Cold Blood

by Alex Shaw

  Only now did he look at his watch. Six ten. He’d been asleep for just over an hour. Taking a deep breath he filled his lungs with the biting morning air, in an attempt to shake off his tiredness. The oxygen rushing to his brain relieved his headache, temporarily. No one around; the first metro would be running in twenty minutes, bringing with it the hard-core fishermen who would race around the island claiming their prized spots. With Chernobyl only 35 miles upstream Snow had never fancied the indigenous fish. At the water’s edge Snow washed his muddied hands and splashed his face with the icy river water. He wetted his hair just enough to push it back and flatten it. Another deep breath; this time he took the path towards the metro station and main road. With any luck no one would give him a second glance boarding the train; if they did they would wonder who the hell leaves Hydropark at 6:20 a.m. on a Sunday. Still, he had no choice, was in no mood for walking, and attempting to flag down a car would cause further suspicion.

  *

  Volodymyrska Street, Kyiv

  Alistair Vickers sipped his first tea of the day. How he missed the fresh morning paper. The Saturday edition would have to do until Sunday’s, flown over from London by BA, was delivered after lunch. He hated being out of touch, out of ‘sync’ with the world. The local press was a joke; in fact the only thing that kept him sane was BBC World.

  He pulled on his New Balance running shoes. Today would be a nice day, he persuaded himself; first he’d go for his run, finish his admin work, then head over to O’Brian’s for a spot of lunch and a pint. They were the only place in Kyiv that offered anything remotely resembling a Sunday roast. He checked his appearance in the mirror and then the phone rang.

  *

  Hydropark, Kyiv

  Two dogs slept by the hot air duct at the entrance to the metro, and broken glass glistened in the morning sun. Snow pushed open the large steel and glass door and entered the station. Just past the counter a pair of stout middle aged woman stood, arms folded, deep in conversation. One wore the equally stout blue cotton overalls and orange jerkin of the metro maintenance team, the other a fluffy purple cardigan, skirt, woollen stockings and large slippers. On noticing him they paused momentarily before continuing their philosophical debate. Snow waited politely for several seconds for ‘Slippers’ to serve him. With a thud she sat down on the stool behind the glass. Reaching into his pocket he found a one Hryvnia note, cursing that he didn’t have a metro token. Without a word his note was converted into two jetons, two blue bits of plastic.

  The tick of the clock, informing travellers of both the time and time since the last train had left, echoed across the empty platform. He could the deserted kiosks on one side of the line and the cafés and bars on the other. In the distance Snow could just make out the entrance to the outdoor gym. The gym, which had been the brainchild of a frustrated local fitness fanatic, had become an institution for the residents of Kyiv. Consisting of bits of old heavy machinery, Soviet tanks and planes, it was all but indestructible. Bugger a London loft conversion. If he ever became famous and fat and had to make a fitness video, he’d do it here. A low rumbling sound broke his train of thought. Gliding to a halt, the metro doors opened and Snow stepped inside.

  *

  Volodymyrska Street, Kyiv

  “WHAT happened?” Vickers was incredulous.

  Vitaly Blazhevich repeated the events again in clear and precise English that even Vickers could understand.

  “Bollocks.” His hand was over the handset but he didn’t really care if his contemporary at the SBU heard him or not. “Where is he now?”

  “We do not know Alistair Phillipovich. All we do know, all we suspect, is that Aidan Snow, a British citizen, survived an attempt on his life and is now in hiding after shooting a member of the Berkut Diplomatic Protection Squad.”

  Vickers fell into the armchair. Snow would surely try to contact him. 06:35 a.m. If he hurried he could still get to the stadium for his daily run. He’d take the car and save the twenty minutes it took to jog.

  “Is there anything we should know about this Snow?” questioned Blazhevich. “Something perhaps you have not told us?”

  Vickers answered too quickly for Blazhevich’s liking. “Nothing I can think of. What of his flatmate, Mr Hurst? Have you spoken to him yet?”

  “No, we are expecting him to return home sometime this morning. However if you do have his mobile telephone perhaps, this would be very useful?” Blazhevich replied.

