Cold Blood

by Alex Shaw

  “We have to get to that house.” Snow’s voice was raspy as he fought for air. Larissa did not reply but quickened her pace in line with his. There was no cover and he felt extremely exposed as they took the only escape route possible and dashed towards the end of the field.

  Oleg scuffled into the back of the Volga. Dmitro had the wheel and a second man was returning fire at the ALFA in an attempt to keep their heads down.

  “GO! GO!” Oleg screamed at the wheel man.

  Door still open, they pulled into the street as bullets impacted the bodywork of the Soviet car. Oleg held his stomach and lay down. Blood seeped from beneath his right hand, his left hung onto the back of the front seat as the Volga bucked over potholes. Oleg heard sirens but could do nothing about them. The inside of the car went dark around him as he lost consciousness.

  The first dacha was unfinished. Snow pushed past this building and made for a tumbledown house that made up part of the village. He gingerly opened the gate and was greeted by a squawking goose. Concealing his pistol he knocked on the green wooden front door. There was no reply; he knocked again, this time with more force. Larissa pushed back her hair and wiped her makeup from under her eyes. A curtain twitched and an elderly face looked at them. Snow smiled. The face disappeared and there was the sound of a bolt being removed from the door. A two inch gap appeared. Snow spoke in his Moscow Russian. “Can you help us please? We need to use your telephone.”

  The old lady looked at the face of the smiling young man and the very pretty girl by his side. She opened the door further and put her hand by her ear. Snow repeated his request and they were beckoned inside. The house was dark and smelt of stale cabbage. Larissa had stopped crying and gone into shock.

  “We had an accident on the highway.” Snow pointed in the direction of the road and smiled. “Our car was hit by one of those Jigeets.”

  The old lady looked concerned and beckoned them along the hallway. She took Larissa’s hand. “Are you alright, my dear?”

  Larissa nodded and wiped her eyes. Snow replied on her behalf, “It was her first car. She’s a bit shaken.”

  “I’ll make some tea. The telephone is just there.” She disappeared into the kitchen leaving Snow and Larissa by the hall phone.

  “Can you call your cousin to pick us up? We have to get away from here.”

  Larissa nodded and dialled the number. She started to talk in grief stricken Ukrainian; Snow could only make out one word in ten. The tears fell again as she described where they were. The kettle started to boil on the gas ring and the old lady bade them sit at the kitchen table.

  “Her cousin will be here in about forty minutes. Is it OK for us to wait?”

  The old lady smiled. She had bright eyes and an oval face; even now Snow could see that she was once beautiful. “Of course you can.”

  Larissa had started to shake and tears once again welled in her eyes. The old lady took her hand and clasped it between both of hers. “Have you lost someone dear?”

  Larissa looked up with reddened eyes and nodded. The old lady held her hands tighter. “It will heal, it always does.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  Petropavlivska Borschagivka, Kyiv Oblast

  He had taken a taxi to the city centre where he had got on the metro, twice changing direction before satisfied that he was not being followed, then caught a passing car to Petropavlivska Borschagivka and walked the final half kilometre to Pashinski’s house via the woods. The gates were not opened immediately and the voice on the intercom sounded drowsy. Gorodetski noticed that the door was ajar. He paused, sensing that things were not right, before cautiously entering the house. Then he saw the blood soaked towel lying on the table.

  “Over here, boy…” It was Oleg, lolling on the expensive cream leather settee.

  Gorodetski drew nearer and could now see the skin was pale and the eyes bloodshot. An empty vodka bottle stood on the table in front of him. “Get me another,” the former Spetsnaz sergeant ordered the Spetsnaz sniper.

  “Where is Captain Pashinski?” Gorodetski was confused.

  “Vodka… vodka now…” Oleg coughed and blood sprayed from his mouth.

  Gorodetski took a bottle from the cabinet, opened it and handed it to him. Gorodetski noticed the large dark wet stain on the sergeant’s shirt. Oleg took a swig and poured a third onto his stomach. He screwed his face up in pain.

  “What happened?”

