Cold Blood

Home > Mystery > Cold Blood > Page 19
Cold Blood Page 19

by Alex Shaw


  Arnaud got to his feet. “Why?”

  “We are old friends. I want to say hello to him. You tell me where he is now?” He smiled and barked an order to Oleg in a language that Arnaud did not recognise. Oleg pushed Arnaud down again and walked towards Larissa. As Arnaud watched, he undid the top three buttons of her blouse and put his hand inside. Larissa and Arnaud’s eyes met, her eyes widened. Arnaud jumped to his feet, his anger uncontrollable.

  “Stop that!” He ran at Oleg, who swiftly stopped him with a punch to the stomach. Arnaud dropped to the floor in pain and vomited over Oleg’s shoes.

  “You shit!” Oleg kicked him in the face. Arnaud felt his nose crack before everything went black.

  “Enough!” Bull pulled Oleg away. “If he cannot talk he cannot tell us where the English soldier is. Now clean him up.”

  Oleg’s eyes showed contempt for his victim but he followed Bull’s orders and lifted Arnaud to his feet. Arnaud’s arms fell limply at his side and his head lolled to the left. Panicking, Oleg quickly placed him on his side on the nearest clean bit of carpet, opened his mouth and pulled the tongue forward. He then arranged him in the recovery position. “He is unconscious.”

  “You are a fool.” Bull pushed him away. “Water. Bring him some water.”

  Oleg turned and headed for the kitchen. Bull returned to Larissa and noted the tears in her eyes. He buttoned up her blouse and delicately wiped the tears on the back of his finger.

  “Ssh, my little rabbit. We will soon have both of you away from here. I am a soldier, not a killer, and you are a civilian.” He looked into her eyes and noticed through the redness and the tears a strength which he had rarely seen. Such a pity he had not met her somewhere else. There was a sudden electronic ‘beep beep’. Budanov, who had been standing just outside the room watching the road, now entered.

  “Here.” Budanov, hand shaking, held out the phone. “I took it from evidence.”

  Bull sat on the nearest chair. Sure enough a message had arrived. He read it:

  ‘Snogging a fat bird’; and the sender it was assigned to, Steve B. He closed it and went on to the next. He smiled and banged his fist on the table. “Here it is.” Sender: Aidan S mob. ‘Very Important. Arn do not go to flat. Dangerous. Will explain later. Contact Vickers@embassy. Trust me.’ There was a time, date and yes, sender’s number.

  *

  Zankovetskaya Street, Central Kyiv

  “We have a suspect.” They sat at the kitchen table. Dudka blew his nose.

  “Someone who works for Knysh?” Varchenko did not conceal his glee.

  “That I do not know, Valeriy. The man is English, ex-Spetsnaz.”

  “Hm. This Knysh has a long reach but we have bigger hands.” He raised his glass and drank. Dudka did the same.

  “A Dragunov sniper’s rifle was found in his Kvartira. The ballistics are a match. The weapon fired the shot that killed your British partner.” Dudka handed Varchenko a copy of Snow’s work visa application form, the passport sized photo enlarged. Varchenko held it at arm’s length to focus, whilst he searched his pockets for reading glasses.

  “Aidan Snow… teacher of Physical Education and English … Podilsky School International… And you really think that he is responsible?”

  Dudka shrugged. “Looks highly likely. Trained sniper, in Ukraine, may have even known Malik, teacher – perfect cover?”

  Varchenko nodded and filled both shot glasses. “Has he confessed? What has he said?”

  “Nichevo.”

  “Nothing?”

  “We do not have him. He has disappeared.”

  Varchenko narrowed his eyes in disappointment. “Then he must be the man.”

  “Something is not right Valeriy. There was an attack on his Kvartira.”

  Varchenko studied his friend. “I am confused. Who attacked his apartment?”

  “How do I know?” Dudka sipped. “The door was ‘opened’ with plastic explosive; we picked up the other resident – another British teacher – and found the rifle.”

  Varchenko thought for a moment. “Set up or tidy up? Was he a loose end?”

  Dudka lowered his glass. “I am under immense pressure from those above and the British Embassy. The evidence could seem circumstantial but what better for us than to prove that it was one of their own? Our reputation is restored and it is apologies all around. And of course the SBU looks effective. The new president will like that.”

