Cold Blood

by Alex Shaw

  A figure paused momentarily and peered through the window in the door before continuing along the dimly lit corridor. Boris Budanov was annoyed; he had not been informed of any new arrests. “Vitaly Romanovich,” he called out to Blazhevich who was heading towards him, “who’s the American?”

  “Englishman, Boris Alexandrovich. He lives in the Kvartira where that trouble was last night.” As if it’s any of your business.

  “What trouble would that be then?”

  Was he being serious? Vitaly wondered, the explosion and fire-fight was the talk of the entire bureau. “Door blown off with a plastic charge, gunfight involving foreign nationals, officer down.”

  “What?” This was outrageous. Inside Budanov silently seethed.

  “Tak. Regular Saturday night in the Wild East.”

  “Shit. I was out of town,” exhaled Budanov. Why hadn’t he known about this? They had not told him the attack on Snow would be so soon and so overt. He had missed the chance to run this part of the investigation. The ambitious officer cursed again.

  “A couple of my best boys are working on him now. Playing the ‘I know nothing routine’,” Blazhevich stated, matter-of-fact. The SBU used members of the militia on occasion for low level interviews when they themselves wanted some distance. It was a ploy that worked well, an extension of the good cop, bad cop cliché that Blazhevich used to cringe at in American movies.

  “Well? Was he involved? Does he know anything?” He had to get on board this case before he lost his chance.

  “Not easy to tell. He wants to speak to the embassy.” Always questions, Boris Alexandrovich, thought Blazhevich, you writing a book or something?

  “And you’ve phoned them?” Budanov started to try to exert his authority, to take over from his slightly more junior colleague. He, after all, did have more experience.

  “I spoke to their duty officer; I told them it wasn’t important. Let him sweat for a bit, besides, he has a lot of explaining to do.”

  A good move, he would have done the same. “That’s against protocol but could be useful. Why?”

  Blazhevich waited, gauging his colleague’s interest. He was enjoying this. Anything to ‘out do’ Budanov, the SBU’s rising star who always seemed to be in the right place at the right time. Not on this occasion though. “We found a rifle in his room. We think it’s linked to the hit on that British investor in Odessa. That potentially leads us to the UK assassination also.”

  Blazhevich noticed Budanov visibly change colour and his mouth twitch. “You are a lucky man Vitaly. If you need me to assist your case I will offer my full support.”

  “That’s very kind of you, Boris, but Gennady Stepanovich wants me to handle this personally.” He let himself smile in what he pretended was a reassuring manner but one that both men knew was in triumph. Dudka had asked him, not Budanov, to investigate.

  “The offer is there if you need it.” Budanov had been beaten and knew it. He patted Blazhevich on the back. As Blazhevich made for the interrogation room, Budanov hurried on up the corridor, past the main desk and out into the courtyard at the back of the SBU building. He had to find out what was happening. Pulling out his keys he quickly unlocked his Passat and got inside. He looked around to make sure that no one could overhear him, turned on the radio then dialled a number on his mobile phone. At the other end a tall thick set man in an Italian suit opened his tiny, shiny, mobile telephone. “Da?”

  “It’s me, listen. We have a problem. The Englishman is here. No, the other one. Yes there are two. He is being questioned by Blazhevich’s team as I speak. Why wasn’t I informed that it was going ahead? This could have seriously jeopardised my position!”

  Oleg ran his tongue along the outside of his top lip. As expected their informer, the fat man, was fretting. They had been right not to tell him when the snatch was going ahead. A second Englishman? That was unexpected but this could be very useful indeed, in fact it may be the key to getting hold of Snow. He listened as Budanov carried on complaining.

  “I am no good to you if they find out!”

  “They will not find out Officer Budanov unless you tell them, and if you do you know what will happen.” Oleg would enjoy putting an end to this annoying one.

  Budanov swallowed hard and wiped his forehead on the back of his hand. He could feel the car shrinking around him and the SBU building rising over him. He continued to listen to his new employer’s instructions as the feeling of dread increased.

