug is on all the police and security websites. Apparently you’ve stolen some WMDs and are bent on starting World War Three — mainly for the purpose of shaming Russia.’
Dima tried to sound dismissive. ‘A clerical error. The guilty party is actually an old mutual friend of ours.’
‘Who?’
‘You ready for this? Solomon.’
He expected a silence. The name tended to provoke one.
‘Goodbye, Dima.’
‘Wait! Hear me out.’
‘I’m retired.’
‘You can’t afford to retire. None of us can.’
‘I just did, thirty seconds ago.’
‘One last favour, for old time’s sake. You’ll never hear from me again. Promise, on my mother’s grave.’
‘Your mother died in a gulag. She has no grave.’
‘Just a few shreds of information. A little surveillance. Nothing more.’
‘Solomon’s dead. We all know that.’
‘We were wrong. He was biding his time. This is his big Fuck-You to the West. So just please hear me out. The target’s the Bourse. He’ll be most likely using canteen staff or security as cover — maybe cleaners.’
‘There’ll be over a hundred.’
‘Check them all out.’
‘How long have I got?’
‘Twelve hours.’
‘Ha ha.’
‘I can pay.’
After Dima hung up, Kroll said, ‘Speaking of pay. .’
‘We weren’t.’
‘Well, I’ve been meaning to—.’
‘Remember about “Shut up”? I’ll remember you in my will.’
‘When’s that going to happen?’
‘Soon. By tonight I’ll almost certainly be dead. Now leave me alone while I talk to Omorova again.’
66