  I bet it would be, thought Vickers. “Sorry, can’t help you on that, all I know is that they live somewhere on Pushkinskaya. If they contact me I’ll let you know.”

  “Good. Alistair Phillipovich. Enjoy your run.”

  Vickers collected his car keys, mobile and left the flat. He’d inform the ambassador as soon as he himself knew more. Snow and Vickers had often seen each other on their morning constitutionals so if Snow wanted to make contact this would be an opportunity.

  *

  Hydropark, Kyiv

  The train pulled off and within minutes had slowed to enter Dnipro station where the metro line plunged into the darkness, tunnelling down deep under the Pecherska Lavra Monastery. Snow looked at the floor and thought long and hard about the incidents of the night before. The door had been blown minutes after he had entered the flat. Why had they waited? Why not grab him before he got inside or as he opened the door? It didn’t add up, drawing attention to the snatch attempt. Nor did launching yourself off of a balcony, running like a madman and sleeping rough; not the easiest thing to do at the best of times and making no sense at all when half pissed!

  “Jeez.” Snow ran his hands through his damp hair; he had been lucky. His thoughts turned to survival. Pashinski, the face from the past, had to be behind this. He had to get somewhere safe and soon. Shit! Eight years since he’d left the regiment and now here he was, grabbed firmly by the scrotum and hurled back into the fire. He closed his eyes and opened them just as the train pulled into his station.

  Snow let the barrier bang against his right leg as he exited through the glass doors at Arsenalna and into the daylight once again. He was taking a huge risk surfacing so close to the city centre but he had to catch Vickers during his morning constitutional. If Pashinski’s men were professionals they would have eyes on every major tube station, Voksalna – the central railway station – and both airports. Perhaps he was being paranoid, he thought briefly as his feet negotiated a broken paving slab; but you make mistakes, you die. No one however brazen would risk snatching him here next to the city barracks.

  Minutes later, concealed behind the rows of plastic chairs, Snow sat on the cold concrete ledge in the stadium and shivered. From his perch up high he saw Vickers arrive, park his battered dark blue Land Rover Defender and jog into the stadium complex. Jogging around the empty stadium in his yellow and sky blue ‘British Embassy Cave Inn’ rugby shirt Vickers was nothing but conspicuous, nodding at the occasional pensioner in their monotone tracksuits as he bounded by.

  Although he had run far less than usual today, Vickers found the going harder. His mind was not clear and he was not concentrating on his breathing. He scanned the rows of empty seats for any hint of a watcher or surveillance team. He hoped that Snow was somewhere out there and could explain what the hell was going on.

  Snow waited until Vickers had finished his requisite eight laps, watching him slow to a fast walk. Hands on his hips he started his ascent out of Dynamo Stadium, through the park exit, leaving his Land Rover Defender in the car park.

  Snow eased himself up. He’d catch Vickers before he crossed the road by the Cabinet of Ministers building. Taking a path parallel to Vickers, he retrieved his Nokia and put it to his ear, pretending to make a call. Alistair appeared, walking slightly faster now. Snow crossed in front of him and turned to face him.

  “Alistair! What a surprise – just go along with it – how are you?”

  “Aidan, what the hell?”

  “I need answers. I need answers now.” Snow extended his han
d, they shook. “Who, why, and what are you going to do about it?”

  Vickers face showed no surprise; in fact he struck Snow as looking relatively calm. He tried to withdraw his hand but Snow held it tighter.

  “You tell me, Aidan?”

  “I was jumped as I got home. They blew open the door, shot at me, tried to kill me. I grabbed a weapon, I think I got one of them and ran.”

  “Are you crazy?”

  Snow let go, puzzled. “What?” Indicating for him to walk, they continued along the path.

  “You shot a Berkut officer. A Berkut officer guarding a bloody embassy! For Christ’s sake!”

  “Shit.” The face of the guard outside the Uzbek Embassy flashed back into his mind. What had he done? Snow felt his empty stomach churn.

  Vickers faced him and nodded. “He’s not dead but the SBU are looking for you.”

