Cold Blood

by Alex Shaw

  *

  Odessa, Southern Ukraine

  Varchenko put the large Crimean grape into his mouth and looked at Ruslan. He was a mess. Tubes stuck out of his nose and greasy hair protruded from his bandaged scalp. He was now sitting upright and could finally speak for the first time.

  “Tell me exactly what happened?” Varchenko held a cup to Ruslan’s lips and he drank thankfully.

  “We followed the BMW as you ordered but as soon as we got near enough to ram them they opened fire.”

  Varchenko had been given some information by the ‘tame’ local militia who had found the wreckage of the G Wagon and Ruslan but he wanted to hear it first-hand.

  “We had no chance; their weapons were automatic. I think I managed to return fire then my front tyres blew and the next thing I can remember, the jeep is rolling off the road.”

  “But it was armour plated!” Varchenko gave him another mouthful of water.

  “Then the bullets were armour piercing. Valeriy Ivanovich, I did my best… What of the others?”

  There had been three others in the Mercedes, each armed with Glock hand guns. As employees of Varchenko’s security firm Getman Bespeka, he had personally met their families and dependants and provided financial recompense. “They are all dead Ruslan. You are the only survivor and that, I presume, is because they wanted you to live.”

  Ruslan swallowed hard and closed his eyes. “I will kill them!”

  “No Ruslan, you will not. They want me not you.” Varchenko placed his hand on that of his injured employee. “You will be well looked after here.”

  Varchenko left the hospital and climbed into his waiting car. What he was dealing with here was more serious than he had imagined. He had to find out who these people really were and to do this he has to lose face and call his old subordinate, Genna.

  SIX

  City Centre, Kyiv, Ukraine

  Breathing deeply but steadily Snow pumped his legs up the hill and past the Ukrainian parliament, the Verhovna Rada. It was 7:15 a.m. and he was half way through his morning run. The guards outside were used to seeing joggers in the park opposite but Snow was the only one to run on their side of the road and directly past them. It astonished Snow how close he actually was to the entrance yet was never challenged. Cresting the hill he increased his pace and ran past the Presidential administration building. His route, which he had now perfected, took him down Pushkinskaya, across Maidan and along Khreshatik, up the hill past the Hotel Dnipro to the Verhovna Rada, the Presidential administration building and back down the hill this time via the Ivana Franka Theatre, through Passage before finally running uphill again and into Pushkinskaya.

  On days that he felt he needed to push himself he would stop halfway at the Dynamo Stadium and complete a few laps of the track before continuing on his way. However today he felt hampered by a mild hangover. It was Monday morning and was to be Arnaud’s first day at Podilsky, yet they had both decided the night before to have ‘a few’ pints at Eric’s. Snow was glad that Mitch was in Belarus on business and that Michael Jones had not made it; otherwise it would have become a heavy session. Fifteen minutes later he was stretching outside the front of his building as the street sweepers made their way towards him.

  “Fancy a coffee?” Arnaud was on the balcony above, cup in one hand waving. Snow needed no second invite and within minutes was walking from the shower to kitchen. Arnaud had made toast and was busy buttering a thick slice as he read an old issue of the Kyiv Post.

  “You should have told me you were going to jog, I’d have come too.”

  Snow finished drying his hair and dropped the towel on the empty seat. “After what you drank last night?”

  “Hmm, maybe not.” Arnaud bit into his toast. As Snow poured himself a coffee Arnaud noticed a faint long scar on Snow’s right leg stretching from just below his boxer shorts to just above the knee. “How did you do that?”

  Snow sipped his coffee. “I was in a bad car crash a few years back. Lucky to survive actually.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t know.”

  “How would you?” It was too soon for Snow to share his past with his new friend. Snow surveyed the table. Arnaud had made a large pile of hand cut toast and set out two plates. Snow sat and took some toast. “You’d make someone a good wife.”

  Arnaud looked up, his lips caked in crumbs. “I’m open to offers.”