  “I can’t do that! It’s impossible!” he blurted into the handset, but before he could protest any more the call ended. Budanov sat frozen for several seconds before shaking his head in an attempt to control his fear. He turned up the radio; some American rapper was proclaiming the enormity of his dick. SHIT, SHIT, SHIT! Budanov pulled out of the car park, just missing a trolley bus. He couldn’t do this anymore, could he?

  “I am sorry I kept you waiting Mr Hurst. I hope my two officers were polite?” The two militia men rose and left the room, closing the door behind them.

  Arnaud looked at the plain clothed officer and felt a wave of relief. He recognised him from the Hash. Blazhevich saw the recognition in his eyes, his cover, at least with the ex-pats, would now be no more. “Hello Arnaud. My name is Blazhevich, Vitaly Romanovich, and I work for the Ukrainian Intelligence Service, the SBU.”

  “I’ve seen you at the Hash. Were you spying on me?” Arnaud became paranoid.

  Blazhevich smirked. “Should I have been?”

  “No.”

  Blazhevich walked towards the table and handed Arnaud an A4 manila envelope. Sitting, he indicated that Arnaud should remove the contents. “Holiday ‘snaps’ taken in Odessa. Not mine you understand.”

  Arnaud took out the photographs and gasped. A body of a male lay on a tarmac road. The body, immaculately dressed in a dark green suit, had no face. “Why are you showing me these?”

  Blazhevich held up his right index finger like a teacher correcting a slow pupil. “We already know ‘the how’ – the rifle in your apartment – we would like you to tell us ‘the why’.”

  Arnaud’s head had begun to spin and his cheeks burn. He put the photograph face down on the table. “You think I had something to do with this? You think that I shot a man dead?”

  Blazhevich held Arnaud’s gaze for several seconds before shrugging his shoulders. “Tell me about yourself. You have a French mother and an English father?”

  “Yes.”

  “What does your father do for a living?” Blazhevich removed his glasses, they were a prop, and took his time to clean the lenses.

  “He’s a banker.”

  “And your mother?” He folded the lens cloth.

  “She arranges flowers.”

  “Ah how very interesting.” Blazhevich replaced his spectacles, then suddenly slammed his fist on the table. “Tell me why their son became an assassin?”

  Arnaud flinched. “I’m not. I don’t know what you are talking about. This happened a week after I came to Kyiv.”

  “A train to Odessa takes twelve hours and a coach eight.” He looked him in the eye. Was he telling the truth?

  There was a silence. Arnaud looked down. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest and his throat getting very dry. “What happened to my flat?”

  “You don’t know? Very well, I shall tell you.” Blazhevich picked up the incident report. “At approximately four a.m. this morning there were several explosions and reports of gunfire emanating from Pushkinskaya 2/4 –7, your flat. Two guards from the neighbouring Embassy of Uzbekistan, who came to investigate, were attacked. One had his collarbone broken and the other was shot. A man was seen running away from the scene carrying a weapon of some sort. Was it you?”

  Arnaud tried to speak but only managed a raspy “What?”

  Blazhevich smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring manner. “Calm down Mr Hurst, Arnaud. I do not think you were at home at the time, so if you give me the address of your lady-friend we will ask her to confirm this
. What does concern me, however, is the sniper’s rifle found in your bedroom.” He retrieved the image. Blazhevich held up his hands. “We will test for your fingerprints and then the ballistics will be checked against those we have for Mr Malik’s murder. We will know the truth soon enough.”

  The truth? What truth? Arnaud could not believe this was happening. His voice cracked as he tried to speak. “It’s not mine, I’ve never seen it before.” He started to shake. “I’m… I’m… not the only person who lives there.” What had he done? He had given up Snow without even thinking.

  The reassuring smile again. “I know. Can you tell me more about your flatmate Aidan Snow?” Inwardly Blazhevich became excited; his technique had been successful.

  “He’s also a teacher.” The words tumbled out of the Englishman’s mouth.

