by Alex Shaw
Snow had grown up with a love for the unusual. His father had been the Commercial Attaché for the British Embassy, Moscow, in the mid to late eighties. As such Snow had been at the Embassy School there for much of his formative adolescent years. The upshot of this was that Snow’s Moscow-accented Russian was all but flawless. Ignoring his parent’s protestations to go to University, he joined the army immediately after his A levels. Turning down a chance at officer training he completed the minimum three year service requirements before successfully passing ‘Selection’ for the SAS. He’d wanted to be a ‘badged member’ ever since seeing the very public, ‘Prince’s Gate’ (Operation Nimrod) hostage rescue at the Iranian Embassy as a nine year old in 1980. His parents had laughed it off and bought him a black balaclava and toy gun, but as the years progressed Snow’s desire to join only increased. Then he was in. His boyhood dream fulfilled and although begrudgingly, he knew his parents had been a bit proud. Then it all went wrong.
Snow slowed to a walk as he entered Andrivskyi Uzviz. The steep cobbled street lined with souvenir stalls, art galleries and bars had the ability to break an ankle of the unwary. He descended the hill. His right thigh had started to throb. The sensation always brought back memories of the accident in Poland of the unbearable pain he had felt, pinned to the back seat of the car unable to move, unable to reach for a weapon, to defend himself. The sound of flames and the vicious scent of petrol filling his lungs. Then the face, the serpentine eyes that looked into his and pronounced sentence upon him.
Snow shivered in spite of the warm morning air. After the accident the doctors said that he would always walk with a limp, that the bone would be weakened and that the muscles may not knit back together. They advised that he be taken off of active duty, given a desk or other duties. He ignored them and attempted to defy all medical opinion by pushing himself harder than he ever thought possible. He spent hours in rehabilitation, both with PT instructors and then later on his own. He was twenty-four years old and a member of the 22nd Special Air Service Regiment; no one was going to tell him what he could or could not do.
His effort paid off and the Regiment doctor signed him off as actively fit for duty, no limp, just a scar. However the one thing that Snow has not admitted to anyone, least of all himself, was the mental scar. The nightmares, for want of a more macho term, that prevented him from sleeping and turned him from the jovial troop member into the withdrawn loner. Snow sought professional help and then accepted the truth. He left the Regiment within the year with an honourable discharge, his military career cut short.
He felt his leg ease as he reached the bottom of the hill and swore at himself for yet again allowing the past, something which he could not change, to ruin a perfectly good day. The sun was now higher in the sky as he jogged through central Podil and headed towards Hydropark, the largest island and park in the Kyiv stretch of the Dnipro River. Perhaps he’d risk a swim?
*
Tiraspol, capital city of Transdniester
Disputed autonomous region of Moldova
The two men embraced like the old comrades that they indeed were. Bull regarded the face of his friend and former Spetsnaz brother Ivan Lesukov. “You have grown fat old man.”
“And you ugly.” Lesukov laughed heartily, “I see that Sergeant Zukauskas has not changed – you still look like a pig!”
“That is why the Muslims hated me so much!” Oleg, the barrel-chested Lithuanian winked.
Lesukov raised his glass and the others followed. “To fallen comrades.” The vodka was cold, having been stored in the fridge Lesukov kept in his office.
“You have an empire here, Ivan,” Bull congratulated his friend.
“I am the King of Chairs,” Lesukov replied, spreading his palm at the window which looked out over the factory floor below. “The main industries of our country are furniture, and electronics, but we can’t sell abroad because of those bastards in Chisinau.” He shrugged. “Our products do not carry the Moldovan government stamp and as our country of Transdniester is not recognised outside of its own borders we cannot sell.” Lesukov refilled the glasses. “But I don’t care a shit about the electronics or even my chairs. What I have brought you here for today is to discuss how you can help an old comrade with his export business.” He raised his glass. “To success.” Again the glasses were drained.
Bull spoke first. “I understand that of late you have been having some logistical problems?”
“Our ‘friends’ the Russians are understanding if not supportive of our ‘specific’ situation. They let my goods pass freely through the security zone. In fact some of my goods even originate from the weapons they are ‘peace keeping over’,” he tapped his nose with the end of his index finger. “So with the Russians, here in Transdniester, I have no problem. They are good boys. It is the Moldavians to the west and the Ukrainians to the east that I am having problems with.” He balled his fist.
Tensions between Transdniester and her neighbours of Moldova and Ukraine had been high since Transdniester separatists, with Russian support, broke away from Moldova in 1992 and declared independence. The short civil war that ensued left more than 1,500 dead. An uneasy truce brought about by Russian ‘peacekeepers’ had stabilised the region since then. In a strange turn of events Europe’s biggest Soviet army weapons cache was now to be found not in ‘Mother Russia’ but near the Transdniestern town of Kolbasna and guarded by the two thousand Russian soldiers acting as ‘peacekeepers’.