  The previous day and a half since his arrival Arnaud and Snow had mostly drank and ogled women. Snow found himself liking Arnaud and seeing in him himself ten years ago. They’d started with a tour of the city centre, beer bottles in hand purchased from a street kiosk. Snow had led Arnaud up Prorizna Street and along Volodymyrska pausing at the Golden Gate (the medieval entrance to Kyiv), the old KGB (now SBU) building, two cathedrals which Arnaud had already forgotten the names of, before pointing out the British Embassy. “If you ever get stopped by the police just say ‘British Embassy’,” Snow had advised. “The local militia are a bit scared of stopping a foreigner and will think that you are a diplomat.”

  They then met Michael Jones and his wife in a small open air bar on Andrivskyi Uzviz, the steep cobbled tourist area which led down to the oldest part of Kyiv, Podil. There Arnaud had been excited to see the vast range of ex-Soviet militaria on offer in addition to paintings, amber jewellery and numerous matrioshka (Russian dolls) of all shapes and sizes. Snow managed to persuade him not to buy a fur hat; instead he bought two Vostok automatic KGB watches, a hipflask and a set of matrioshka painted with the faces of Soviet leaders. The vendor said that if Arnaud supplied pictures of his family then he could have a set of matrioshka hand painted for him. Arnaud agreed and had already started to decide who should be the biggest and who was to be the smallest. He finally decided on his dog, then his sister, but only just.

  “How are you enjoying Kyiv, Arnaud?” Michael had asked, his wife Ina sitting at his side.

  Arnaud looked down the street at a pair of local girls. “The beer and the scenery are great.”

  Michael, who had already finished three pints, or half litres as they were served in Ukraine, let his face crease into a dirty toothed smile. “You’d have to be either bent or stupid to have an unemployed knob here!”

  Michael sniggered whilst Ina nudged him in the side. “What? It’s true for sure.”

  “So which are you then?” Arnaud looked at his flatmate.

  Snow finished his mouthful of beer. “The exception to the rule.”

  Ina smiled and touched his hand, Arnaud felt slightly embarrassed. Was there something he did not know of? “How long have you been here?” he asked Michael.

  “Me? Phew, too long!” He sniggered again. “I came in 1996 for four months and have so far stayed for ten years. I could apply for a Ukrainian passport!”

  “Has it changed a lot?”

  “Some things. When I came here there were no supermarkets and people bought their meat on the street.”

  “Michael, that’s not true.” Ina felt the need to defend her country. “We always could buy meat in the Gastronom or the market.”

  “Which was on the street!” Michael quickly swigged more beer.

  “Michael!” Ina was annoyed. When the men got together they became just as silly as the schoolboys they both taught. “We have more shops now since independence and there are more places to go.”

  “Expensive places,” Michael, who was known for his conservative spending on all things except beer and cigarettes, added.

  “So Arnodt, where are you from?” Ina ignored her drunken husband.

  “Arnaud.”

  “Sorry what did I say, Arnod… Arnode. Your name is a bit difficult for me to say, I haven’t heard it before.” She blushed.

  “It’s French. My mother is French, from Nice, and my dad is English and from Surrey – it’s not ‘nice’.”

  “So you speak French and English fluently Arnoode?” Ina was impressed.

  “Yes I’ve always been bilingual, for me it’s natural. What abo
ut you? Your English is good.”

  Michael finished his fourth half litre and, shouting at a passing waitress, ordered another round. “Wasn’t when we met. She couldn’t say a word.”

  “That’s not quite true Michael. I learnt English at school but never used it. In the Soviet Union we did not have the possibility to travel to England so I never got to practice. Even my English teacher had never been to England, can you imagine that?”

  “Wow. That’s crazy. The basis of learning any foreign language is exposure to native speakers.”

  “So…” Michael’s eyes lit up, “ten years ago I exposed myself to her and she’s never been the same!”

