Cold Blood

by Alex Shaw

  Zukauskas grabbed a mortar and turned it around to face the oncoming threat, one-handed he dropped a mortar into the tube and fired. Unsighted, the bomb flew over the Mujahedeen and landed harmlessly, save for an explosion. Securing the tube on the ground he sighted it whilst Gorodetski dropped in a new shell. This time the explosion landed just to the left of the advancing fighters. Some stopped, others carried on.

  Bull joined Lesukov. There was a grin on Lesukov’s face. “We make our own luck!”

  “No. We make it unlucky for them!”

  A sound from below brought Bull very much back to the present. He raised the kite sight and saw three trucks moving slowly along the rural road. Shifting his weight slightly he looked to his left and could make out the hunched figures of the militia’s ‘SOCOL’ Eagle unit further down the incline in front of him. His lips formed a serpent like smile as he depressed the switch on his covert transmitter twice. Seconds later his ready signal was acknowledged by three bursts of static in his earpiece.

  On the valley floor the lead truck slowed and stopped. The driver stepped out and made a show of kicking the tyre in disgust. The two remaining trucks concertinaed and also stopped. Soon all three drivers were inspecting the ‘guilty tyre’. In the green haze of the night scope; movement again as a larger but solitary truck appeared on the horizon heading directly towards the convoy from the opposite direction. It joined them and the driver greeted his fellow truckers warmly and offered his help and advice.

  As Bull had hoped, the stationary convoy made too good a target to pass up. The armed members of the SOCOL appeared on the road below and advanced towards the drivers, weapons up. The second SOCOL group on the hill now stood and started down the incline on a ninety-degree approach to the target. Bull pressed his switch again. SOCOL’s ‘plan’ was going to plan, here twenty kilometres inside the Ukrainian border they would intercept the latest arms shipment and punch a hole in this smuggling route, that was, until…

  Bull’s sign was this time met by two short static bursts. From above and to the right his men opened fire. A tracer flew towards the descending SOCOL ‘cut off’ group. Four fell without even knowing where their executioners were. The remaining two flung themselves down on the barren hillside and scrambled for the smallest piece of cover. On the road the intercept team had just enough time to train their weapons. The lieutenant, whose reactions had been surprisingly rapid, managed to get off a single low velocity round from his pistol which struck Driver Two square in his concealed Kevlar breast plate. Staggering back he had fallen as Drivers One and Three let rip with armour-piercing rounds from short barrelled AKs, all but cutting the officer in half. Further shots sought out the two attackers on the hill and the engagement was over within minute one. Like the Poznan anti-terrorist police a decade before, the Ukrainian SOCOL had met the Soviet Red Army Spetsnaz and lost. Bull stood, walked down the hill and joined his Brigada. The first part of his business deal had just gone through. He exchanged congratulatory glances with his men and retrieved a satellite phone from a padded pocket.

  *

  Tiraspol, Transdniester

  Ivan Lesukov sat in the sauna and sweated. “You have done well my friend. And the other half of the bargain? You are a real man of your word, Bull.” He shut his flip phone and placed it on the wooden plank next to him.

  “They have done it?” Arkadi Cheban was anxious to know.

  Lesukov beamed. “Yes they have. The shipments will no longer be hampered by those Ukrainian ‘heroes’.”

  “That is great news uncle.” Cheban used the term as a sign of respect. Lesukov was actually the uncle of his wife. He had married into the business, leaving his days of being an interpreter behind.

  Lesukov wiped his brow and looked at the younger man. He was ready. “We are expanding on all fronts Arkadi and I have a job for you.” He noticed Arkadi’s narrow chest swell with pride. “I want you to organise our deliveries in London. Who knows, you may even be able to import chairs.” He tapped his nose.

  Arkadi was ecstatic, he had been dreaming of permanently leaving this joke of a country for ever. When he had been ordered back from England by his uncle he had thought that perhaps he had done something wrong and had even questioned whether to return or not. He had after all only been there for three months, but on the contrary, ‘uncle’ had been impressed. “Thank you, uncle.”

