by Alex Shaw
He finished his beer. “But I now know I was wrong.”
*
Petropavlivska Borschagivka, Kyiv Oblast, Ukraine
The security gates opened and the Volkswagen Passat pulled into the drive. Oleg showed Budanov into the house. Bull sat on a cream leather settee in the cavernous lounge. CNN was on the huge plasma television screen. It amused him how the Americans believed that the entire world was interested in what they had to say. “Sit down.”
Budanov sat in an armchair; despite the cool air conditioning his shirt was already clammy.
“What is it that is so important that it cannot wait?” Bull looked wholly unimpressed by his presence and Budanov noticed that for the first time he was not in a suit, rather a black t-shirt and matching tactical trousers.
“This photograph of you was on the desk of my colleague.”
Bull snatched the proffered 10 x 8” print. It was not an image he had seen for almost thirty years; of himself in full parade dress. There was a long silence before Bull stood quickly and walked around the back of the settee, his face turning a dark red. Budanov had not seen the deathly composed businessman like this. Bull grabbed the nearest object, a bottle, and threw it against the wall. Budanov flinched.
“Explain how this came to be on the desk of an SBU officer?” Bull now leaned on the back of the settee, his face close to his informer’s. A vein in his forehead twitched.
“It was given to him by a contact. He says a reliable source has seen this man, you, in Kyiv.” Budanov’s voice was shaky.
“Who is the contact and who is the source?” demanded Bull.
“I do not know. Blazhevich has his own people.”
“Guess.”
Budanov struggled for an answer. “He is close to the British.”
Bull kicked the settee and shouted for Oleg. The massive sergeant appeared at the door. Bull shouted at him in their native Lithuanian. “He knows who I am.” He returned his attention to the man from the SBU, and used Russian. “Who else has seen this image?” Bull had another bottle in his hand but this time was pouring a shot.
“Perhaps just Blazhevich, but he will show it to Dudka.”
“And what will Dudka do?” Bull knew the names of the high ranking officials.
“I don’t know. I do not think that Blazhevich has linked this to Varchenko or Malik.”
Bull emptied his glass. “That is not good enough.”
“For a positive ID they need the source, an eye witness.”
“Then we eliminate the source.” It was Oleg.
“Whom he does not know.” Bull spoke again in Lithuanian.
Oleg replied in the same tongue. “The Englishman?”
“Who else can it be?” Bull sat and pointed at Budanov, speaking in Russian. “Go back to your office. You are no good here. Get a list of all British citizens, with pictures, currently in Ukraine. Then come back here. Understand?”
Budanov nodded, rose and tried to leave but Oleg blocked his path. “Remember Budanov that I know where your wife and child are. If you cross us they will die.”
Budanov tried not to shake, “Please. I... I... won’t say anything. Y... You can trust me.”
“Get out,” Bull gestured, and Oleg stepped aside.
Once Budanov was out of the door Oleg spoke. “We have to kill him.”
“Not yet. The fat man has his uses. Once we get the address of the Englishman and have him silenced then you can kill him, Oleg.”
The former Spetsnaz sergeant smiled. “I will do it slowly.”
SEVENTEEN
Central Kyiv
He could hear Michael, still haggling with the taxi driver, as he reached the opposite side of Khreshatik. Kyiv’s main drag was empty with the exception of the ever hopeful cabbies waiting at the bottom of Passage. Michael spluttered past in an ancient Volga and yelled out of the window. Snow smiled and waved goodnight with his middle finger. The two ex-pats had been some of the last to leave the Cowboy bar, a regular occurrence. The bar generally lived up to its own advertising and stayed open ‘until the last customer leaves’.
He looked at his watch. Christ, 3:40 a.m.! Hadn’t he told Michael “Just one more,” at around half two? He chuckled to himself. Who cares? It was a Saturday night – Snow corrected himself – Sunday morning. He started the short climb up Prorizna to the corner of Pushkinskaya and the safety of his empty but inviting bed. Michael had gone home to wake up his long suffering but pretty wife, Mitch, still abroad, was probably working on his latest conquest and Arnaud was busy ‘stress testing’ Larissa’s bed.
