by Alex Shaw
“Anything to tell me about the Malik case?” Vickers asked between breaths.
Blazhevich shook his head. “Nothing more. We are still interviewing those linked to the company.”
“That includes General Varchenko?”
“He has made a statement directly to Dudka. It is very annoying.”
Vickers slowed to navigate a fallen tree trunk. “We need to get this one solved Vitaly, the trade implications are serious.”
“Alistair, do not think that we do not understand this.” He was not going to be pushed around by the English intelligence officer.
“Anything else?” The Malik case was not the only worry he had.
“There is some activity at the moment concerning the Moldavians.”
“Aha.” Vickers had been monitoring the group from Tiraspol, Transdniester who had links with arms dealers. Ukraine was fast becoming the main supply route for east-west and west-east for weapons, narcotics and human traffic. A fact that the respective governments of both intelligence officers was eager to stop. “And?”
“Our intelligence reports say that they are arranging new shipments in Lymans’ke, near the Ukrainian border. A border guard team has been put on standby and will be there to intercept if this takes place.”
“Vitaly. Our sources report more planned shipments within the next three months to a new buyer in Ukraine. We cannot close the factories but we can cut off their distribution network. It is of the utmost importance that these Moldovan separatists cease trading.”
Blazhevich nodded. He and his colleagues within the department had stated the same. At least six factories were thought to be churning out grenades, rocket launchers, Makarov pistols, Kalashnikov assault rifles, mortar tubes and other relatively low-tech weapons under contract to the Russian military and possibly skimming off surplus production to sell to arms dealers. The gangs were somehow evading capture and weapons were still working their way to, among other destinations, Afghanistan and Chechnya. If they could only make a dent in this trade everyone would be happy. The SOCOL team had been very effective until they had been ambushed. This had been played down by the Ukrainian government, for various reasons about which Blazhevich could only speculate. If this was happening in Latin American the ‘North Americans’, thought Blazhevich, would have Delta force teams and laser guided bombs taking out the plants. So much for the real war on terror.
“On, On.” This time it was Arnaud who had spotted the arrow and sprinted like a maniac into the undergrowth leaving Snow in his wake, with Mitch and his hangover trailing.
Twenty minutes later and it was all over, Mitch had his ridiculous foam jester’s hat on and the Hashers were once again circled.
“Assembled Hashers, we have just two virgins to indoctrinate today. Step forward virgins!”
Snow pushed Arnaud, “Bon chance.”
“Who gives up these virgins to the Hash?” Mitch’s voice resounded in the forest clearing like an evangelical preacher. Snow stepped forward as did Peter Poland. Peter, who as his Hash name suggested, was from Poland, went first. He stood next to his virgin, Svetlana, and introduced her. Snow then made his introductions. Arnaud and Svetlana were placed back to back in the centre of the ring and each was given a large soup bowl of beer. Mitch started the song,
“Swing low, sweet chariot,
Coming forth…”
The rest of the Hashers joined in, “CUMMING!”
“…to carry us home, swing low sweet chariot,
Coming forth to carry us home…
Why was he born so beautiful, why was he born at all?
He’s no bloody use to anyone; he’s no bloody use at all…”
Mitch nodded to the virgins, who raised their bowls,
“Drink it down, dowwnn, down, dowwnn, ON YER HEAD!”
Arnaud caught on quicker that his fellow virgin. As the chant finished he triumphantly tipped his all but empty bowl over his head, whilst the unfortunate Svetlana who’d only sipped hers received an unexpected shower. Mitch and Randy exchanged a knowing smile. Another local girl who wanted to impress the ex-pats.
“Sveta,” Mitch held up his arms in an exaggerated manner, “Peter Poland has told me all about you. For ever more you will be known as ‘Hot Legs’. Arnaud you are half French so you will be known as ‘Frogs Legs’.”
A groan resounded around the party. Arnaud meanwhile grinned and cracked open the can Mitch had tossed him.
“Snow-Queen, music if you please!”
Snow pressed play on the CD multi-changer in Mitch’s SUV and the woods filled with the sound of Bryan Adams. Arnaud crossed to Mitch. “Your music?”