  Michael roared with laughter and Snow almost gagged on his beer. There was a delayed reaction from Ina, who punched her husband in the ribs.

  “Right.” Snow finished his coffee. “The school bus will be outside at eight. It will just pull up on the pavement so we have to be ready for it. I’ll finish getting dressed. Are you ready?”

  Arnaud nodded, “Yeah just got to do my hair.”

  Snow looked at his flatmate’s blonde mop of hair, “Sorry mate, I thought you were wearing a woolly hat.”

  *

  SBU Headquarters, Volodymyrska Street, Kyiv

  Dudka had received the call late on Sunday. His mobile switched off; the call to his landline, a number which only a very select few knew, had interrupted his meal. Sitting in his flat on Zankovetskaya Street he had been looking forward to a little stroll with his dog before retiring for the evening. Now however his weekend had been shortened and he had to look at this. The deaths of Varchenko’s employees had been kept very hushed indeed. A few thousand dollars here and there had reinforced Varchenko’s position with the Odessa police and Dudka guessed that the relatives had also been paid off. Such was the way with bandits like Valeriy. He had sounded almost humble on the telephone, although not quite, when asking for Dudka’s help. He had relayed the story of the meeting with Knysh which led to the shootings.

  “Why did you not tell me this sooner?” demanded Dudka, now standing, arms folded, in the kitchen. “This is a very serious matter. You have withheld information in a highly public SBU investigation, in fact possibly the most public investigation in SBU history!”

  Varchenko, although humbled, nevertheless was angered by Genna’s tone. “This man threatened me and I took action. He is a danger to us both and needs to be stopped.”

  Again Dudka had to concede that Varchenko was correct. He had too much to lose himself. As he looked around his large but still Soviet flat this, however, was not obvious. He had been very clever. Investing his money in first his daughter’s and now his granddaughter’s education in Switzerland. It was they and his late wife who had benefited, not he, from his agreement with Valeriy Ivanovich.

  “Very well Valeriy. I will send you my best man and you will tell him all about this meeting in the car. You will give him a full description of this Knysh. He will carry a computer with photo-fit technology. He will be under my orders to speak to no one but you and me.”

  Varchenko snorted at the other end of the phone but was however relieved. “Genna I hope for both our sakes that this is a man we can trust.”

  Dudka rubbed his eyes. He had not slept well and morning had caught him unawares. His second cup of coffee finished, he called his secretary to bring another. She entered followed by Boris Budanov, who had been summoned by his boss. Dudka pointed to a seat and Budanov sat. Once the secretary had shut the door Dudka spoke.

  “Boris Ruslanovich I have a highly delicate and secretive task for you to perform. You will tell no one about this and speak to no one other than myself and the person you will be interviewing. Do I make myself understood?”

  “Yes, Gennady Stepanovich.”

  “Good.” He pushed an envelope across the desk. “Inside you will find the name and address of the person you are to see and also $300. You are to use this money to purchase an airline ticket to Odessa and cover any other expenses. You will take a laptop computer with our photo-fit software installed and will compile an accurate image of our suspect. Any questions?”

  Budanov swallowed hard. “Does this relate to the Malik case, Gennady Stepanovich?”

  “Yes. And before you ask, yes, that case is being handled by Blazhevich but this is a new and confidential lead. Get to Odessa, get the photo-fit and get back to deliver this to me as soon as possible. I cannot emphasise enough how critical this matter is.”

  *

  Podilsky School International, Berezniki, Kyiv, Ukraine

  The journey to school had been interesting. Arnaud recognised a few of the places he had already been to but within five minutes was lost. The bus stopped in total four times to collect children. Unlike his secondary school teaching experience, at Podilsky Arnaud would be teaching year three primary right up to A level, or year twelve and thirteen, as they were now called. Smiley faces looked at Arnaud and asked who he was. Snow did the introductions. Forty minutes later they were at the school complex and the pupils were running to meet up with friends already in their classrooms or arriving by car. The teenagers were too cool to run and wearing a mixture of predominately black and purple baggy jeans and ‘hoodies’ they ambled in at their own speed.