  “I don’t care what you have to do, just get me out of here.”

  “There’s nothing I can do. I can try to stall them but I can’t do anything. I wish I could. You are not in the regiment anymore; you are not an SIS operative. You are a civilian British citizen working in Ukraine. You are the main suspect in the shooting of a member of the diplomatic protection force. For all I know you could have made this Pashinski business up as a cover. But for what it’s worth I believe you and I believe that an attempt was made on your life. I should hand you straight over to the SBU but I won’t. Aidan, one friend to another, get the hell out of Ukraine.”

  Snow clenched his teeth; he was incensed. Things had just got worse.

  EIGHTEEN

  Pushkinskaya Street, Kyiv, Ukraine

  “Gennady Stepanovich.” Vitaly Blazhevich extended his hand and shook that of his boss. “What brings you here on a Sunday morning?”

  “Vitaly Romanovich. If that is your idea of a joke you should not give up your day job. Now tell me; what do we have here?”

  His boss was not in a good mood, it seemed. Did I drag you back from the dacha, he wondered? Blazhevich took a biro from his pocket. “We have a large hole where the lock would have been.” He poked at the hole with his pen for dramatic effect.

  “Circular charge. Quite neat.” The old man circled his hand.

  “Pre-made plastic charge, Gennady Stepanovich. It took the lock clean out. A very professional job.” He led Dudka through the hallway and into the lounge.

  “Who would have access to that Vitaly?”

  “Army, SOCOL snatch squad, mafia...”

  “And your guess is?”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “Discount the army, we are not at war. There were no SOCOL operations last night. My guess is a criminal gang of some sort. We’re dusting for fingerprints now but my bet is that we don’t find any. We’ve got blood though.”

  Gennady Dudka rubbed his chin. “Go on.”

  Blazhevich pointed, “Two types, here and here.”

  “Neighbours?”

  “Heard the gunfire, felt the explosion, saw… nothing.”

  “Gunfire? Then you must have shells Vitaly?” Dudka asked rhetorically.

  “Of course.” Blazhevich bent down to retrieve an evidence bag from the coffee table and placed it in Dudka’s outstretched hand. “Standard 7.62. AK, Uzi, Heckler & Koch. Take your pick.”

  “No witnesses at all?” The boss furrowed his brow.

  “Two.” Blazhevich walked onto the balcony and pointed to the pavement below. “The Berkut guards from the Uzbek Embassy next door. One of them was shot. He is in a critical condition. He’s not talking but the other is. He’s nursing a broken collarbone. He says, if you believe this, they heard an explosion and shots, got to about there, just below the balcony, when this figure came flying out of the shadows, grabbed his gun, shot his colleague and ran off!”

  Dudka leant against the railing and lit a cigarette. “You mean to tell me he jumped out of the window, disabled two armed members of the Diplomatic Protection Squad… and just ran away?”

  Blazhevich nodded and winced involuntarily. He knew it sounded too preposterous to be credible but it was all they had thus far. Dudka raised his eyebrows and flicked his ash onto the street two floors below. “What do we know about our ‘flying’ man?”

  “The resident of this apartment is…” Blazhevich held up Snow’s passport. “British, thirty-four…”

  “Foreign national? Blin! That’s all I need.” There would be repercussions.

  “A teacher.”

  Dudka almost choked on his Mayfair. “What did he teach for Christ’s sake? Advanced terrorism?”

  “No. Physical Education.” Blazhevich reddened as Dudka cast him a withering look.

  Arnaud had a spring in his step despite his lack of sleep. Larissa had been insatiable and he had been the lucky man on the receiving end. Oh why hadn’t he come to Ukraine sooner? He took a sip from his can of coke and almost walked into the militia officer on the corner of Pushkinskaya. Giving him a wide grin he said good morning in Russian with his best English accent:

  “Dobroe Utro!”