A ‘confidential’ 1998 agreement between Russia’s then Prime Minister Viktor Chernomyrdin and Igor Smirnov, the self-appointed president of Transdniester, to share profits from the sale of 40,000 tons of ‘unnecessary’ arms and ammunition had made Lesukov and men like him very wealthy. However once a copy of this agreement had come into the hands of the Associated Press there had been protests in Washington and a scandal in the European media. Russia had denied the story as preposterous and Ukraine had condemned any potential arms dealing, stepping up the size of their border guards units.
Lesukov was beginning to feel the pinch as he found it harder and harder to get his goods out of the country.
Lesukov paused and refilled the glasses. “How many of the Orly still serve with you?” It was a question to Bull. Orly, the Russian for ‘eagles’, was not a regimental title but a traditional name used to signify fearless fighting men.
“Of my Brigada, six, however since we have become freelance we have many more good men.”
After leaving the Red Army Spetsnaz Bull had recruited other former ‘special forces’ soldiers from numerous Soviet Republics. These were some of the most highly trained soldiers in the world, yet had been discarded when the Union crumbled. He had bought their loyalty for little more than a few hundred dollars each, as a hero of Afghanistan he already had their respect. For the past fifteen years he had accumulated a reputation in several war zones as a ruthless leader, mercenary and a surprisingly good business facilitator. He had brokered arms deals with the Mujahedeen, rebels in Georgia’s breakaway Abkhazia region, and insurgents in Africa, to name but a few. Now it was only natural that one of the main suppliers of weapons should want his direct assistance.
“What had you in mind, my old friend?” Bull asked.
Lesukov smiled, raised his glass again. “To women.” The other two followed. It was not that they especially wanted to honour women, but a Soviet tradition for every third toast. He placed his hands flat on the metal desk.
“The Ukrainians have their own group of Orly, called the ‘SOCOL’. They are a highly effective anti-smuggling and anti-organised-crime unit. This I could normally admire, however they have now turned their focus on my shipments. In the last two months alone they have intercepted three shipments…” His voice trailed off as he totted up on his large fingers how much he had lost, he then doubled it. “They have cost me almost three million American dollars in profit!” His face had grown red and any hint of levity had passed.
He sighed and remembered th
e dusty mountains of Afghanistan some eighteen years before, and the young Spetsnaz captain who had fought next to him. “You were the best in Kabul, saved us all, now I ask you to save me again. I want you to stop this SOCOL team once and for good.”
Oleg, who had quietly listened, let his tongue run along the outside of his top lip. He loved action and had grown weary of ‘business’. To take on a real target was what he lived for. He looked at his CO.
Bull folded his arms and nodded. “It can be done, but of course there is a price.”
Lesukov’s eyes glinted, he had anticipated this. “I will give you ten percent of each shipment that passes successfully into Ukraine.”
“Thank you. Whilst that is a good offer, my friend, can I ask if you find it easy to export your ‘goods’ from Ukraine?”
Lesukov paused and in that millisecond confirmed what Bull had expected. “They are squeezing me from both ends. At one end I have the SOCOL and at the other Border Guards, customs officials who will not accept payments and…”
“Thirty percent, Ivan.”
“What?”
“Thirty percent and I take care of import into Ukraine and the export out of the territory.” Bull folded his arms.
Lesukov scratched his nose. “My margins are not that high Tauras. I can give you twenty.”
“Twenty-five percent and we can start today.” Bull held out his right hand. Lesukov momentarily paused then grasped this with his own.
“Deal. But you will not start today. Today we have a little fun, eh? I know an interesting club!” He refilled the glasses and then placed a call on his office phone.
This time Bull made the toast. “To business.”
They drank. There was a knock at the door; Lesukov beckoned a young man into the room. “Gentlemen, this is my nephew, Arkadi. He will take you to the hotel.”
“Zdravstvyite.” Arkadi Cheban greeted both men in Russian as he shook their hands. “This way please.”
Lesukov regarded his two comrades as they were led down the steps and out of the factory. He was once a Spetsnaz warrior himself but now, he held his considerable gut, he was the director of a chair factory. Officially.
*
Regus Business Centre, London, UK
The City Chamber of Commerce and Industry pre-mission briefing for the forthcoming Trade Mission to Ukraine was held at a Regus business centre in central London. The fourteen participating companies had in the main sent their representatives on this wet July day. Alistair Vickers was one of the first to arrive and had taken a seat, as befitted a man from the Embassy and official guest speaker, at the head of the long oval table. To his right sat Nicola Coen, the mission leader who would be accompanying the group to Kyiv. On her left sat the official mission travel agent, Wendy Jenkins from Watergate Travel. Vickers had made a joke about the company name but it had been heard by ears that had not understood, in Wendy’s case. Nicola had smiled and looked down at her papers, not wanting to make fun of her ‘travel management provider’.
The seat to Vickers’s right was empty and reserved for the other guest speaker, Bhavesh Malik. Vickers had met him once before and on that occasion he had also been late. He picked up his copy of the hand-outs that accompanied the briefing and read the information about Bhavesh’s father Jasraj, which had been lifted from the company’s own unashamed website:
‘NewSound – A success story! At the age of fifteen Jasraj moved to the UK, East Sussex, Portslade, in fact, to work for his Uncle’s hearing aid dispensing business. But by twenty-one “Jas”, as he became known to all his friends and customers, was qualified as an audiologist and set to work designing his own aids. His aids were some of the first BTE – Behind the Ear models – to go on sale in the UK! Now after forty-seven years of hard work Jas’s front room workshop has turned into three manufacturing plants in the UK, Pakistan and Ukraine, producing high quality hearing aids and covert listening devices.’