It had been a year since his last relationship had ended but it still hurt. Donna had been American, part of Mitch’s company, and gorgeous. Snow had seriously thought that she might have been the one and then she left. No goodbye, no excuse. Just returned to California to continue with her life without him. If he hadn’t liked her so much he wouldn’t have cared. He had opened up to her, told her more than anyone else about his history with the regiment, the accident, the nightmares. For him it was something serious yet for Donna, as he eventually found out via text message, it had been a ‘vacation fling’ whilst she had been working away from home. What was wrong with him? Here he was in a country full of beautiful women, mourning the loss of someone who didn’t deserve him? Snow realised he was getting maudlin. Sod it. He’d have a dram or three and watch the four o’clock news on BBC World before passing out alone.
The black clad figure, lying prone on the first floor balcony of a rented apartment, depressed his pressel switch twice, giving the alert that the target had been sighted. The Englishman was getting nearer and would pass within ten feet of his head. A whisper via the earpiece asked, “Is he alone?” One squeeze on the pressel as an affirmative. Oleg imagined he could see the others getting ready in the van, two of them pulling down their masks and readying weapons, whilst the third sat at the wheel. The target got nearer. Oleg held his breath. The target took the short cut through the square and onto Pushkinskaya. He spoke into his throat mic, “Target has crossed road. I no longer have visual.”
“I have,” came the reply from the van. “Pull back to secondary position.”
“Have that.” Oleg waited until Snow had disappeared around the back of the apartment block before standing and wiping the icy sweat from his brow. He dropped his rope over the edge and swiftly, hand over hand, made for the street. Landing with a practised delicacy he moved silently for the cover of the Gastronom’s porch entrance and continued his watch in silence. With the exception of the two Berkut guards, clock watching in their command box outside the Uzbek Embassy, Pushkinskaya was asleep.
Snow pushed open the back door to the flats, called the lift and rode up to the ‘Ukrainian’ third floor. He swayed at the threshold and opened the door on his second attempt. He pulled shut the outer door and secured the inner door with three turns of the lock. He pushed the connecting double door to the hall shut with his foot and without kicking off his shoes or removing his fleece jacket, dropped onto the Polish sofa bed. He flicked on BBC World. An advert for a new brand of Indian car filled the gap before the news headlines. Staring past the TV, through the open double dividing doors, he could see Arnaud’s clothes and books strewn across both bed and floor. Messy bugger. He hauled himself up and lent against the door frame and as he did an explosion ripped through the front door.
The circular charge blew both locks inwards, immediately followed by a second deafening noise, a burst of light, and the first of two men in black military assault coveralls. The assaulters ran into the flat, CQB weapons covering large arcs, looking for movement and targets. Ears ringing and sitting dazed on the floor between the lounge and bedroom, Snow recognised the noise as ‘flash-bangs’ – stun grenades. He saw shadows through the remaining frosted glass in the hall. His training, dormant for the last seven years, took over, and in seconds he had covered the distance from the bedroom to the balcony. Crouching, he opened the balcony door and moved towards the edge. Another crash a
nd the doors to the hall had been demolished by heavy boots.
Time seemed to stop. Rounds ripped past Snow’s head and he clambered over the railings, sparks flew as hot lead impacted inches from his hands. He lowered himself as best he could until he was hanging by his arms, then let go. Dropping one floor he landed in the wire mesh designed to catch stray icicles in winter. Snow was no icicle and the mesh broke loose a second later. This was all that was needed to save his life as he fell the remaining ten feet to the pavement. Landing heavily on both feet, bending his knees and rolling onto his side, he hid under the footprint of the balcony as more bullets rained down over the balcony, peppering the pavement ahead. Two figures ran towards the building. They were too near to see him in the shadows.
Gasping for air and holding his side, Snow pushed himself up and away from the building. He felt no pain from his legs, just a sudden wave of cold which raced through his body. He collided with the first figure, who fell to the pavement with a shrill shout. Grabbing the attacker’s gun he shot a burst at the other just as he was raising his own firearm. Only meters away, the second figure crumpled onto the ground without opening his mouth. Reaching the corner of Pushkinskaya, Snow detected movement to his left and swung the weapon. A line of bullets raced towards a figure which dived back into the shadows. The magazine empty, Snow discarded the gun. Throwing one leg after another and praying that they would hold his weight, Snow hurtled down the undulating pavement of Pushkinskaya towards Maidan Nezalejsnosti and the river.
