Blackburn didn’t respond.
‘Eight hours ago I get a call says there’s a Marine in detention in the brig in Donaldson for taking out his CO, and he’s got one crazy story to tell. And this is coming from a US Senator no less. Friends in high places, Henry.’
‘I don’t know anything about that part.’
‘Well, that’s the part that matters because we sure as hell wouldn’t of wasted tax dollars air-freighting you to New York if the Senator hadn’t told us to. So now you’re here we may as well kill a little time going over your story.’
Each time Blackburn told his tale he thought it sounded less believable. An evil mastermind, a former CIA asset gone rogue, bent on the destruction of the West, with simultaneous nuclear detonations in Paris and New York, together with the sum total of his and Dima’s pooled information — Blackburn’s sighting of the maps, the name on Bashir’s dying lips and Dima’s knowledge of Solomon. All the time he was speaking, Whistler stared out of the unfrosted half of the window, the morning sun bouncing off his glistening forehead. Blackburn couldn’t tell if he was paying attention or not. Maybe he was just going through the motions because someone had told him to. When he was done, Whistler turned and faced him.
‘So here’s what I’m getting from this. Stop me when I go off piste. You saw two maps in a Tehran bank vault: Paris and New York. Paris one’s got a big ‘X marks the spot’ right over the stock exchange.’
‘It was an inked circle.’
‘Whatever. And there’s another mark on New York, right on Times Square. Any dates, times?’
‘Two bombs the same day — maximum chaos. Like 9/11.’
‘Your theory.’
‘Dima’s.’
‘And he’s the expert right? He’s the one spun the yarn about this scheming devil. This ain’t a comic book and you sure ain’t no superhero, Blackburn.’
‘I saw him slice the head off an American Marine. I saw his face, I saw his eyes. I saw the same man leave the Tehran Bank with a pair of nukes.’
Whistler looked down, studied a broken fingernail, then picked at it.
‘Some story son. And your Russian pal, Dima. Why you covering for him, huh?’
‘I’m not covering for anyone.’
‘You killed your own CO to save his neck. I call that covering.’
Blackburn felt what little patience he had left draining away.’
‘Hey Whistler, why are you guys covering for Solomon?’
Whistler wheeled round, his lips almost curling with distaste.
‘Son, we ask the questions.’
‘Well I’ve got no more answers. Why doesn’t anyone go and check out Solomon? Does having been a CIA asset make him an untouchable?’
‘Son—.’
‘I AM NOT YOUR FUCKING SON.’
‘Solomon is a deep cover CIA asset. There is no question—.’
‘Is that how you’re going to explain it to your Senator when a nuke goes off on Wall Street? “Sir, there was no question in our mind so we DIDN’T FUCKING CHECK”.’
The outburst made Blackburn feel faint, but he kept his eyes fixed on Whistler. Something had to give. He owed it to Dima. He owed it to himself.
88
Paris
Dima’s driving had shot Bulganov’s nerves but he was wide awake when they pulled into the VIP parking area. Two heavies came forward to wave them away but Bulganov’s ID and VIP card did the trick. ‘Pardon, Monsieur.’
‘Only trying to do their job,’ said Bulganov.
‘Aren’t we all?’ said Dima.
An Atlantis steward was waiting with their tickets.
‘The flight leaves in twenty minutes. Do you have bags to check?’
‘We’re travelling light.’
Dima told Bulganov to hang back. He needed to do this alone and he needed full concentration. His heart was thumping. He was Doctor Frankenstein seeking to reclaim his monster. The lounge was all grey leather and glass tables. A lot more restrained than Bulganov’s penthouse, but this was France not Russia. Twenty or so passengers, almost all men, several hunched over laptops, some at computer terminals, several on the phone, a few lounging in comfy chairs. All this at five in the morning. When do people sleep? thought Dima. When did I sleep?
Dima scanned the lounge, methodically eliminating each passenger until he got to the one who was furthest from the door. His face was obscured by a Wall Street Journal, but there was something about the hands, the frame — indelibly imprinted on his memory. As Dima came nearer the paper was lowered. For the first time in twenty years, they faced each other.
If anything he looked younger. Perhaps he had had some work done on his face. His hair was a bit longer than before, parted in the centre and still jet black, as were his eyebrows. The cheekbones showed a few broken blood vessels and the whites of his eyes were pinkish and bloodshot. The suit was tailored and the white shirt open halfway down his chest was more consistent with a playboy than a West-hating terrorist.
Solomon glared at him through half-closed eyes, one eyebrow raised a little as if weary of being approached by yet another annoying interloper, rather than the person who had moulded him into a lethal asset.
Solomon spoke first. ‘You don’t give up, do you?’
Dima felt an uncomfortable mixture of hatred and tenderness. It was hard not to erase entirely your positive feelings for someone you once regarded as close. But judging by Solomon’s expression it was all too clear that the feeling wasn’t mutual.
‘You know me.’ Dima nodded at the surroundings — the rich men awaiting an expensive flight. ‘You’ve done all right, it seems. Is this what you wanted?’
Solomon looked away. ‘What I want, Mayakovsky, is something you could not possibly appreciate.’
‘Not being a psychopath.’
He gave a weary shrug. ‘The world is out of balance. Something has to give.’
He folded up the paper and placed it neatly on the table beside him. Then he folded his hands in his lap. Each movement had a precision that seemed robotic. That’s what he is, Dima thought — a machine, inhabiting a human form.
He smiled a thin smile. ‘When I heard you were on my trail I was amused. I hadn’t given you a second thought for — oh — longer than I can remember. So I decided to do a little research on you.’
Over the PA came the announcement that the Atlantis flight to JFK was ready to board.
Dima found his voice. ‘There’s not much to research.’