He could hear the phone being handed over. A hushed exchange about what to say. After a moment he heard his father clear his throat.
‘Well son, least you won’t be getting killed out there now.’
There was an urgency in Blackburn’s voice. ‘Dad,’ he said. ‘I found out.’
‘What’s that son?’
His father sounded like he had aged a decade, baffled by his son’s tone. Blackburn pressed on. There wasn’t much time.
‘Dad, I know how it was. I know how it was for you in Vietnam. I think it’s what’s been sustaining me over the last few—. I understand now.’
There was a pause at the other end, and a whispered exchange he couldn’t make out.
‘Sorry, son: I’m afraid I just don’t know what you mean.’
‘What you went through—. It’s what I enlisted for — to know what it was like for you.’
The silence on the other end of the phone said it all.
Blackburn tried to think of what else to say. Nothing came. The weight bearing down on his soul grew even greater. He passed the phone back to Schwab, who looked mystified.
‘Ok-ay. You done?’
Blackburn nodded. He had long imagined the moment of tenderness he had craved with his father — two men seeing eye-to-eye for the first time. But all his father could be thinking right now was Is my son a killer?
Schwab let the receiver fall back on to its cradle. Then he put his big square case on the table and took out a second vast dark grey file.
How could so much paperwork have accumulated in such a short time?
‘Let’s get started.’
‘On what?’
Schwab stared at his new client. Here we go, he thought.
‘I’ve already said all I can remember. I’m guilty. I’m as good as dead.’
Blackburn lowered his head until it rested on the desk.
75
Moscow
A little after ten-thirty p.m. they were being wafted towards Moscow’s Domodedovo Airport in Bulganov’s Rolls. Cocooned in the rear, Dima wondered whether the unnatural absence of noise was due to the bulletproof glass, or because his ears had been damaged by all the shooting. Kroll sat up front with the chauffeur, observing every gauge and dial on the dashboard with undisguised pleasure. In the back with Dima and Omorova was Bulganov himself.
He had been a last-minute recruit to the mission. Dima was a marked man. A contract was out on him. Shoot on sight. Getting out of Moscow and into Paris, with an international warrant out for his arrest, all this was only possible with Bulganov’s influence — and his private jet. He lit a fresh cigar and blew two plumes of exhaust from his nostrils, his eyes gleaming with excitement. Bulganov was no friend of the current regime in the Kremlin; Dima knew he had pushed at an open door. But as always, Bulganov had his price. As they were getting into the car he told Dima what it was.
‘I get to go all the way with you, okay? Or there’s no deal.’
‘Of course,’ lied Dima.
Omorova had given him a sphinx-like look which said, Let this guy play goodies and baddies with you? You can’t be serious, and Dima responded with a dismissive frown which said Don’t be crazy: of course I won’t. He had no idea how to stop him, but felt sure a way to get Bulganov off his back would emerge once they were in Paris. After all, dealing with the unexpected was what he was trained for.
Perhaps Omorova’s presence was fuelling Bulganov’s expansive mood. He was on a roll. ‘You know the trouble with post-Soviet Russia? Everybody can be shown to have stolen something from somewhere.’ He took another quick puff on his cigar, filling the car with yet more smoke. ‘It’s a fact. Me — I’m far richer than I ever dreamed, but I also know that all the bulletproof glass in the world can’t stop me being thrown into prison if I fall foul of the Kremlin. Therefore I have to have something on them so they leave me alone.’
He glanced approvingly at Omorova.
‘I’m right aren’t I, Katya?’
Dima realised he hadn’t even found out her first name. Hopeless. She projected her best smile at Bulganov. If anyone could persuade him to stay in Moscow it was her. But Bulganov was loving every second.
‘You know, I envy you Dima.’
This is getting ridiculous, thought Dima. Maybe he’s showing off in front of her.
‘You do these things. You don’t give a shit about the money. Having money’s a burden. It doesn’t leave you alone. It’s like a baby. Needs twenty-four/seven attention. You — you don’t have a thing to worry about. You’re free.’
Dima decided not to engage. There was too much on his mind right now. Solomon was taking up more and more of his headspace. By the end of Monday, all their problems and disappointments could be dwarfed by unimaginable catastrophe — and there would be no one for him to find in Paris.
There was also one other matter on his mind: Blackburn. He’d paid a high price for saving Dima’s life. He leaned across to Omorova. ‘You think the message will get through?’
Omorova sighed.
‘I can’t guarantee it. It’s been a long time since anyone’s used that channel. We’ll just have to hope.’
The Rolls swept through the airport VIP gate and on towards Bulganov’s waiting jet.
76
Fort Donaldson, USA
George Jacobs had worked on the base for longer than anyone could remember. In fact, he was the longest-serving civilian staffer on Donaldson. He’d arrived there at the age of sixteen and now he was fifty-eight. He worked hard, kept out of trouble, had always been helpful. ‘No job too menial, that’s me,’ was his trademark response to any request. Always willing, always positive, he usually went about his work with a song on his lips, often the classics. He knew the whole of Cole Porter and everything Buddy Holly ever sang, and Sinatra too.
He had tended the gardens until his handlers decided that it would be more useful if he worked inside, so he got himself transferred to cleaner. But because he was so handy they upgraded him to maintenance. From then on, he toured the whole facility fixing window catches, sticking down sticking-up floor tiles, unblocking blocked air-conditioning ducts. And he went about his business with so little fuss that most times people didn’t even notice he was there. Exactly as he’d been told to do by the group of people he knew only as Cousin Hal.
Everything he’d done in his entire career was just so he could watch what was coming in and going out. Planes, hardware. He had an encyclopaedic knowledge of all forms of military transport. He could look at a Humvee fifty yards away and quote the chassis number to the nearest hundred. He could tell a Seattle-made C-130 from a Missouri-made C-130.Who wanted to know? He never asked. Don’t ask, just deliver. That was the deal. What made George so good at his job was that he never asked: he just did it.
So when the latest Hal called him and they met at the Taco Bell on 45 he wasn’t prepared for what was coming.
‘Something a little different’, said Hal. ‘You up for it?’
‘You know me,’ said George, tucking into caramel apple empanada, his favourite.
‘There’s a guy in the stockade. You ever go in there?’
‘Sure but I can’t see him. He’s in solitary.’