by Alex Shaw
Mitch almost dropped his coffee. “I’m scared man. You just described my neighbour. He came in when you were in the can.”
Snow’s frowned. “The mafia guy?”
Mitch gulped. “A-ha.”
Snow stretched and ran his hands through his thick dark hair. “He didn’t see us together, but just in case you need to leave town.”
Mitch held up his hand, as in his business meetings. “Hey hold on. Ya told the police?”
“I’ve told the British Secret Service, they’ll tell the right people.”
Mitch stood and walked to the window. The view over central Kyiv was one of the best in town. “What are you gonna do?”
“The guy, if it is him, is dangerous.”
“So why would he be after you?” Mitch leaned against the window, staring at the traffic.
“I saw his face. I’m the only one who can ID him for the Poznan job. He’ll come for me.”
“Are you sure it’s him?”
“It’s him Mitch, believe me.” Snow had told his friend he’d been in the regiment and even about Poznan; but not about the nightmares he’d suffered after. In these the face with the green eyes stared at him.
Mitch turned and folded his arms. “Right, so we’ve gotta get to him before he gets to you. Let’s get us a plan.”
Snow welcomed Mitch’s spirited response but brushed it away with upturned hands. “Mitch, it’s too dangerous. Look, if you want to help, get out of here, today. Go to your office in Belarus and see that Natasha, or go to your Warsaw plant.”
“What about Froggy and the Welshman?” Mitch thought about the other members of their ‘drinking party’.
“Michael lives hidden out in left bank like a native, even looks like one. It’s Arnaud I’m worried about. I’ll speak to them both. If this is your neighbour then I want to be certain. Can you give me a key? I want to check him out.”
“Sure, you know where the porn is stashed.” Mitch opened his desk and threw a key at Snow. Snow gave him a questioning look. “You never know, I may lose my keys, may get locked out or I may have given this key to a certain former female employee.”
Nothing about Mitch shocked Snow anymore. He had handpicked his new hires and had his own vetting system. “Thanks.”
Mitch looked at his buddy and drinking partner, honest concern on his face. “Seriously man, I wanna help.”
Snow held up the key, “You just have; now ask your secretary to book you a flight.”
Mitch sighed and nodded. “OK but I hate to run. A marine never leaves his men.”
Snow shook his head. “Mitch, you were never in the marines.”
“True, but I got a copy of Platoon.” Both men regained their smiles.
*
Podilsky School International, Kyiv
As he passed the principal’s office Arnaud saw Snow sitting with Joan. Puzzled, he continued on to the staff room and poured a coffee. Snow had left a note in the kitchen telling him to take the bus to school without him. Arnaud had a free lesson, so sat and looked at his French textbook.
“Morning.” It was Snow.
“Hey what happened to you last night? Homing beacon go off?”
Snow sat, his own mug in hand. “Something like that.”
“And late this morning?”
“Hey sorry, Mum.” He held his hands up, “I had to go to the embassy and see Alistair, there’s a problem with my work permit or something.”
“Oh.” Arnaud had no reason not to believe his flatmate. “Throwing you out for being an undesirable?”
Snow sipped his coffee and ignored the jibe. “Are you still going to Lviv for the weekend?” Snow hoped that his young colleague would be leaving Kyiv as he’d mentioned he was earlier in the week. His relationship with Larissa had got ‘serious’. Putting a twelve hour train ride between him and the potential danger of the previous night was not a bad thing.
“Yep. Larissa’s got us booked onto that posh private train at eight this evening. You ever been?”
“Yeah, like you, when I first got here. Don’t worry, it wasn’t with Larissa.”
“In your dreams.” He smirked. “What’s it like?” Arnaud was keen to explore.
“The dream with Larissa?” Arnaud frowned. Snow smiled.“Lviv’s an old place, lots of cheap bars, opera house, used to belong to Poland. They speak Ukrainian there.”
“Hm. And the train?”
“Not bad, from what I can remember. Private cabin, two single beds, en suite wash basin and they have a waiter service. I got a bottle of Cognac to amuse myself last time.”