“Sure is, Frogs. You like it?”
“My dad used to listen to him.”
“Your dad! Jeez Frogs, don’t go and make me feel old I’ve got women to impress.”
With the social part in full swing Blazhevich slipped away to his own car and returned home whilst Vickers was cornered by an American wanting to know the best place to stay in London.
*
Inta Hotel, Vienna, Austria
The taxi passed St. Stephen’s Cathedral and turned down a side street, depositing the passenger and his luggage outside the Inta Hotel Vienna. The passenger paid the driver in US dollars and apologised for not having any local currency. The driver, used to such things, especially from Americans, courteously accepted the green notes without pointing out that the visitor had in fact paid double. Holding a cabin luggage sized Samsonite case in his left hand the American walked through the double doors and entered the hotel. He breathed in the scent of several voluminous vases of fresh flowers which almost covered the smell of fresh paint and barely trod carpet. The bell boy hurried over from the bar area and apologised profusely for not seeing him arrive and said how nice it was to see Mr Peters again in Vienna. At the desk he rang a bell and whilst they waited for the receptionist to appear he asked him if the flight from Bern had been a good one? The guest was about to speak when a tall blushing blonde appeared from the back room. She touched her lips with a serviette to remove a crumb.
“Welcome back Mr Peters. It is very nice to see you again.” She smiled.
“It’s great to be back, and to see you too,” replied Sergey Gorodetski.
Bernadette touched her glasses self-consciously. “Your room is ready for you Mr Peters. Just sign here.”
The express registration process completed, Sergey was led into the lift and up to the fourth floor. Bernadette looked on from her post. Yes, he was definitely handsome, but Americans certainly were funny, why was he wearing that silly beanie hat? Making idle chat the bell boy showed Sergey into his corner room. Don’t worry, he explained, as a regular guest he had been given a complimentary upgrade. Sergey thanked the boy, who was in fact a year older than he, and gave him a ten dollar bill.
Shutting the door, Sergey took off his coat and threw it onto the king size bed. He walked to the very corner of the room and noted that if he opened the window and stood on tip toe he could just catch a glimpse of the grand cathedral around the corner. He shut the window and kicking off his shoes padded over to the bathroom – a long white affair with a huge mirror opposite the bath. He stared at himself. Mark Peters stared back, only Mark Peters was not yet Mark Peters. Sergey removed his black framed glasses and then his hat. His blond locks tumbled out; he’d need to dye those before he stepped foot out of the room. He yawned, wanting to sleep but knowing that it would be bad trade craft to risk it now before he was ready. He left the bathroom, opened his case and removed his toiletries bag. He put the Do Not Disturb sign on the outside of his door then retrieved a ‘wash in wash out’ sachet of hair colour. Mark Peters had natural ginger hair.
*
Petropavlivska Borschagivka, Kyiv Oblast, Ukraine
The drive from the Hash has been just over half an hour. Arnaud sat wide eyed like a child at Christmas as Mitch navigated his company Porsche Cayenne along the new streets of Petropavlivska Borschagivka. Five years before the place had
been just a small village on the outskirts of Kyiv, three kilometres from the nearest metro station. The houses were ramshackle and belonged to farmers and locals who bussed into the city to work. Horse drawn carts were a common sight jostling for space with ancient Ladas. Now however, these houses fought for space amongst the new mega dachas of the rich and famous. Prices for land had rocketed from $5,000 for a house sized plot up to well over $100,000. A myriad of styles and colours met the eyes. In the UK houses of this size would have been at the end of secluded drives surrounded by hedges, but here the area looked like a giant size Barrat development.
As they turned into Mitch’s street they passed a four storey pink castle sitting next to a dilapidated bungalow. Arnaud had to admit that someday he’d love a castle of his own, although perhaps not pink. They sped along the narrow road; Mitch was showing off for his young friend. Snow’s knuckles were white on the dashboard and his face was emotionless. Mitch broke the silence. “See that one on the right?”
