El Ruso

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Battlefield 3: The Russian—PKY—234x153mm

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ANDY NCNAB AND PETER GRIMSDALE

1
Moscow, 2014

Dima opened his eyes, a second of blankness before he remembered
where he was and why. The call could come at any time, they ’d said.
It was just after three. Bulganov ’s voice was thick with fatigue. He
told him when and where. He started to givedirections, but Dima
shut him up.
‘I know where it is.’
‘Just don’t fuck up, okay?’
‘I don’t fuck up. That ’s why you hired me.’ Dima hung up.
Four-thirty, a stupid time to choose to swap a girl for a suitcase
of money, but he wasn’t making the decisions. ‘Remember: you’re
just the courier,’ Bulganov had said, trying to swallow his pain.
dima called Kroll, told him twenty minutes. He took a coldshower, forcing himself to stay under until the last traces of sleep
were gone. He dried, dressed, gunned a Red Bull. Breakfast could
wait. He gave the case one last check. The money looked good:
US dollars, five million, shrink-wrapped. The price of oligarchs’
daughters was going up. Bulganov had wanted to use counterfeit,
but Dima had insisted – no tricks or else no deal. Barely a dent
inthe man’s fortune – not that it stopped him trying to beat
them down. The rich could be very mean, he’d learned – especially
the old ones, the former Soviets. But the Chechens had set
their price. And when a fingernail arrived in the post, Bulganov
caved.
Dima put on his quilted coat. No body armour: he couldn’t see
the point. It weighed you down and if they were going to kill you
they ’d aimfor the head. No firearm either, and no blades. Trust was
everything in these exchanges.
He handed in the key cards at reception. He’d paid last night.
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Battlefield 3: The Russian—PKY—234x153mm

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BATTLEFIELD 3: THE RUSSIAN

The woman on the desk didn’t smile, glanced at the bag.
‘Goingfar?’
‘Hope not.’
‘Come back soon,’ she said, without conviction.
The street, still dark, was empty except for clumps of old snow.
Moscow under new snow he liked: it rounded off the sharp edges,
covered up the grime and the litter, and sometimes the drunks. But
it was April, and the frozen remnants clung to the pavements in
long, winding fortifications, like the ones they ’d been made to digat military school. The tall, grey buildings disappeared into low
cloud. Maybe winter wasn’t over just yet.
A battered BMW swung into view, weak lights bouncing off the
glaze of ice. The tyres slid a little as it shuddered to a halt in front
of him. It looked like it had been rebuilt from several unwilling
donors, a Frankenstein’s monster of a car.
Kroll grinned up at him. ‘ Thought it wouldremind you of your
lost youth.’
‘ Which part?’
Dima didn’t need any reminders: any idle moment and the old
times crowded in – which was why he did his best never to be idle.
Kroll got out, popped the trunk lid and hefted in the bag, while
Dima took his place at the wheel. The interior smelled of sauerkraut
and smoke – Troikas. You wouldn’t catch Kroll with a Marlboro.
He preferred thoseextra carcinogens that came in Russian tobacco.
Dima glanced at the ripped back seat: a bed roll, some fast food
boxes and an AK: all the essentials of life.
Kroll slid in, saw the expression on Dima’s face.
‘ You living in this crate?’
Kroll shrugged. ‘She threw me out.’
‘Again? I thought you’d got the message by now.’
‘My ancestors lived in yurts: see, we’re going up in the world.’
Dimasaid it was Kroll’s nomadic Mongol blood that got in the
way of his domestic life, but they both knew that it was something
else, a legacy of having lived too much, seen too much, killed too
much. Spetsnaz had trained them to be ready for anything – except
normality.
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Battlefield 3: The Russian—PKY—234x153mm

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