Picking himself up off the floor, Oleg drew his weapon but it knew it was too late. The target was out of sight. He cursed using all the American expletives he could remember and a few he’d made up. Lights had started to flick on in apartments all around him. Pushkinskaya was no longer asleep.
*
Hydropark, Kyiv
Snow walked quickly across the footbridge. He had to disappear now. Shards of moonlight illuminated the gloomy blackness of the Dnipro River beneath him as he made for the opposite shore and the relative safety of Hydropark. Had anyone seen him head this way? He would soon know. His escape and evasion instincts had kicked in; he was once again the SAS trooper. The distant trees rose like a giant wave as he crested the centre of the bridge. No sound except for the heavy metallic echo of his feet on the foot bridge. Breaking his stride, he stumbled down the three or so broken steps as he left the bridge and aimed for the gloom of the tree cover. He rushed into the trees and steadied his breathing. No stir from the trees or the bridge. Twenty seconds’ wait. Still no stir. He rose slowly, circled, listened again then joined the path leading further into the woods. Four a.m. on a November morning would hardly be rush hour but Snow still had to take care. He’d use the path but stick to the relative gloom of the edge, ready to burst into the undergrowth at the slightest hint of pursuit. As he walked on he studied each new trunk emerge from the shadows whilst forever turning to watch his rear.
*
Petropavlivska Borschagivka, Kyiv Oblast, Ukraine
Bull, fully clothed, slept on top of the bed. It was a habit he had developed whilst enlisted and one, when alone, he found hard to break. His boots stood at his bedside, a 9mm Glock nestling in the left. The phone on the bedside table warbled. In an instant Bull was sitting up, his eyes open. “Da?”
It was not good news. Holding the handset he swung his legs onto the floor and stood. “Come here now.”
*
Hydropark, Kyiv
After quarter of an hour Snow reached the far side of the island – away from the main tourist area with its kiosks and stray dogs. Crouching just in the tree line he slowly counted two minutes as his ears adjusted to the sound of waves gently lapping against the shore. He looked at his watch dial trying to make out the two hands: 4:48. His eyelids were becoming increasingly heavy. The adrenaline of the chase was now wearing off and he could feel the after effect churning his stomach and pounding at his temples. He was going to feel like crap in the morning but at least he’d have a morning. He started to shiver and turned the collar up on his jacket. He was dressed for a night out and not a night out ‘on belt-kit!’ as they had called sleeping rough in the regiment. He’d spent endless hours trying to perfect the art of ignoring the cold and wet only to realise that it was impossible. He had jarred his good knee in the fall from the balcony in addition to hurting his side. All pain however had been put aside as he’d run for his life. Now, sitting ten feet back from the tree line with his back against a tree trunk, the pain started to really register. He drew his legs up to his chest, winced and tried to stop the shivers. With a thin covering of soil over sand, here the grass was less damp but he could still feel it seeping into his jeans. His heart was still beating raggedly as he suddenly remembered Arnaud. Would he go back to the flat after all? Would they try to snatch him too? Was Larissa’s place being watched? Snow tried to rationalise the situation in his mind but to no avail. He unzipped his fleece and pulled out the Nokia. He punched in Arnaud’s number and pressed his ear tightly against the speaker. It seemed to ring for an eternity before being picked up.
A groggy female voice answered, “Allo?”
He spoke in Russian; if he was to be overheard by anyone it would be better to be taken for a local and not an ex-trooper from Worthing.
“Larissa it’s Aidan, is Arnaud with you?”
“Aidan, what you want! We sleeping!”
“Give the phone to Arnaud. It’s import…” He frantically pressed redial. Engaged. Shit. Why was she so bloody awkward! He tried again but this time the call went straight to voicemail. Arnaud’s message sounded deafening in the still night air. “This is Arnaud. Leave a message only if you are sexy or owe me money…”
Snow spoke clearly and with purpose. “Arnaud it’s me, Aidan. This is very important. Do not go back to the flat. OK? Do not go back. I can’t explain why now, call Alistair Vickers in the morning. You have to trust me. I’ll call you when I can.”