  “Shot in the belly. The bullet is still in…” Oleg winced and pushed his hand over the wound. “Should be removed…”

  “I’ll get a doctor.”

  “NO… No use. Too late…” Oleg coughed again and drank more vodka. “We have to celebrate… you killed the Paki. Bull very happy.”

  Gorodetski sat in the armchair and surveyed the dying soldier. “There’s nothing to celebrate. I did it for my brother. Now he can rest in peace.”

  Oleg started to laugh but it turned into a bloody coughing fit. “He can rest in pieces.”

  Gorodetski didn’t understand what he had heard. “What?”

  “Your brother can rest in pieces!” He spat between coughs.

  Gorodetski flashed with rage. “WHAT?”

  Oleg’s eyes started to roll but he then regained his composure. “After we kill him we cut him up.”

  Blood rushed in his ears. “What did you say?”

  The eyes rolled again and then the gaze held firm. Even on the brink of death the soldier’s eyes were piercing. “You are a fool boy… your brother… Lieutenant Gorodetski was a traitor...”

  Gorodetski lunged at the older man, grabbing his neck. “WHAT?”

  Oleg’s lips curled in a swine like smile and he made no attempt to break free. “Do it… DO IT...” Gorodetski released his grip and sat, ignoring the warm blood that had sprayed over his face. “We were doing business… The Afghans have the poppy… but need the gun… We have gun… We have the gun…” The coughing returned.

  “And?” His whole body was tense.

  “And… we have brave men who need the poppy… Your brother asked us to stop.”

  Gorodetski’s head started to spin and his vision narrow. The rushing sound in his ears increased.

  “…It was just business… but Lieutenant Gorodetski, he said it was immoral… against our honour code… He betrayed us…”

  “WHO KILLED MY BROTHER.” It was a demand, not a question.

  “Bull shoots him… He falls, gets up… will not die… Bull stabs him… Still he will not die… We both stab him… then we get Afghan sword…” Oleg raised the bottle to his lips. “For fallen Comrades.”

  Suddenly everything went white and his ears rushed like never before. Gorodetski sprang forward and shot his right palm up into the bottom of the bottle. It shattered into Oleg’s palate. The arms flailed as the Afghanistan veteran fought back but all strength was gone. Gorodetski delivered a punch to the wounded stomach. Oleg doubled up, blood pumping from face and abdomen. Immobile. Moving to the kitchen the young veteran of Chechnya picked up a meat clever. Returning, he pulled Oleg up by the hair into a sitting position.

  The eyes focused on him one last time. “…Traitor… Tra–”

  Gorodetski swung the heavy blade through flesh, artery and vocal cords. The body jerked slightly then became limp. He let go and the lifeless body slumped on the settee. One of his brother’s killers was now dead. In a trance he walked to the bathroom. He did not recognise the image in the mirror; veins throbbed at the temple and blood striped the face. His eyes stung as it dripped into them. He ran the tap, filling the basin with icy cold water before submerging his head. Removing it he again recognised his face and the resolve that it now displayed. He dried his hair. He now knew what he had to do. Captain Pashinski must die.

  *

  Hotel Dnipro, Central Kyiv

  The Dnipro hotel bar had been recently refurbished to be the next trendy ex-pat hangout. This had not yet happened so it remained the reserve of new Ukrainians and visiting foreign businessmen too lazy
to venture further afield. Larissa walked to the ground floor bar and ordered a Desna, not her usual Rémy Martin; a shot of the strong local stuff was what she needed. She downed it in one, involuntarily shuddered and ordered another. The barman raised his eyebrow but passed no comment as he completed her order. Holding onto the bar for support she caught a glimpse of her image in the mirror and reminded herself that she did indeed look better than she felt.

  Yulia, Larissa’s cousin, had collected her and Snow from the village and taken them back to her flat in the left bank region of Troieschyna. They were lucky that their route missed the police cordon around the restaurant. The car journey had been silent but on arrival at the small flat there had been much sobbing and screaming. Larissa had at first been angry then numb and then physically attacked Snow, blaming him for Arnaud’s death. Snow did not defend himself and absorbed the blows that she landed on him. Larissa was right and he knew it. If it weren’t for him and who he was, their friend would still be alive. Arnaud had been the bait and was expendable. Eventually, on seeing her draw blood, Yulia pulled her cousin off, she held her whilst both women cried.