  “I am not concerned with catching the killer but stopping the paymaster, Knysh.” The man was a thorn in his side.

  “He is elusive. The photo-fit you provided has provided no leads.”

  “Do you have a copy of it here? Perhaps I can add more detail?”

  “As you wish.” Dudka stood and shuffled out of the kitchen and into his study. He returned with his briefcase. Sitting, he sifted through the contents and removed a buff coloured folder. “Here. The report from Budanov.”

  “Very bright boy.” Both men emptied their glasses again and Dudka duly raised the bottle to refill them. Varchenko focused. “This is not Knysh.”

  “What?” Dudka’s hand shuddered, he poured onto the table.

  “This is not the man who calls himself ‘Knysh’. This is not the face I described to your Budanov.”

  “Blin,” Dudka swore, sank the vodka and quickly poured himself another. “But that is the image that Budanov gave me.”

  “Then he is either a fool or a felon. The eyes are the right shape but should be green, the face is too narrow – too weak, and the chin is bulbous and not square. I admit that there is a passing resemblance but this is not the image we created on his computer.”

  Dudka starred forlornly at his ex-boss. “He is my best man.” He paused, something falling into place. “Which is why he was chosen by Knysh?” Varchenko nodded. Dudka suddenly remembered another image he had hurriedly popped in his case. “Valeriy, I have another photograph.” He removed the file that Blazhevich had been eager to give him.

  Varchenko snatched the image. “This is him. This is Knysh.”

  *

  Petropavlivska Borschagivka, Kyiv Oblast

  Snow was sore and extremely stiff. He had intended to stay awake, prone on the mattress all night, but fatigue had beaten him and he had ended up sleeping fitfully, waking with a start every few minutes. Cursing himself and slapping his face he had eventually taken to pacing around the dark bedroom and doing press ups to ward off sleep and muscle stiffness. It was awful operating procedure but this was his second night without sleep, his body was fighting his training and for the first time winning. All night at least two lights had been on in the house opposite and there were constant shadows in both garden and interior.

  Snow had left his OP briefly to grab a free tray of Perry & Roe’s finest ‘Energy Blast Cola’ from Mitch’s large stash and to piss. This time not into a bottle. Sitting upright against the back of an armchair, he’d manoeuvred to the head of the mattress. Snow was awake but jumpy, the taurine and caffeine filled cola had seen to that. His head still throbbed but now the hangover from the day before had been replaced by natural exhaustion. It was almost eight a.m., night had long since vanished and brilliant sunlight filled the room; he would have to keep still again now.

  The Nokia suddenly vibrated on the wooden floor next to his hip. Snow carefully felt for it without taking an eye off of the target house. He held it up to his face then almost dropped it in surprise. The display showed the stupid drunken snapshot of Arnaud and said that he was calling. Snow held it to his ear. “Arn? Are you OK?”

  Snow could hear laboured breathing on the other end before finally a foreign voice spoke. “Aidan Snow. We have your friend and his deavooshka. If you want them to live you must come to see us.”

  Snow held the phone harder to his ear as if not believing what he had heard. “Who is this?” he asked, his head suddenly pounding.

  Again a pause. “An old friend. We met in Poland.” Snow felt a chill run through his body and his stomach heav
e. The caller continued. “You come alone, tell no one or they die.”

  The phone went dead. Snow took it away from his ear and stared at it as if it would provide him with more information. He fell back in the chair as the sudden enormity of the situation hit him. But he had no proof, no proof that they had Arnaud or even that he was alive. Could it even be someone who had found his phone? Seconds later, as he was still running through options in his mind, a multimedia message arrived. It was from ‘Arnaud’. It showed a picture of Arnaud and Larissa – both bound and gagged – and gave a time and an address. His stomach heaved.

  He had a decision to make. Either way someone would certainly die. The question was: would it be him or Arnaud? A voice inside, that of a coward, said run, leave him, he’s not family, save yourself, call their bluff. He sat forward, put his head in his hands and rocked. Why was this happening? Why were they doing it to him! He took a deep breath, a decision made. Snow quickly stood; he didn’t have much time.

  *

  British Embassy, Kyiv

  The phone barely had time to ring before Vickers answered it, “Vickers.”