  “I know how you much you will miss Yulia but trust me she would be able to join you soon.”

  In fact during his time in London Arkadi had not been missing his wife at all. He was quite taken with the Polish girl who worked in the local coffee shop. “I do hope so uncle; it is lonely without her.”

  Lesukov liked this. Having no children of his own his sister’s daughter was very dear to him and he would kill anyone who did not treat her with respect.

  Arkadi changed the subject. “Why is Pashinski called ‘The Bull’?”

  Lesukov held up his finger. “When we were young conscripts together, about your age, we had a very stupid sergeant who asked Tauras his name. When he replied, the man asked him if he was a Bull – like the star chart. I do not know why this offended him but Tauras hit him. You see, the sergeant did not like Lithuanians. Tauras was beaten and left outside in the snow tied to a post for three days. A month later the sergeant disappeared on a training exercise. For my part, I think that he is more like a venomous snake.”

  THREE

  Fontanka, Odessa Oblast, Ukraine

  The best rooms were of course on the thirtieth floor. Here the penthouses had floor to ceiling glass walls which gave fantastic views of the landscaped gardens and private beach. The top five floors were VIP class with private clubrooms. Every room in the hotel had both sea and inland view as the structure curved like a giant wave. The hotel was indeed fantastic, or would be, Varchenko reminded himself, once it was built. Yes. The architect had done a great job of transferring his vision from idea to plans and now to a scale model. It was now the foreigners he needed to turn the model into reality. Even his wealth alone could not bankroll this venture. A man of the world, he liked to think, since 1991 he had travelled to the best resort and gaming hotels in the world. This hotel would not be Nice’s Hotel Negro; it would not be Caesar’s Palace, New York’s Four Seasons, the Sandy Lane of Barbados, London’s Ritz or Dubai’s Burgh Al Arab. This would be the Hotel Noblesse and it would be his.

  Meetings had been arranged with venture capitalists in London, New York, Zurich and Vienna. He had brought, at his own cost, potential partners to Ukraine. The diving would rival Egypt (they would make a fake reef), the service seven star. This would be the new principality of the twenty-first century and he would be the new prince!

  Although he had a tear in the eye and the vodka bottle was empty, he was not a dreamer. Valeriy Varchenko stood, patted the roof of his hotel, and retired for the evening.

  *

  Odessa, Southern Ukraine

  Sergey Gorodetski threw the grappling hook over the ledge of the warehouse, making sure it was fast before carefully hauling himself up the wall and onto the roof. He paused, counted to a hundred and when he heard no sounds of alarm or noises from below worked his way forward on the gravelled roof, all the while making sure to keep his body below the skyline. On reaching the edge of the roof, he leaned against the parapet and removed his rifle from its canvas carry case. He inspected it for dirt before looking down the sight to check for misalignment. Making the necessary adjustment, he carefully chambered the first round. It was two forty-five and he had exactly five hours to wait for his prey who was, by his very nature, a creature of habit.

  Jas Malik pulled his trench coat around his body and stepped into the back of the Lexus. Ruslan had kept him waiting. Today’s excuse: the local militia refused to let him turn right… or something... Jas didn’t care why he was late, just that he was. Jas did not like this. His father had taught him the value of time at an early age in Islamabad when he’d whipped him for having the audacity to be late for
the family stall. Casting Ruslan a stern look he urged him to ‘bloody hurry up and get him to the factory’.

  “Yes sir,” replied the bemused Ukrainian.

  ‘I have to open the factory at seven forty-five. No later,’ he ordered, shooting Ruslan a glare before transferring his attention to the heavy lifting cranes of the Odessa docks.

  Ruslan slumped over the wheel and made faces in the mirror that only he could see. A veteran of Afghanistan he did not suffer fools, such as Jas, gladly, but the fool paid his boss well, besides, he got to drive this big Lexus and the women loved it.