Arnaud’s voicemail was as temperamental as Larissa. Despondently Snow ended the call realising that he sounded like a bad ‘B Movie’. He checked the phone’s illuminated display – two battery bars left – if he was going to use it he would have to conserve power. He tapped in a text message to Arnaud and repeated the warning then switched off the handset. Again his mind raced.
Whoever attacked him was not playing or trying to scare him, they knew exactly what they were doing: plastic charge on the door and flash-bangs. But why not snatch him on the street? Why make it so overt, unless that was the point? Was there some kind of message? Snow creased his eyes shut and pressed his fingers to his temples, forcing his beer addled brain to think. It had to be the work of Pashinski. Who else would try this? He had to assume that the man was not dead, that he had been recognised by him and finally that this had been some kind of snatch squad. Snow opened his eyes. Things suddenly became clearer. The only member of the SAS training team able to positively ID Pashinski and link him to the Polish raid, the only person who could say that Pashinski was alive. Snow felt nauseous. Pashinski was coming for him.
On the other side of the city Arnaud rolled over in Larissa’s bed. He was in no mood to text anyone now. It was probably another of the lads in London forgetting yet again that he was two hours ahead. “Tossers,” he mumbled to himself and drifted back to sleep.
*
Petropavlivska Borschagivka, Kyiv Oblast
“You were a team of four against an unarmed man!” raged Bull. He threw the coffee cup across the room at Oleg, hitting him square in the chest before it fell to the ground and shattered at his feet.
Oleg took a deep breath. “We followed him as planned but he did not surrender, did not give himself up, he just jumped.”
Bull massaged his temples with both hands. “Were you aiming high as requested? Did you hit him? Was he injured when he ‘jumped’?”
“We did not shoot at him, but to him,” Oleg paused for a moment, trying to tell if he was making sense. “A man does not run away from two Ber
kut if he is injured.”
Bull wanted the Englishman alive, he wanted to be the one to pull the trigger himself and finish what he had started in Poznan. “You left the rifle?”
“Da, of course.”
Bull nodded, the backup plan at least was in effect. The SBU would no doubt be alerted by the noise of the attack, investigate the flat and find the Dragunov sniper rifle. And if the SBU found him then Bull could get hold of him. Bull took a new cup and poured himself coffee from the steaming pot.
Outside the terrace window the sky was still pitch black. He checked the living room clock. “It’s almost five. First light will be in an hour. He won’t run yet. He’ll go to ground and then try to get lost in the crowds. The question is where?” Bull sipped the coffee, impervious to the heat, then started to think aloud. “He’ll contact MI6 at the embassy. Will they get him out, a man wanted by the SBU? Watch the embassy and the airport.” Bull positioned himself in Oleg’s face. Oleg’s bloodshot eyes betrayed no emotion. “You find this teacher for me or I find you a plot in the cemetery.”
Oleg nodded; he had only seen his commander this angry once before and on that occasion eight Afghans had been executed.
*
Hydropark, Kyiv
The sound of splashing woke Snow with a jolt. Instinctively tensing for a moment before remembering where he was, Snow relaxed his arms, silently cursing himself for having fallen asleep. Sitting motionless against the tree he concentrated hard for the source of the commotion. A bark from behind. He took a deep breath and prepared for the worst. First one, then another mongrel slipped through the trees and trotted in the direction of the beech. They were dirty, emaciated strays, not the pursuit dogs he had feared. He gingerly pulled himself to his feet. Wincing in anticipation of the headache, which he knew would soon follow, he took a step. Sure enough it arrived with a vengeance. Feeling shaky and damp to the bone, he negotiated the tree roots. His left knee was especially bad and his thighs felt as if he had run a marathon wearing clogs. The sun was beginning to alter the colour of the sky above, replacing the dark ink blue of night with the pink of early morning. Alerted to his presence, the dogs drinking at the water’s edge trotted away.