Vickers skipped the more self-congratulatory bits and focused on the part which the missioners had come to learn about:
‘…Opened in 1999, the Odessa manufacturing site is based in what was formally a top secret Soviet telecommunications plant. Initially aided by European Union money and taking advantage of Investment Zone status granted to the area by the Ukrainian government, it soon started mass production…’
Vickers replaced the hand-out on the table and picked up the mission brochure which detailed the various British companies ever hopeful of selling their particular brand of goods into Ukraine. These companies included amongst others: a manufacturer of industrial chemical metering equipment, a management training consultancy, a nickel alloy welding supplier, a pharmaceutical manufacturer and distributor, a language school, a giftware company and, much to his amusement, a Saville Row tailor.
Looking around the room he saw that most of the missioners had now arrived and were just waiting for the final two to finish pouring their coffee and deciding which biscuits to put on their saucers. The tall double doors opened and in stepped Bhavesh Malik. He smiled at Nicola and Vickers and placed his umbrella in the stand, brushing the rain from his lapels, he took his place.
Nicola started the briefing, “Thank you all for coming today, I know that for some of you London is not the easiest of places to get to. As you will see, each of you has a briefing pack which includes our itinerary for today, the proofs of the mission brochure and copies of the information that Wendy and myself will be giving you. But first I want to start by introducing our two guest speakers for today. Alistair Vickers is the commercial attaché at the British Embassy in Kyiv. He will be giving a business overview of Kyiv and the rest of Ukraine.”
Vickers smiled and looked around the room meeting the gaze of expectant faces.
“Bav Malik is the managing director of NewSound UK and his company is somewhat of an export success story. He will be letting you in on the secrets of how to make your business work in Ukraine. But first to practical matters, Wendy here, who I believe most of you will have spoken to on the telephone, has some good news. Wendy?”
Wendy unfolded her arms and opened an envelope; her accent, much to Vickers’s chagrin, was estuary English. “I am happy to say that Air Ukraine International has now confirmed your seats and sent me the tickets. You will be pleased to know that I have managed to get you all complimentary entrance to the business lounge at Gatwick and on your departure at Borispil Airport.”
Vickers sipped his tea and listened as Wendy handed out tickets and together with Nicola went through the travel itinerary. These were the usual points which needed to be clarified but Vickers did not know why he had to sit through it. Nonetheless he pretended to look interested and not stare at the clock, its hands moving ever so slowly, at the opposite end of the room. The technicalities over with, the floor was his. Vickers gave the prepared FCO (Foreign & Commonwealth Office) statement on Ukraine, the story since independence in 1991, the investment climate, the current government and of course the inherent risks of doing business in an emerging market. “I am now happy to answer any questions you might have.”
“I saw a lot at the time about the Orange Revolution in the press and on television.” It was the language school rep, or Director of International Studies, as his mission entry read. “What do you think will be the long term outcome of this and what will be the impact?”
Vickers nodded; he of course had two opinions on this. The official HM Government voice and his own personal one. He decided to live dangerously. “As I am sure you must be aware, the former president had been in power for two terms so could not sit for a third. More reforms were needed and the new government promised to achieve these. The new president, Victor Yushenko, was a former prime minister and Head of the National Bank of Ukraine. His party came to power representing reform and I believe that is what got the people’s vote. The main rival candidate for his presidency, as I am sure you are aware, was the then prime minister, Victor Yanukovich. He was being backed by the then president.”
“Yes, Kuchma. When Yushenko got elected he wanted to form closer ties with the west, however that was over a year ago. In the recent parliamentary elections Yanukovich gained the most votes and now he is once again the prime minister. He, it is fair to say, would rather improve ties with Moscow.”
The Director of Studies raised his eyebrows. “Do you think that the parliamentary election was rigged like the first presidential election was?”
Vickers realised that he was on thin ice. “I can’t comment on that. I think that the electorate may have expected change to come too fast. Perhaps that is why now we have both Yushenko and Yanukovich, as it were, ‘in power’. This however is only my opinion. The reforms are still going through and so far the business environment has seemed to improve. Yushenko at least is working hard to attract foreign trade and investment.”
The next question came from the pharmaceutical rep. “In other markets I’ve visited there have been counterfeit versions of my company’s products. Is this likely to be the case in Ukraine?”
“Ukraine is not yet a member of the World Trade Organisation but is hoping to join. It is quite easy to see pirated DVDs, CDs and some fashion items in the open air markets. There are imported medical products from the subcontinent which have been investigated. There are however many international brands trading in Ukraine and they have not reported any serious problems to either myself or the Ukrainian Chamber of Commerce. But this is not to say that some counterfeiting does not exist.”