  “It’s Snow. Listen. They have kidnapped Arnaud.”

  “What?” Vickers was stunned, but stretched for his pen. “Who has kidnapped Hurst?”

  “Whoever attacked me – it has to be Pashinski. They also have his girlfriend.”

  “Where are you now?” He needed an address.

  “I’m on my way to the trade. It’s me they want, not him.”

  Vickers felt his pulse quicken. “Don’t be a fool Aidan. They’ll kill you. Give me the address – I’ll tell the SBU.”

  “No. That way everyone dies. I have to go alone but I’ll need your help afterwards.”

  “Aidan listen to me. Give me the address… Aidan? Aidan!” Snow had ended the call. Vickers stood, kicking his chair in anger, then made a decision. He tapped in the memorised number on his desk phone. “Vitaly. It’s Vickers. Hurst has been kidnapped. They want to exchange for Snow.”

  Blazhevich stepped outside the Gastronom and onto the pavement. He had his usual morning cup of café coffee in one hand and his phone in the other. “Hurst has been released?” The surprise was evident in his voice.

  “You didn’t know?” Vickers’s mind whirred.

  “No.” Blazhevich leaned against the railings. “OK, do you have the address?”

  “No. Snow is on his way to the trade.”

  “Snow contacted you?” Blazhevich was trying to understand what had happened.

  “Yes.”

  Both men were thinking as fast as they could. “How long ago?”

  “Two minutes.” Vickers had not wasted any time.

  Blazhevich had had suspicions and now was the time to confirm them. He would confront the man he believed was responsible for Hurst’s release.

  *

  Borispil-Kyiv Highway, Kyiv

  Budanov answered the call via his Bluetooth headset. “Da.”

  “It’s Vitaly. You released Hurst. Why?”

  Budanov swerved slightly in his lane. He had known the call would come; but not so fast. “We had no evidence, he is just a kid.”

  “It is my case!” For the first time he shouted at the older officer.

  Budanov tried to placate him, “He told us all he knew Vitaly. We can always question him again if you wish.” Budanov slowed and pulled the Passat to a halt. He had begun to sweat again.

  “He has been kidnapped. I have information that he has been taken by the same people who attacked Snow.” Blazhevich was angry but now managed to keep his voice controlled. Emotion would not help the young Briton. “Where are you? Gennady Stepanovich wants to see you.” He had taken a chance and relayed his suspicions to Dudka, who, he was surprised to find, accepted them without question.

  There was a pause as Budanov stepped out of the car. He was suddenly queasy. “I’m near Borispil. I’m on my way.” Budanov leant against the car and was sick in the gutter. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and straightened up. He looked along the Borispil highway. One way led back to the restaurant and on to the airport. The other lead into the city. One way leading to Knysh and damnation by the SBU, the other possible death for him and his family if Knysh was not stopped. Budanov opened his wallet and looked at the picture of his wife and son, now a toddler who had just learnt to say tatus – ‘daddy’. All he had ever wanted was the best for both of them; the clothes, foreign bank account, holidays in Dubai, Egypt and the house in Cyprus. The man he used to call ‘Knysh’ had paid for this and more for an insider in the SBU. Now, caught between two worlds, he knew who Knysh was and what he had to do. The traitor Budanov got back into the car and accelerated towards Kyiv.

  TWENTY

  Kyiv-Borispil Highway, Kyiv

  Bull looked at his watch. 09:40. The SAS man would be here in twenty minutes. Inside, a voice said that he already was. Why? Because Bull knew that he would do the same himself. During his full service career in the Soviet Union’s Red Army’s Spetsnaz he had never directly faced them, the British Spetsnaz, the 22nd Regiment Special Air Service. There had been rumours of them training the Afghans with weapons donated by America’s CIA and carrying out covert operations in and around Kabul, but he had never seen them. For this he was deeply disappointed. It would have been a fine thing, he mused, to have the world’s two best Special Forces units collide in real combat. The Americans were too soft; too sensitive; even their Delta and SEAL commandos relied heavily on electronics and equipment. No. In his mind the British were the best and, much like the Soviet Spetsnaz, relied upon training, human intelligence and physical strength. They were not that different, he told himself; he and Aidan Snow. But unlike Snow, who seemed happy to forget his skills and squander his training, Pashinski had utilised them for maximum profit. He had not just bitten the hand that fed him, but had eaten the master too. Now he was to take over the running of his house. He allowed himself a smile. Business. The boardroom was not all that different from the battlefield.