  The police officer mumbled, frowned and let him pass. The street was unusually busy. Two more officers were standing on the street opposite at the café entrance smoking and generally looking grumpy. A TV film crew were interviewing the owner of the café, a small crowd had gathered whilst more militia officers kept an eye on them. Arnaud finished his coke, crushed the can and put it into the bin. TV crews were not an uncommon sight in the capital city now, more so with the new government’s promise of more press freedom. Arnaud ignored them. He would get back to the flat, have a shower and go to bed. No doubt he, along with Snow and the others, would be on the sauce again by lunchtime. And then once he’d got his strength back…

  He walked into the lobby, called the lift and rode to the third floor. What was this? The door to the flat was open and there were uniformed men inside. Arnaud took two steps forward and was met with a firm grip on both biceps. “What the flying f…?”

  “Bring him in,” Dudka ordered.

  Arnaud, still bemused, felt himself dragged into the flat. The front door had a large hole in it and was hanging off of its hinges and there was what seemed to him to be about six militia men rooting through his stuff. The oldest, dressed in civvies, gave a quick command in Ukrainian.

  “What the hell are you doing in my flat?” he blurted out before he realised what he’d said.

  “Hell? You Englishman too?” No reply. Dudka nodded to the two restraining the new arrival. Their grip tightened. “Who are you?”

  Arnaud pulled his arms but it was no use; they were not letting go. “British Embassy.”

  “You diplomat?” Dudka raised his eyebrow. That would make it tricky.

  “British Embassy.”

  “Passport please.” Just his luck.

  “Hands off please!” Arnaud snapped back; they were beginning to annoy him. Again the man barked in Ukrainian and a third officer, also without a uniform, gingerly searched through his pockets. Retrieving the passport Blazhevich gave it to Dudka and placed the rest of the contents of Arnaud’s pockets on the coffee table. Dudka looked on. A comb, mini-toothbrush, an empty three-pack of condoms and some chewing gum. He read the passport.

  “Arrnoode Hurrrssstt.” Was that really a British name? “Where were you last night?”

  No reply. He repeated the question as Blazhevich now scrutinised the passport of the man he had seen at the Hash.

  The militiamen tightened their grip, unintentionally Arnaud swore out loud in protest. “Fucking…”

  “I can well believe that, Mr Hurst.” Blazhevich impressed his boss again with his near-perfect English.

  “What?” The man looked familiar. “I… my girlfriend, she… I was with her in Obolon.”

  There was a sudden call from the second room and another militia officer entered. He held a long rifle in his two outstretched gloved hands.

  “You come with us now Hurrrssstt,” Dudka barked.

  *

  SBU Headquarters, Volodymyrsk
a Street, Kyiv

  Arnaud’s nose twitched; the room was dirty and musty. He didn’t know whether it was an interview room or an interrogation cell, after all this had been the Ukrainian headquarters of the dreaded KGB; but what he was certain of was that it smelt like a toilet. If he wasn’t so scared he’d have been quite excited. He sat at the table, his arms folded. Two militia officers in their blue-grey uniforms sat opposite him.

  “Imia.”

  “What? Ya ne pon-iy-my-oo. Ya Englayski,” I don’t understand, I’m English, Arnaud answered in his fledgling Russian.

  The officer shook his head. “Ya ne pon-iy-my-oo Englayski. Imia.”

  “Imia… Name. What your name?” the second added, helpfully.

  “You know my name. You’ve got my passport.” Although worried he was starting to get annoyed.

  “You are British?” the officer said, looking at the travel document.

  “Yes.” Morons, he almost said out loud.

  The first officer read the charge sheet, pointed to it with his index finger and spoke quickly in Ukrainian to the second.

  “Ruslan, he no speak English, he want to know why then you have French passport in suitcase?”

  “I have dual nationality.”

  “This is not possible under Ukrainian law. Are you Englishman or are you Frenchman?”

  “My mother is French and my father is English. I have dual nationality. Two nationalities. Two passports.”

  “You entered Ukraine on British passport?”

  “Yes. But I have dual nationality.”

  “So here you are Englishman.”

  Arnaud put his head in his hands and breathed in deeply. Why was he sitting here with these two clowns? What about the English-speaking officer who’d been at his flat?