Arnaud winked. “Oh, we can think of ways to amuse ourselves.”
“I’m sure you can. So it’s a dirty weekend in Lviv?”
“Hardly, we’re staying with her grandparents. That’s why I need to know if the train’s any good.”
Snow laughed. “Arnaud Hurst. You are a dirty bugger.”
*
SIS Headquarters, Vauxhall Cross, London, UK
The phone range in his Vauxhall Cross office. “Patchem.”
The caller apologised for circumventing protocol and again calling the SIS field controller but he had just received some information which perhaps could not wait for his weekly report.
“Perhaps?” questioned Patchem, “Alistair I’d like to see what you classify as urgent.”
Vickers explained the meeting with Aidan Snow, a former member of the SAS, and reported on his fears. Patchem, cradling the receiver between neck and shoulder made notes on a pad. “OK. Tell this Snow character not to go anywhere – we may need to call him in.”
“Have you got any more information about the second Malik murder?” Vickers was not quite sure what to call Bav’s death.
“Interpol are trying to trace a suspect who arrived in Vienna the same day from Gatwick. They believe him to be either American or Polish. Quite confusing. They have someone in custody who says that the shooter was a young American and another witness who says that he heard the man speak Polish.”
Vickers thought. “Could it be that he is Polish but speaks American English?”
“That would be my guess,” Patchem acknowledged. “But we cannot rule out the possibility that he is Ukrainian or Russian-speaking.”
“Or American.”
Patchem shuddered. “That would be problematic. Do you still believe that Varchenko may be implicated?” Patchem had been as surprised as Vickers when the general had attended the mission reception at the consulate. Vickers’s fleeting idea of holding the former soldier in British custody had been dismissed. Both men had agreed it was too sensitive and not substantiated by any more than circumstantial evidence. Besides, they were not police officers.
“I think there is some link, somewhere; they were his business partners. But I have no more clues.”
Patchem looked at the notes he had made. “I’ll have someone here check up on what you’ve told me about Snow. I think that’s all for now.”
Patchem replaced the receiver and sucked on the end of his pen thoughtfully. Never one to delegate, a trait which some said had stalled his career, Jack Patchem closed his eyes. 1996, Poland? Did he remember? Hmm. He tapped a couple of keys and called up the relevant computer file. He traced the number on the screen with one hand and dialled with the other. At the other end of the line in Hereford a clipped voiced answered.
FOURTEEN
Le Hotel Imperial, Vienna, Austria
Varchenko had chosen the venue for maximum effect. Built in 1863 for an Austrian prince, the palace was converted to a hotel ten years later and immediately became one of the most prestigious. The grand 1863 façade and two storey wood panelled lobby made complete by a green and cream marble balcony and giant chandelier, immediately impressed guests that they were in a former palace and that he was holding court. Other important men, like him, preferred to appoint others to do the talking for them; but not Valeriy Varchenko. For him it was all part of the fun, to pitch an idea however big or small and to get a result wa
s a thrill, and he was good at it. He looked at the important men in suits.
“Gentlemen, recent trends in Ukraine’s hospitality industry suggest that although the shortage of quality hotels remains an issue, the industry has been exhibiting strong signs of growth. Several international operators successfully entered the market last year, but small privately owned hotels have also been proliferating, in western Ukraine.” He paused for effect and met the gaze of his potential investors. “In excess of $400 million was invested into improving Ukraine’s network of hotels in 2005, a 40 percent increase from the year before. And who invested this?” Again a dramatic pause. “Foreign investors, like you. Radisson SAS, $57.3 million, the Turkish hotel operator Rixos, a similar amount. Are these companies misguided?” He raised his eyebrows theatrically. “No. Will these be the last foreign investors? No. Hilton International have announced that they will open their first hotel in Ukraine. This will be a $70 million, five star luxury hotel for Kyiv, completed in mid-2009. Gentlemen, this niche of the hotel market will only continue to expand in the near future!”