  “I see, and what else can you tell me about him?” He leaned forward and clasped his hands. He could see Arnaud fight the temptation to speak. “Arnaud. I am trying to help you. I know you didn’t shoot anyone, but not everyone here shares my belief. If you can tell me as much as you know then I can help you and your friend.” There was something the English teacher knew, he could sense it.

  Arnaud closed his eyes, as if mentally not to see the moment he would betray his friend. “He used to be in the army.”

  “Army? British Army?” At last, a real suspect. Blazhevich’s eyes widened behind his glasses.

  Arnaud looked up, he’d gone this far, he couldn’t stop, they wouldn’t let him. “He used to be in the SAS.”

  “The SAS?” Blazhevich’s heart almost stopped; he wanted to be sure he understood.

  “Special Forces, 22nd Special Air Service Regiment.”

  “The British Spetsnaz?” It was now the interviewer’s turn to feel the blood pumping to his cheeks. This was their man, had to be their man! He was trained in assassination techniques. “I see.”

  Arnaud crossed his arms. “I want to talk to somebody from the British Embassy. I am not going to answer any more questions until I speak to someone from the British Embassy.” Arnaud felt sick. Blazhevich would now grant the young teacher access to the embassy, in fact he wanted to speak to them himself.

  *

  Petropavlivska Borschagivka, Kyiv Oblast

  On the top floor Snow lay on the mattress under the window. He was unarmed except for the Russian Army commando dagger that he had liberated from Mitch’s collection. The telescope Mitch used to ‘perv’ on his neighbours’ women was fixed on a tripod just in front of his eye. All around the house was still. He had arrived straight after leaving Vickers at the stadium and laid up. Having returned from Belarus Mitch was now back in the States for a week seeing his kids and the ‘maid’ would not come to clean for another three days, so until then he would be undisturbed.

  It was early afternoon and sun cast sharp shadows across the garden and into the room. Snow had kept an eyeball on the house for the past five hours, fighting the cramp in his legs and having to piss into an empty Pepsi bottle; Mitch would have approved. Snow did not have a plan as such and hoped that any information he was able to glean may suggest something.

  There were two sentries on duty; neither had weapons on display but judging by the bulges in their leather jackets were clearly carrying. He could only see the back of the house and part of the left side but decided that the guards were not overly concerned as they would routinely disappear for minutes at a time and cigarette trails could be seen wafting in the air. The house was an exact copy of Mitch’s and Snow had sketched a plan, which was on the mattress next to him. Unless Pashinski had changed the internal layout Snow had a good idea of who was where.

  The veranda doors opened and two figures stepped out onto the terrace. The terrace had security railings running from floor to ceiling to deter any opportunist from attempting to break in, this however did nothing to prevent a sniper’s bullet. Snow focused on the men. Neither was the man he recognised. One was tall, at least the same height as Snow, but barrel chested, like a wrestler. His head displayed a thick grey mane. His maroon shirt was tight around the chest but loose at the waist where it met his trousers, a sign to Snow that he was in good physical shape. The second man was overweight, suited and much smaller. He was nervous looking and used his arms for expression. The bear-like man pushed him in the chest to emphasise a point. The smaller man stumbled but nevertheless nodded. They both retreated inside. Moments later Snow observed a silver Volkswagen Passat on the road moving away from the house.

  NINETEEN

  SBU Headquarters, Volodymyrska Street, Kyiv

  Arnaud opened his eyes and realised he was shivering. He had had the worst night’s sleep of his life. No matter what he did with the blanket they had given him he had not been able to get warm. He’d dozed, even falling into a shallow sleep at times only to be woken by footsteps outside, the slamming of steel doors or shouts from other prisoners. He’d lost track of time but from the amount of traffic noise now outside he estimated that it was rush hour. He stood and stamped his feet, holding the blanket over his shoulders he moved the door and shouted:

  “Hello! Helloo! Will someone let me out of here?” His night in the cell had empowered him somehow, not breaking his spirit but making his resolve stronger. He would be buggered now if he was going to feel scared again. He felt a sense of shame for telling the SBU officer about Snow but then he was sure his friend, flatmate and fellow teacher was innocent. He could hear a muffled conversation and feet approaching along the corridor. The observation slit opened and a pair of bloodshot eyes peered at him and bid him sit on the bed. Arnaud sat and the door opened. The militia officer stepped to one side to let a plain clothed officer pass.