  Seven twenty. Sergey took up his trigger position on the factory car park. He was invisible to those below unless they made the fatal mistake of staring directly up. Experience and training had taught him patience. What was that English saying his training instructor had told him? Ah yes, ‘slowly, slowly catchy monkey’. Never before had the saying made so much sense. His eyes started to water and blur his vision. He squeezed them shut and open again blinking, fighting the urge to rub. He would not take his eyes off of the trigger position, not now, not after what felt like years of waiting. He would do this now, and he would do it perfectly.

  Jas liked the journey to the factory. Speeding past the mainly Soviet-era traffic made up of Ladas, Volgas, Kamaz trucks and the odd Jigoli, he felt that he had really arrived. He allowed himself to smile as he recalled the look he had seen on the faces of the so-called ‘old men’ of the business when he announced his successful bids for hitherto secretive state tenders in Ukraine, Belarus and Russia. Let the corporate Germans in Erlangen call him a tin-pot Packi now!

  A car engine approached and Sergey made his final adjustments. The dark blue Lexus rounded the corner of the warehouse and drew to a halt in front of the main entrance. Sweat formed on his brow despite the unseasonably chilly morning air as he concentrated on the cross hairs of the Dragunov’s sight. The door opened and the target started to rise. Let him get out, don’t rush… apply second pressure to the trigger. The single shot flew along the barrel and covered the short distance to the target. There was a crack and suddenly a cloud of blood. The target was propelled backwards, striking the rear panel of the limousine before hitting the ground. The driver momentarily froze before throwing himself to the floor and scrabbling behind the car for cover.

  *

  British Embassy, Kyiv, Ukraine

  Vickers frowned as Macintosh passed him the report, ashen faced. “It happened this morning Alistair. The driver was unharmed. Mr Malik died instantly. The militia think it was a professional hit.”

  Scanning the two sides of A4 type Cyrillic print, Vickers’s brow furrowed even deeper than normal. “Anyone would think this was sodding Moscow. I don’t suppose the local militia have anything to go on?”

  The ambassador shook his head. In his time at the British Embassy he had heard of two other assassinations, both had been foreign investors and both had been unsolved. “The first Brit to open a manufacturing plant in Ukraine becomes the first Brit to be murdered in Ukraine. The EU is not going to like it one little bit.” Vickers massaged his temples. “I’ll liaise with the SBU. We’ll have to eventually put out a press statement. We don’t want to undo what little commercial progress we’ve made thus far.”

  “And his family?” the ambassador asked with a concerned voice.

  Vickers, still scanning the report, looked up, “Oh yes, we should inform them.” He read on, suddenly arching his eyebrows. “Surprisingly the body will be on its way back to Kyiv tomorrow. Apparently the SBU don’t trust the local coroner to carry out the post mortem. Once that has been completed I’ll have Consulate arrange passage to the UK.”

  Macintosh nodded, looking decidedly pale. Vickers left the ambassador’s office and asked his secretary to send him in a ‘tea’. Macintosh was career diplomat and skilled at cocktail parties but when the real world encroached on his delicate sensibilities he really struggled. That’s why I’m here, mused Vickers.

  Nearing his own office he remembered the email in his in tray from the CCCI mission manager in London. Bugger, that was his other hat calling. Alistair Vickers’s official post was that of Commercial Attaché at the British Embassy, Kyiv. He however wore another, albeit invisible hat, that of the SIS man in Ukraine. Kyiv had been Vickers’s second-choice posting after Moscow.

  Sitting back at his own desk he picked up a custard cream and crunched it between his teeth before sipping his now cold tea, White Earl Grey with two sugars. A purist would never add the milk but he just liked it that way. He replaced the cup and saucer on his desk and leant back to concentrate on the report. He had of course met Jas on many occasions. The man was not afraid of self-advertising and had managed to get into most of the national newspapers as well as join expatriate business groups such as the American Chamber of Commerce. In fact he was probably one of the most well-known ‘Brits’ in Ukraine, which made his murder all the more curious.