  Opening his eyes, Arnaud could see Larissa’s face. For a glorious moment he thought that it had all been a nightmare and that he was still in bed safe with her in Obolon; but then he realised that they were on a concrete floor and that Larissa had tape across her mouth. Her eyes widened as she met his gaze. They were both gagged and unable to speak but she nodded in reply to his unspoken question: yes, I am OK.

  Arnaud tried to move and found that he was ‘hobbled’ at the ankles with his hands fastened behind his back. A table leg was passed through the gap at both hands and feet. He pulled and the table moved ever so slightly. They were in a store room packed with unused restaurant furniture. Larissa seemed to be tethered to the same chair as before, like a 1930s Damsel in distress. It would have been comical if he wasn’t so scared. Arnaud looked up. The table was piled with wooden restaurant chairs haphazardly stacked one on top of another. It would not be that heavy to move but would cause one hell of a noise if the chairs came toppling down onto him and the concrete floor. He tried to pull his hands and feet apart but the rough rope dug into his skin. Next he tried his tongue, pushing it through his lips at the tape. Whoever had gagged him had been too concerned that he may not be able to breathe through his broken nose, so had cut a small air hole in the middle. The tape cut his tongue but he did not give up and pushed harder. Pain, as he tasted his own blood for the second time that day, but the hole increased. He then tried to open and close his mouth and eventually the tape gave way.

  “Are you hurt? Did they do anything?”

  Larissa shook her head as tears started to swell in her eyes. He ignored the pain which seemed to come from all over his body, but especially his face and ribs. “Aidan will come to get us. He must know we are here.”

  Bending his hands he grasped at the table leg with his fingers. He tried to push it up and away. He felt the leg rise ever so slightly but the pressure on his wrists was too much and it slipped away, jarring his arms. “Shit. I can’t get enough of a
lever.”

  Pushing against the floor with all her might, Larissa rocked her chair. It tottered on its legs but did not fall. She tried again, this time leaning forward as much as she could then pushing her spine against the backrest. The chair tottered some more. She then pushed and rocked again and again as hard as she could. They was a cracking sound as a leg started to give way then a sudden crash as she fell backwards to the floor. The rear leg had splintered along the join with the seat base. Larissa let out a muffled whimper, the gag stopping her cry of pain. Her left forearm had taken the brunt of the impact, her arms tied as they were around the seat and back of the chair.

  Both lay still waiting for their abductor to open the door and investigate. A minute passed but it did not happen. Arnaud beckoned her and she shuffled towards him on her side before pushing herself up against the table until, using her back, she pushed, as did Arnaud. Between them they managed to raise the table legs by two inches. Arnaud tugged, wriggled, and was free. He tried to sit upright. A stabbing pain hit him in his chest. He winced and tried again. “Turn around and I’ll untie your hands.”

  Larissa shuffled around until her back was against his. Arnaud felt for the rope and tugged at the knot with his fingers. Patience had never been one of his virtues and he swore under his breath, ever mindful of the fact that their cell door could be flung open at any moment. Larissa kept her eyes glued to the door, still mute. “Try now, pull your hands apart.”

  With a grunt her hands became free. She tensed her lips and ripped at the tape on her mouth. Gasping as it came off, she looked at the man she now realised she loved. She reached forward and carefully peeled the tape from his mouth. His nose was misshapen and covered in blood, his eyes were bloodshot, but he still had his silly French smile. She kissed him gently.

  The Volga pulled up a hundred yards short of the address. Snow thanked the driver and gave him a twenty Hryvnia note. The driver shut the door and with a happy wave headed towards the roundabout. Snow crossed the road and took advantage of what little cover there was. He wanted to get a visual of the address before entering. He drew almost opposite and stood just behind the bus shelter as if casually awaiting a bus. The building was four storeys high. The ground floor looked to be some sort of restaurant, probably Georgian. The far end of the building faced the large roundabout and the main highway towards Borispil. The woods started within feet of the roundabout and continued at the back of the building. It was this exposed corner facing the roundabout that the restaurant occupied.

 

‹ Prev