  Budanov looked Arnaud up and down. “Mr Hurst you can go home now.” He paused to gauge the reaction on his prisoner’s face. “My colleagues and I believe what you say is true, you are no killer.” He smiled at his use of words, he had been practising.

  Arnaud shivered. “About bloody time too.”

  “I’m sorry?” Budanov did not speak English as well as his rival.

  “Thank you.”

  A second militia man entered the cell with a plastic tray, this he placed on the bed. Arnaud took the boot laces and rethreaded them into his Gortex boots. The jailer handed him his jacket and took the blanket.

  “We will keep your passports for the moment. We may want speak to you again.”

  Arnaud looked up darkly, as he struggled into his coat; he was way past the point of argument.

  Arnaud stepped out of the SBU headquarters on Volodymyrska Street and turned right. He needed a drink, he didn’t care what time it was and would take the next turning, cutting through the side streets to O’Brian’s, and sit in the ex-pat joint. They did a proper breakfast. On impulse – he couldn’t wait, he was starving – he stopped at the Mister Snak sandwich bar. Unseen from across the street, Oleg cursed and made his way through the traffic leaving the others in the car. By the time he entered the bar Arnaud had a toasted sandwich and a large plastic glass of Slavutech. Oleg sat in the corner and kept his eyes on Arnaud’s back. Ten minutes later he was following him on the street doing the same. Arnaud turned off of Volodymyrska. He was sated but still livid; he had only just noticed that they had kept his mobile. Why? All his numbers were on there. Now he’d have to buy a phone card and chance his arm at a pay phone. Bloody militia would probably sell it and split the cash…

  There was a sudden jolt of pain as firm hands gripped his right arm and shoulder. At the same moment a silver saloon swept around the corner in front of him, its back door opening. Before he could register what was happening he was pushed roughly into the car. The door slammed shut behind him and a cold piece of metal was pushed against his right temple. Arnaud almost lost his beer as his stomach heaved. He was hauled upright into a sitting position. In the driver’s seat Budanov pulled away nervously looking in his mirrors, collar up and his face partly obscured by a baseball cap. He cursed Pashinski for making him do this so close to his o
wn office. His hands were damp on the wheel and beneath his jacket his Egyptian cotton shirt was already wet on his back.

  They headed for the river, running parallel before taking the bridge and the route towards Borispil. No one spoke. Arnaud craned his neck as much as he dared to look at the gorillas sitting on either side of him. His anger of earlier had turned to dread on realising that these were not the same state employed thugs who had already questioned him. His heart pounded and his temples throbbed. Every muscle in his body was tense for fear of moving and giving his abductors an excuse to use their guns, the nearest of which was now pressed firmly into his gut.

  *

  Borispil-Kyiv Highway, Kyiv

  Bull stood in the corner of the room, his arms crossed. The restaurant had been empty ever since the last owner had stopped paying his monthly ‘insurance premiums’. To the outside world however, the only change was a sign proclaiming a grand reopening in one month, until then the deep red velour curtains remained drawn. The restaurant occupied part of the ground floor of a four storey building bordering the forests on the outskirts of Borispil village. The rest of the building was empty with the exception of an office supply company next door. Traffic passed here but seldom stopped as it sped on across the roundabout to the airport. Bull wondered how the place had actually made any ‘real money’. He looked down at Larissa, who sat bound and gagged at the table in front of him. At the far end of the room the door opened. Bull remained where he was. Arnaud was first in, followed by Oleg.

  “Larissa!” He tried to reach her but was pushed to the floor. He skidded on the thick plastic sheeting covering the new carpet.

  Bull spoke slowly in accented English. “This was a nice place before. Good food, heavy food.”

  Arnaud rose to his knees. “If you’ve done anything to her I’ll kill you!”

  Bull tutted and dismissed the threat with a wave of his hand.

  “Who are you? What do you want?”

  “The SAS man, Aidan Snow.”