  Vickers liked to think that he knew the feel of a place and spoke regularly with his contacts in the Sluzhba Bezpeky Ukrayiny (SBU), the Ukrainian security service. He had been of the opinion that Jas had had a good ‘Krisha’, a ‘roof’ in other words; his local partner had protected him from any unsavoury interest from other businessmen, mafia. Big business to some extent was still governed by the mafia in Ukraine and the more noise you made the more likely it was that you would encounter them. Jas’s partner was ideally placed to protect him. The man was a former KGB general and Hero of the Soviet Union who now had amassed a fortune as a businessman. If anyone called the shots then this man, General Valeriy Varchenko, did. As close to an Oligarch as you could get in Ukraine, Varchenko had his base in Odessa, Ukraine’s pretty port city. Vickers crunched on another biscuit. Why would anyone pick a fight with Varchenko, for killing his business partner surely was an act of war?

  *

  Central Kyiv

  “Da. I’m listening.”

  Dudka cleared his throat, “Please put me through to Valeriy Ivanovich.”

  There was a slight pause. “Whom would you be?”

  “Tell him it is Genna.” Dudka drummed his fingers on the plastic café table.

  Another pause, noises in the background. “OK.”

  Dudka heard a rustling at the other end and then a muffled voice started to speak, “Gennady Stepanovich, my dear friend how are you?”

  “Fine my friend. Is this an inconvenient moment?”

  “No, no,” Varchenko replied, “I am in the middle of a rather good lobster. The next time you are in Odessa you really must try one.”

  Dudka eyed his pathetic café sandwich. “I have something that I need to discuss with you.”

  “Oh, and what might that be?” Varchenko’s voice was now clear.

  Dudka cast his eyes around the terrace; there seemed to be no one eavesdropping. “Can we meet at the dacha?”

  If any other man had received a call from a Deputy Head of the SBU, the Head of the Main Directorate for Combating Corruption and Organized Crime, they would have been justified in showing concern, however with Valeriy Varchenko, the retired KGB general, what registered sounded more like annoyance. “It is not very convenient.”

  “I insist old friend.” Dudka held firm, after all he was still the enlisted man even though he turned a ‘general’ blind eye to the general in Odessa.

  Varchenko sighed, more for effect than anything else. “Very well. We’ll meet tomorrow afternoon at three. I’ll even have the chef here prepare you a lobster.”

  “Agreed.” Dudka put the phone down. He knew where the chef could stick his precious lobster. He bit into his open sausage sandwich. The money and power had clearly gone to his old friend’s head.

  FOUR

  Podilsky School International, Berezniki, Kyiv, Ukraine

  Snow rubbed his right thigh, it was playing up again. Was he getting too old for this? He pondered a moment before dismissing the idea. “You’re thirty-four, not fifty.” He surveyed the class as they continued to j
og around the small area of grass circling the playground. Some of these kids, especially Yusuf, the Turkish lad, could give him a run for his money. “That’s it, two more laps and you’ve finished.”

  Would these same kids be so eager to join a running club if they were back home in a normal comprehensive? He thought not. International schools seemed to bring out the best in children. Most would be bilingual by the end of their parents’ three year stint. Snow blew his whistle and gestured that it was time to go in. Counting heads he headed back to the school entrance along the small paved path that they shared with the residents of Kyiv’s Berezniki suburb. Yusuf caught up with him and trotted alongside. “Did you see how I run, Mr Snow?” he asked expectantly. “I beat Ryoski and Grant.”

  Snow nodded and smiled. Yusuf was twelve, quite tall for his age and wiry. He had the perfect runner’s physique and a real talent.

  “Well done Yusuf. I’m impressed.”

  Yusuf smiled back, picked up his pace and jogged the remaining distance around the corner and into the main entrance. There was a banging; Snow raised his hand to screen the glare of the sun as Michael Jones opened the staffroom window.

  “Hey Aidan, have you seen this?” Michael’s west Wales tones lilted to accentuate the question. “Murder in Odessa. And to think I was there last weekend!”

  Snow took the Kyiv Post and looked at the main page.

  ‘British investor slain in Odessa factory shooting.’ He scanned the story as Jones kept an eye on the rest of the runners ambling past.

  “What d’ya think?” Jones’s eyebrows arched in his usual show of curiosity.

  Snow studied his friend’s ruddy face. “I’m glad I’m just a teacher and no one important.”