“Yeah.” Arnaud looked at the six storey building.
“The locals call it ‘Titanic’. You can’t see from this angle but the back is shaped a bit like a boat. They have a swimming pool on the second floor!”
“Jesus. How much would that cost?”
“There’s the funny part. It’s been empty for two years. It was up for sale for $80,000 but no one wanted it and now it’s on the market again for $250,000.”
Arnaud frowned. “But if it didn’t sell why put the price up?”
“Ukrainian economics, my friend. The owner didn’t want people to think he owned a cheap house.” Mitch slammed on the brakes as they arrived at his house. They went through the electronic gates which duly shut behind them. Mitch looked at Snow, who gave him an unimpressed stare.
“Next time I drive.” He exited the car.
“Bloody hell this is larger than my parents’ place!” Arnaud took in the three storey house in front of him.
“Impressive eh?” Mitch beckoned them follow him inside.
“Nah, you’ve seen one you’ve seen ’em all.” Snow winked, regaining his composure.
Mitch handed Arnaud and Snow a bottle of beer. “Actually that’s true. This one and the two behind are exactly the same, designed and built by the same people.”
“So how many bedrooms have you got Mitch?” Arnaud looked at the large chandelier hanging in the open plan lounge dining area.
Mitch ticked them off on his fingers. “Seven. One for each day of the week. In fact when I first moved in I slept each night in a different bed to see which I preferred.”
“And which one was that?”
Mitch pointed, “The couch. I fell asleep watching the baseball. I’ll give you a tour later if you’re interested.”
“So how come you’ve got such a large place then?” Arnaud could not stop gawking.
Mitch sat at the breakfast bar and bid the other two do the same. “My life story so far.”
Snow placed his bottle on the table, yawned and headed for the toilet, “Call me when he’s finished.”
Unperturbed Turney continued, “I’ve been with the company since I graduated UCLA. Before I came here I’d only worked in the states but all over, y’know, where I was needed. Anyhow just before I was offered this gig the wife and I decide to go our separate ways.”
“She didn’t understand him,” Snow shouted though the open toilet door.
“She understood me OK, it was the Puerto Rican maid I was screwing she couldn’t understand.” He took a swig of beer. “I know it shouldn’t have happened but I’m a bastard and it did. So hey. I looked at my options. The company wanted to expand here, so I asked for the job and hey presto. Anyway, I took over from the last guy they sent here; he had three kids, so I inherit this palace. That’s little me rattling around this place like Macaulay Culkin but with only a cleaner for company.” Another swig of beer and a grin spread across his face. “Best of all I arranged to have my salary part-paid into a Swiss account. She can’t touch it, the ex-wife.”
“You are a hard man Mr Turney.” Snow re-joined them.
“So seeing as we are swapping stories, are you going to tell him yours?” Mitch looked at Snow pointedly.
Arnaud noticed Snow’s eyes flicker angrily at Mitch before he batted away the suggestion with his hand. “Nah, I don’t want to give the poor kid nightmares.”
There was a pause and Arnaud sensed that he was either witness to a private joke or something they weren’t going to share. He broke the silence. “What are the neighbours like? I saw there were several Mercedes parked next door.”
“Mafia. The lot of them.”
“Really?” He leaned nearer.
“Who else could afford these places? Actually that’s not quite true. Come, I’ll show you.” Mitch walked through the French windows and into the garden. “Right; you see that one, three houses along – the light pink one.” Arnaud nodded. “It belongs to a famous Russian singer. Apparently she has sold more records than Tina Turner.”
Arnaud was impressed. “Any good?”
“Dunno, I’ve never bought her CD but sometimes I can hear her singing in the garden. I think it’s her or it could be next door’s cat.”
“And the other houses?”
“OK, next door there is a Dutch guy. I think he works for Unilever – he just moved in so I haven’t had the chance to say hello. On the left there is an old guy. I haven’t got a clue what he does but I know he’s got a pair of gorgeous daughters.”
“You hope they are his daughters,” noted Snow.