  Arnaud took in the size of the building. “Surely this is not all the school, is it?”

  “No. The building is a technical college and it rents out some of its rooms. We have the wing on the right. On the left is an auditorium that we use for concerts, etc. There’s also a small café and some other offices that are let to a couple of businesses.”

  As Snow and Arnaud entered through the large aluminium doors, Arnaud’s attention was taken by a figure approaching from the main road. He stood motionless for a second. “Bugger me… look at that… she’s bloody gorgeous…”

  Snow turned and saw a woman approaching. “Yep, that she is.”

  Arnaud was still staring. “Who is she? Please don’t let her be one of the mums.”

  “Close your mouth, you’re dribbling.”

  “What? Oh.” Arnaud raised his hand to his mouth but felt nothing.

  The woman approached and removed her sunglasses. She looked directly at Snow then Arnaud, who was blocking the entrance.

  “Dobroye utro.” Snow bid her a good morning.

  The woman nodded at him, gave Arnaud a weird glance then made her way into the building and towards the left wing.

  “You know her? Please tell me you know her?” Arnaud was almost begging.

  “Her name is Larissa. She works for a Swiss watch importer and yes she is bloody gorgeous.” He put his hand on his friend’s back. “Come on, we better get inside.”

  As they walked towards the sign saying ‘Podilsky School International’, Arnaud could not help but turn once more and stare. He was rewarded with a glance of Larissa’s pert bottom as she disappeared through a door.

  *

  Chaika Sports Complex, Kyiv

  The phone was handed to him by Oleg. Bull removed his ear protectors. “Da?” The voice at the other end told him that there had been an interesting development. Bull raised his hand and the others stopped firing. The target range fell silent as he listened intently to his source. “You know what must be done.” The voice replied that he had understood and that he could be relied upon. The call ended, Oleg gave his commanding officer a questioning look. Bull waved him away and readied his weapon. The range erupted once more as controlled fire ripped apart targets.

  *

  Podilsky School International

  The classroom was full of teachers with cups of tea and coffee. Arnaud had already learnt that Ukrainians drank just as much tea, if not more, than the British. Arnaud sat at the back with Michael and Snow. Joan Greenhill was at the teacher’s desk at the front of the room reading notes. She looked up over her glasses and smiled. “Are we all here?”

  “Yes, Mrs Greenhill,” came the choral reply from well-practised members of staff mimicking children in assembly.


  “Good, good. Now the first thing that you have all probably noticed is this gentleman sitting at the back. Arnaud, wave!”

  He did as requested. “Hello.”

  “Now most of you will have met Arnaud already but for those of you that haven’t I’ll just give a brief introduction. Arnaud has joined us from the UK and will be teaching French, ESL and some P.E.”

  Arnaud was always a bit embarrassed meeting new people, especially women, and had turned a shade of pink. Greenhill then carried on with the rest of the agenda. Arnaud listened intently as he tried to soak up as much information about the school and its running as possible. Snow nudged him in the side. Arnaud looked past him and out of the window to see Larissa walking past. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in real life and he could not take his eyes off of her.

  As the meeting finished Michael tapped Arnaud on the shoulder. “Drink?”

  “You need to ask?”

  “I know just the place.” It was Snow. “We’ll stop a car.”

  The three teachers collected their bags and left the school. They walked to the main road where Snow held out his hand. A car stopped, this time a large Volga, and the driver wound down the window. Snow leaned forward, told the driver where they wanted to go and haggled over the price. He agreed and they got in, Snow in front with the others behind. Arnaud noticed the ubiquitous miniature icon on the dashboard of mother and baby. Even with all four windows open the car stank of smoke. The driver steered one handed whilst his left hand moved from lips to window to flick ash. The car took them from the newer Soviet utilitarian left bank to the picturesque right, over the Paton Bridge before depositing them outside a street café.