  At that moment Snow experienced self-loathing as never before, a hatred of himself for who and what he was. He sat on the dining room chair and held his head in his hands. He could not let it finish like this; he could not let Arnaud’s death become meaningless. He raised his head. The longer he stayed in Kyiv the slimmer would be his chance of escape from the SBU. If caught, he would lose any hope of finding the killer. Shutting his own emotion out Snow decided on a course of action, a plan. He took a deep breath and through the tears and accusations persuaded both women to go along with it. Larissa had eventually agreed as had Yulia, who awaited them in the flat.

  Snow kept his eyes on the foyer and flexed his hands on the steering wheel of Yulia’s Polo. His neck and back hurt like hell as did his side and left leg. He popped two more painkillers. He’d parked thirty feet behind the taxi rank facing the main entrance to the Dnipro. From here he could see both up and down the main road and across to the spur that led around the park. Two taxi drivers leaned against the lead taxi putting the world to rights. A third sat in the last car attempting to read his paper in the fading afternoon sun. Snow would wait the twenty minutes as planned before entering the hotel and sitting in the foyer. He would keep an eye on Larissa and direct her to the most likely looking candidate. The eventual decision, however, would be hers as she would be in a much better position to see any possible likeness. At this time of day, just after twelve, it was far too early for the ‘hotel whores’ to be on duty and for the hotel security to be alert.

  Dietrich Schaefer sat at the far end of the bar and leaned against the wall finishing his club sandwich. Ah, how he loved Eastern Europe and though he’d been forced at school to learn Russian, loved the language. To him Russian, not French, was the language of love. No, definitely not French. He’d take the sound of dogs barking any day over that of doves cooing. Who wanted to fuck a dove? He ate another fry. He’d been very excited when his company had finally given in to his request to visit Ukraine. They had market share in Poland so with a potential fifty-two million end users “Ukraine”, he had argued, was a “logical progression”. It was to be his first evening in Kyiv and he expected great things. His colleague, Henrik, returned from the toilet his eyes gleaming.

  “For sure Henni we find what we are looking for here.” Dietrich smiled and jabbed at his colleague’s ring finger with a spiral fry. “You hide that. If they don’t want money they want to marry.”

  Henrik smirked and pulled off his wedding ring. “It has been getting a bit tight,” he replied as his eyes fixed hungrily on Larissa’s rear end nestling against the bar.

  Dietrich followed his gaze and nodded approvingly. “You know that girl I had in Warsaw?” Dietrich continued, looking wistfully at Larissa, “Well now I do private business with her, ya? I phone her last week and say come to hotel now. I meet her in foyer and we get a room on the fourteenth floor.” He took a slurp of his Kilkenny as he savoured the memory. “She stands on the balcony and I do it from behind. It was super kinky ya, with panorama of the city!”

  Henrik snorted into his beer, staining his tie. “Hey I am meant to be the viking, but you Dietrich are the biggest one!”

  Larissa became aware of eyes looking intently at her. She glanced again into the bar mirror and saw two men in their late thirties at the far end. One had square thick rimmed black glasses, dark hair and a goatee beard. He wore a leather waistcoat over the top of a white work shirt and black jeans. The other dark blonde, fatter but more formally dressed in a grey business suit and blue shirt, sat at his side. As she continued to stare the taller one finished his beer and ambled over. Propping himself up directly next to her he ordered two more beers. Larissa fought the urge to flinch, relaxed her shoulders turned slightly and took a sip from her glass. Six months ago she may have courted the attention, but then she met Arnaud. He was not the businessman she had angled for, he wore jeans and blue and green Gortex boots, but she had felt something for him and now… he was gone. She could feel the tears starting to form but quickly dabbed at her eyes with her index finger. She was doing this for Arnaud, she reminded herself; Aidan had to escape if he had any chance to catch his killer. She swallowed hard and faced the man. He was looking directly at her, his eyes flicking from her eyes to her lips then her breasts. Smiling, he offered her a cigarette. As she leant forward to accept her phone vibrated in her bag. She smiled apologetically and answered it, taking a step away and holding it to her left ear, the side of her head farthest from Dietrich.