In the small audience of twenty-five Tom Watkins of Thomas Watkins Associates nodded vigorously and out of the corner of his eye kept a note on who else was too.
Varchenko sipped from a glass of Perrier before continuing. “The Schengen visa zone is right on Ukraine’s border, EU and many foreign nationals no longer need visas to Ukraine, the number of visitors from neighbouring countries is growing.” He clicked the projector remote control and a table of figures appeared on the screen behind him showing new hotels, the number of rooms each had, their occupancy rate and locations. “We now have new luxury hotels appearing in western Ukraine in Lviv and Truskavets and in Kyiv. This is in addition to the existing Oreanda Hotel in Yalta and the Londonskaya in Odessa. But none of these are exclusive hotels. They are fine for the casual Western tourist or visiting businessman but not for cultured people like you and I.” He paused and smiled at the audience, wanting to fluff their egos. “The Hotel Noblesse will be.”
He pressed another button on the controller and a DVD of the completed hotel and its surroundings played. For this he had employed a very expensive British production company who supplied the same mixture of live footage and CGI techniques to the Hollywood movie studios. He surveyed the audience, they were transfixed. Thomas Watkins caught his eye and nodded ever so slightly. Varchenko was very proud. He could feel his body tingle with anticipation. In this room sat the real decision makers, some of the biggest venture capitalists in the industry, and they were buying it. “Gentlemen. The time to invest is now and the Hotel Noblesse is the place.”
*
Café Einstein, Vienna, Austria
Half a kilometre away a smaller party of two had gathered. “Guten Tag Herr Peters.” The waiter remembered the young bespectacled American from his previous visits. He was with the tall blonde again, lucky fellow, she probably swooned over his exotic accent! Once again they ordered the Einstein steak and a stein of local beer. Very simple tastes, Americans, mused the waiter.
Gorodetski looked the girl in the eyes. What had, in his mind at least, started as a bit of fun now felt like something more. She touched a napkin to her lips as she replaced her beer glass.
“Perhaps you should drink something else?” he asked.
Bernadette shook her head. “Don’t you like women who drink beer?”
Gorodetski laughed. “I love girls that drink beer. It’s girls who don’t I can’t stand.” He raised his own beer and tapped hers cheerfully.
“I never used to like beer, never, never. Then once, it was summer and very hot, I was with my friends from college at the lake. We’d forgotten to take any water with us so one of the boys gave me a beer. It was cold and it was then that I realised I liked beer.”
“And the boy? Did you like the boy?”
Bernadette blushed. “No. He tried to kiss me, we were young.”
Gorodetski smiled. “We’re young. Can I kiss you?”
She frowned for a moment, not quite understanding, but then she moved forward. Gorodetski kissed her on her full lips. He closed his eyes as he felt tears form. His brother’s death, the faces of the two men he had killed flashed before him but he felt a huge sense of relief. He realised that they had been kissing for longer than was decent but he did not pull away and nor did she. There was a cough. The spell broken; he opened his eyes. The waiter stood over them with their orders.
“Danke,” Gorodetski said with an American accent.
“Would that be all sir?”
Gorodetski smiled and winked at Bernadette. “I hope not.”
The waiter nodded curtly and left.
*
Chaika Sports Complex, Kyiv Oblast, Ukraine
Bull replaced the magazine in his AK100. The smell of cordite from spent shells hung in the still morning air. Something was troubling him but he didn’t know what it was. He fired off another burst at the Huns Head target at the far end of the range… his memory was trying to tell him something… That was it: the man at the club. He looked at his own black fatigues. He’d seen the face before, but where? The noise of his men firing rounds at their own targets triggered a memory, a door had been opened…
BLAT! Bull switched his AK to fully automatic; his anger ran white hot through him. The magazine emptied in seconds. The hero from the Poznan operation… the young English face… the only person who could link his past with his present. He moved away from his position, rifle down, his fists now balled; he looked skywards. All that he had worked for, all that he had done to distance himself and his Brigade from the past, faked his death, created his new identity. This man could take it away.
