no Special Forces. Truly elite units were not common inside
the Warsaw Pact. Czechoslovakia had a pretty good airborne
brigade, and Poland had airborne and amphibious divisions.
The Soviet Union itself had a few Vysotniki tough guys. Apart
from that, sheer weight of numbers was the name of the game,
in the eastern part of Europe. Throw enough bodies into the
fray, and eventually you win, as long as you regard two-thirds of
them as expendable. And they did.
So who was this guy?
NATO Special Forces put a lot of emphasis on endurance
in selection and training. They have guys running fifty miles
carrying everything including the kitchen sink. They keep them
awake and hiking over appalling terrain for a week at a time.
Therefore NATO elite troops tended to be small whippy guys,
built like marathon runners. But this Bulgarian was huge. He
was at least as big as me. Maybe even bigger. Maybe six-six,
maybe two-fifty. He had a shaved head. He had a big square
face that would be somewhere between brutally plain and
reasonably good-looking depending on the light. At that point
the fluorescent tube on the ceiling of his cell wasn’t doing him
any favours. He looked tired. He had piercing eyes set deep and
224
close together in hooded sockets. He was a few years older
than me, somewhere in his early thirties. He had huge hands.
He was wearing brand new woodland BDUs, no name, no rank, no unit.
‘On your feet, soldier,’ I said.
He put his book down on the bed next to him, carefully, face
down and open, like he was saving his place.
We put handcuffs on him and got him into the Humvee without
any trouble. He was big, but he was quiet. He seemed resigned
to his fate. Like he knew it had been only a matter of time
before all the various log books in his life betrayed him.
We drove him back and got him to my office without incident.
We sat him down and unlocked the handcuffs and redid them
so that his right wrist was cuffed to the chair leg. Then we
took a second pair of cuffs and did the same thing with his
left. He had big wrists. They were as thick as most men’s
ankles.
Summer stood next to the map, staring at the push pins,
like she was leading his gaze towards them and saying: We
know.
I sat at my desk.
‘What’s your name?’ I said. ‘For the record?’
‘Trifonov,’ he said. His accent was heavy and abrupt, all in his
throat.
‘First name?’
‘Slavi.’
‘Slavi Trifonov,’ I said. ‘Rank?’
‘I was a colonel at home. Now I’m a sergeant.’
%Vhere’s home?’
‘Sofia,’ he said. ‘In Bulgaria.’
‘You’re very young to have been a colonel.’
‘I was very good at what I did.’
‘And what did you do?’
He didn’t answer.
‘You have a nice car,’ I said.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘A car like that was always a dream to
me.’
¢¢here did you take it on the night of the fourth?’
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He didn’t answer.
‘There are no Special Forces in Bulgaria,’ I said.
‘No,’ he said. ‘There are not.’
‘So what did you do there?’
‘I was in the regular army.’
‘Doing what?’
‘Three-way liaison between the Bulgarian army, the Bulgar
ian secret police, and our friends in the Soviet Vysotniki.’ ‘Qualifications?’
‘I had five years’ training with the GRU.’
‘Which is what?’
He smiled. ‘I think you know what it is.’
I nodded. The Soviet GRU was a kind of a cross between a
military police corps and Delta Force. They were plenty tough,
and they were just as ready to turn their fury inwards as
outwards.
‘Why are you here?’ I asked.
‘In America?’ he said. ‘I’m waiting.’
‘For what?’
‘For the end of the communist occupation of my country. It
will happen soon, I think. Then I’m going back. I’m proud of my
country. It’s a beautiful place full of beautiful people. I’m a
nationalist.’
‘What are you teaching Delta?’
‘Things that are out of date now. How to fight against the
things I was trained to do. But that battle is already over, I