“Now the two houses at the back, the ones the same as this. One is empty and the other is owned by a businessman. I think he bought it about six months back. I’ve seen him around the centre when I’ve been entertaining clients; you know, Le Grand Café and places like that.”
“Yup.” Arnaud did know.
“Funny thing though, there’s always at least one light on, people coming and going and always several cars. My bet is that he actually is Mafia.”
“Don’t tell me you fancy his wife?” Snow asked with mock concern.
“I don’t think he has one.”
“That’s good. Otherwise he may make you an offer that you can’t remember.”
“What are you on about?” Arnaud was staring at the barred windows.
“The Godfather.”
“What?” He turned, puzzled.
“Jesus, Arnaud, how old are you again? Quick Mitch, take his beer before we’re arrested for corrupting a minor.”
TEN
Horley, United Kingdom
The mass of uniformed school children pushed past him like a tidal wave. Dressed in baggy black blazers they reminded him of Emperor Penguins, their head feathers replaced by unkempt hair. They were desperate to get home. Boarding the train Sergey forced his way up the carriage until he found one spare seat amongst a group of teenage boys. He looked at the seat next to the window and the boy whose feet were resting on it, his dirty white tennis shoes poking out from beneath a pair of regulation black trousers.
“Can I sit down please?” Sergey asked politely. There was no reply as the youths exchanged amused glances with each other. “Your feet are on the seat,” Sergey now stated curtly.
The youth and his mates looked up. “Yeah,” came the reply, another statement of fact, “and?”
The boy looked at the American but his face changed from amusement to uncertainty when he met his gaze. There was something about this geezer that was weird. The American stared back, his eyes not blinking and stepped forward. “Move them, move them now.”
The teenager started to say something but thought better of it. “I’m out of here.” He stated with a grunt and barged his way out of the carriage. Sergey sat in the vacant space, placing his rucksack on his lap. He smiled and called a loud “thank you” after the departing youth.
“Danny,” another youth shouted, “hold on.” The five remaining group members left muttering obscenities and making hand gestures.
Sergey looked around, diagonally across from him, next to the opposite door, a middle age man peered over a copy of the Daily Mirror and nodded, “Buggers, the lot of ’em.”
Sergey smiled although inside he was feeling far from jovial. Mark Peters had left Vienna early that morning taking Austrian Airlines Flight 451 to London Heathrow. Mark would stay for one night and fly back to Vienna on Saturday afternoon, his business meetings in London completed. Back in Vienna Mark Peters would again disappear and Sergey would board the Ukrainian International Airlines flight to Kyiv, a tourist who had spent a few days with friends in Austria.
As an American businessman Mark’s passport had been given a cursory examination and duly stamped. He had taken counter measures by riding the tube to Blackfriars, changing twice to check for a tail before backtracking to Victoria. There he again made certain that he was not being followed before checking his overnight case into left luggage and boarding the train to London’s other international airport – Gatwick. He would not be returning for the case which contained a change of new and unworn clothes purchased with cash in Vienna.
The ‘pickup’ had been simple. On arriving at Gatwick he had taken another train to Horley. There, sitting in an uninspiring car in an uninspiring car park, he had met a man with an Eastern European accent who had given him the Uzi and kit. The delivery boy, who called himself ‘Igor’, was paid in cash and asked no questions. Sergey had spoken in his American English and could have been George Bush himself as far as ‘Igor’ was concerned. He again took countermeasures, catching a train to East Croydon before doubling back to Gatwick Airport to take the Littlehampton service.
So here he sat, on the Littlehampton-bound train with a highly illegal machine pistol inside his rucksack and hoards of escaping school kids. Sergey closed his eyes in an attempt to focus his mind. He was very near now, so very near to avenging his brother that he could almost smell the cordite from the spent shells. The train stopped, he opened his eyes and read the sign ‘Haywards Heath’. Most of the school kids disappeared. There was a banging on the outside of the window as the expelled youth found a new confidence and shouted “Knob off, tosspot” at him. Sergey smiled and ran his index finger along his neck to signify a throat being cut. The expression on the youth changed to one of confusion as the train pulled out of the station.