*
British Embassy, Kyiv
“And there we have it.” Patchem paused and sent Vickers an electronic copy of the dossier, his face was surprisingly clear via the secure video link. “Their leader was believed to have been a former Spetsnaz officer by the name of Tauras Pashinski. Known by the nickname ‘Bull’. A veteran of the occupation of Afghanistan he left the service in the early nineties around the time of the first budget cuts. His name was then linked to a series of ‘incidents’, for want of a better word, across Eastern Europe and the former USSR. This includes the robbery in Poznan. The last of these was over six years ago. Interpol tried to track him as apparently did his own FSS and GRU. Eventually he was cornered in Vilnius where he was killed in a high speed pursuit. That was December 1999.”
There was a slight pause caused by the encrypted line. Vickers looked at the file. It contained the Polish police report into the Poznan raid, these included eye witness accounts, blurred enlargements taken from CCTV footage and badly photocopied excerpts from Soviet service records. He studied the only clear photograph, that of a serious faced sixteen year old with piercing eyes. Patchem had guessed his question and continued from his office in London, “Yes that is the only photograph we have. Understandably the Russian intelligence services are somewhat guarded in providing us with any more. “
“So we are certain that he is dead?” Vickers wanted to hear his controller confirm this.
“The folder, Alistair, is quite convincing.”
Vickers clicked on to the relevant pages and saw that the Vilnius automobile accident was indeed well documented; including witness statements, a coroner’s certificate and the obligatory horror shots showing a corpse embedded in the steering wheel. “I agree. How do you want me to play this, Jack?” Vickers spoke at the screen displaying his boss’s face.
“Alistair I don’t need to tell you how to run your shop. Dig around a bit if you like but in my opinion what we have is an ex-soldier chasing ghosts. Look at Snow’s psyche record. Pashinski is the reason he left the regiment, the reason for both his injuries and the flashbacks.”
Vickers nodded. “Again; I agree.”
Patchem continued, “Remind Aidan Snow that he is still bound by the Official Secrets Act. If he does ‘see’ this man again then he should tell you, otherwise he
needs to keep quiet and just get on with his life as usual.”
FIFTEEN
Lviv, Western Ukraine
The old man poured the liquid into the shot glasses and handed one to Arnaud with a grin. Arnaud returned the smile and together he and the two other men downed their shots. The rest of the family looked on with expectant faces. Arnaud suddenly gasped.
“Samogon,” said the old man.
“Moonshine,” translated Larissa, “homemade vodka.”
“How strong is it?” His throat was burning.
“Maybe 60 percent.” She shrugged with pretend indifference as the rest of the family laughed.
The old man, Larissa’s grandfather, shook his head and said in heavily accented English, “Ninety degrees.” Although he spoke no English he had remembered some phrases from his time as an engineer in the Soviet Army. Larissa’s grandmother passed Arnaud a bowl of red soup.
“Borsch?” he asked.
The old lady nodded and spoke in Ukrainian, Larissa once again translated. “My grandmother said that she made it herself. Just for you.”
Larissa ladled Smetana (soured cream) into the bowl and Arnaud tried it. “Doozja Smatchno,” he said with his two words of Ukrainian, ‘very tasty’. Again smiles all round. Their foreign guest had now tasted both grandparents’ cherished recipes.
Arnaud and Larissa had been welcomed at Lviv railway station by Larissa’s grandparents and driven to the flat they owned on the outskirts of the city. Unlike other apartment blocks this one was not Soviet but newly built. It had been designed by the Germans, managed by Poles and built by Ukrainians. Larissa had bought the flat with money she had made in Kyiv. Arnaud was impressed. Larissa’s mother and father sat opposite him, her aunt sat next to her on one side with Arnaud on the other. The table was piled with homemade food. Many things he could not recognise, including a type of fish pate and several layered salads. A three litre glass jug of homemade vodka sat dead centre. Arnaud’s glass was refilled and Ivan, Larissa’s father, raised his glass to say a toast. Arnaud held his glass and sat mute. Larissa whispered a translation into his ear.