  “The one next to you,” Snow’s voice boomed in her ear, “take him if you can.”

  “OK Oxsana, I’ll meet you at one thirty,” she replied nervously and ended the call. “My name is Olga,” she said in accented English, then took the extended cigarette and let Dietrich light it for her.

  Snow, now in the hotel lobby, observed. An opened copy of the Ukrainsky Visnick newspaper lay spread out on the table in front of him. It was risky as hell sitting in the foyer like that but he had no choice. The man with Larissa was a similar height to himself but heavier and older. He felt his own face, at a push his four days’ growth could pass for a neatly trimmed goatee and besides, the specs would help alter his face. Larissa was his main concern. Would she be recognized again by any of those present? Probably not. She had the ‘Khreshatik look’ about her, shoulder length low-lighted chestnut brown hair, prominent cheekbones and long slender legs. A photo-fit would resemble any number of local girls, especially at the more opulent bars and restaurants. She’d be OK; just colour her hair a different shade and lay low for a couple of weeks. Snow looked to his right. Across the hallway the receptionist busily checked in an elderly Canadian couple. Snow noted the CCTV camera above the desk and the other just past his table. He hoped that his calculations had been correct and that his face would not be picked up.

  Larissa and the man joined his friend at the end of the bar and introductions were made. A seat was pulled up for her and she sat between the two. “Come on, come on,” Snow mumbled to himself. The faster they did this the better. They needed to get the passport and get out as quickly as possible. The taller of the two men, Snow named him Lucky, stood up and took Larissa’s hand. He walked the pair of them out of the bar area and towards the lifts. Snow remained still and observed the second man order another beer and share a joke with the bartender. The receptionist eyed them suspiciously as they entered the lift but said nothing. Snow slowly counted to thirty, flexed the muscles in his legs and headed for the stairwell. He kept his eyes fixed on the entrance to the lifts, lest Larissa and Lucky should reappear. The light illuminated the eighth floor and Snow started to climb the stairs. As he reached the fourth flight he speed dialled Larissa’s mobile. It rang for five times before being picked up.

  “Room number?” Snow could hear the sound of the shower running.

  Larissa walked towards the door, stepping over Die
trich’s boots. Dietrich was having possibly the fastest shower in his life in expectation of what he was to get. Checking the bathroom again over her shoulder, she spoke quietly. “Eight-one-four.” Her voice cracked. “Be quick please.”

  Snow clicked ‘end’, pulled on a pair of surgical gloves Yulia used when highlighting her hair and hastened his pace up the stairs. The lift may have been quicker but he did not want to risk having to share it with anyone. Sixth floor, seventh, “come on, move it.” Catching his breath he leant against the wall momentarily to put on the stocking mask before pushing open the door to the eighth floor. The hall was empty apart from an unattended maid’s trolley at one end. He started to control his breathing and counted the numbers down to the one he wanted. Eight-one-four was in the middle of the hallway, an even way from the fire escape and lifts. Snow stood, his back pressed against the wall next to the door – if he were caught now he would need a bloody good excuse – counted silently to twenty, and then knocked on the door. A German voice from within shouted at him with what he approximated to be ‘piss off’, but Snow persisted and knocked again.

  The door opened inwards and Snow threw himself into the room. Larissa was knocked to the ground, landing awkwardly and loudly on an open Samsonite case. She let out a cry and pulled her arms around her chest. Snow continued forward, lowered his head and shoulder-barged the naked German onto the bed. ‘Lucky’s’ arms flew out sideways with his right slamming into the top of the bedside cabinet. Snow pushed himself up by forcing his left hand on the German’s throat. Shock showed in the man’s eyes. His feet twitched yet his arms remained as though glued to the bed. Snow swung his right fist into his face with as much force as he could muster.